Mesquite, Nevada and St. George, Utah - Days 152-161 of the 178 Trek

OK, this segment of "The Blog That'll Never End" is mostly about senior softball, so some of you may want to take this time to play "Words With Friends" on your I-Phones while I prattle on.  I was actually going to skip this part entirely, but wife Diedre demanded that I cover every pitch of all 12 games over a 6-day period.  After a brutal, knockdown-drag-out verbal joust, we compromised.  I'll just give you the highlights.
     Thursday, October 3, was our travel day.  Numerically, it was Day 152 of our Marco-Polo-inspired journey.  But unlike Marco and his quest to find silks and spices from China, we set our travel sights on Mesquite, Nevada, and a warm-up softball tournament.  You blog-groupies may remember the Rox Over-60 softball team hadn't played together since winning the Senior Olympic gold medals back in Cleveland in July.  I know, it seems like eons ago.
     

When I hit the freeway in Utah, all I could think was, "WOW!"  This reaction was due to my surprise at seeing the speed limit sign which read "80 MPH."
     Really?!
     I swear I haven't seen vehicles turned loose like that since I first started driving back in the 60's.  I was excited, even though AB1 has a suggested driving speed of 62 MPH.  And while I may well have been physically going 62, deep down in the dark crevices of my mind, I was blowing by all those Fords and Subaru's at 87 MPH.
     The Mesquite tourney started on Saturday with two games.  There were 6 teams in our pool, so we would play each of them over these two days and the team with the best record would be declared the champion.
     Our Saturday started out inauspiciously.  I attributed that to a lack of playing together and lumbago.  We won one and lost one.  Disappointing, yes, but we were still in the running.
     On Sunday, as symbolic of the lack of intelligence regarding the way they do things in Mesquite, we had 3 consecutive games scheduled at 8:00., 9:15, and 10:30 am.
     Hey, does anybody remember we're old guys with aching joints and questionable eyesight?
     Just askin'.
     Well, we sucked it up and commandeered the field.  The first game was a 23-17 win over some team from I don't know where ... Zanzibar, maybe.  We followed that up with a 25-19 victory over a strong Florida team.  The final game was tight, but we held on and prevailed 18-15 over the boys from Washington.  That made us 4-1, but it wasn't until we approached tourney headquarters that we learned that we were indeed the champions based on having the best record.  It was the 3rd year in a row we had taken the Mesquite tourney.  And the tourney hierarchy, in their usual penurious manner, awarded us not trophies, not championship T-shirts, not prize money ... can you guess what we did receive?

     Caps.
     That's right, caps.  And they were not championship caps, either.  Apparently, every team got the same caps.  Nice job, guys.
     With hardly any time to sit back, have a beer, and enjoy our "caps," we were all back on the road for the 50-mile trip to St. George, Utah, home of the legendary Huntsman Senior Games.  These World Senior Games have been around since 1987.  The event has grown steadily, enormously since the first year when it was just two old guys playing tiddlywinks.  It is now the world's largest annual multi-sport event for seniors (50+).  This year they were expecting over 10,000 athletes competing in 26 sports.  And, they don't award "caps."
     

Ever since I started playing senior softball in 1999, Diedre and I have made it a point to promote team camaraderie at out-of-town softball tournaments by hosting a margarita party.  We've probably helmed about 25 of them in the ensuing years.  The one we host in St. George is always a lot of fun.  It's kind of like old-home week as it's not only attended by the Rox and wives, but also the Rockies Over-65 team, and any other Arizona softball types who happen to be in the vicinity.  The managers of the two Rockies teams alway

s get a party room for us, complete with bar, big TV, ample seating areas, and restrooms.  It's the perfect place for "The Margarita Party."
     This year's was extra special for us since it gave us another captive audience to whom we could sell my book  (Have I mentioned my book before?  It's called "The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown" and is available at all fine bookstores and in my garage).  The book-signing party had a few interested parties, but the margaritas were loved by all.
     Now, time to sober up and play some ball.
   

 Monday, October 7, was a landmark day in my sporting life.  When I was at the University of Michigan in 1968 trying to play basketball, my roommate and I decided we need to decorate the drab dorm walls at East Quad Cooley.  Since he was also a basketball guy, we chose the "all sports" motif so rarely seen in male dorms in those years.  I paid for a subscription to "Sports Illustrated," and we then began using the magazine's covers as our decor.
     Within 3 months, my roomie had transferred to Xavier, but I continued on with the S.I. wallpapering of the room.  The roommates came and went as did my living arrangements over the next 45 years, but one thing stayed the same: every week the newest issue of "Sports Illustrated" made its way into my mailbox.
     At least it did until today.
     Since we're now going to be on the road in AB1 six months of the year for the next decade, I could tell that I wasn't going to be able to keep up with the reading of my favorite magazine.  So, I let the subscription expire, much to the wailing, begging, and crying of myriad S.I. telemarketers.  After 45 years and 2,340 issues (all of which are shelved neatly and chronologically in boxes in the rafters of my garage for God-only-knows-what reason), today would be the first day since my acne-period that I would no longer be a subscriber.  It was like a death in the family, although without the creepy mortician trying to up-sell you a more expensive casket.
     OK, back to softball.     

     Our first game was on Monday at 11:10 a.m.  Much to our team's surprise, the manager of our opponents from the Santa Rosa area of California came to the pre-game meeting with the umpire armed with a basket of wine, nuts, and winery promotional items as a gift for us.  It was ping-pong diplomacy on the softball field.  Our manager sadly lamented to his counterpart, "Gee.  I didn't get you anything."
     Team gifts quickly forgotten, we spared no mercy on the wine merchants from the coast.  We beat them easily 19-6.  But the gift was all anyone talked about after the game.  That's an example of the camaraderie the Huntsman games fosters between teams.  Looking back, I probably should have offered them a book.  Have I mentioned my book yet?
     At 12:30, we took on the Glacier Kings from Anchorage, Alaska.  We thought it would be an easy game ... and we obviously thought wrong.  We were actually losing 19-14 going into the top of the 7th (last) inning.  But we're a "never-say-die" kind of team.  We're also a "Can I have fries with that" kind of team, but that's neither here nor there.  We erupted for six runs to take a 1-run lead, then held on for all we were worth to hold them scoreless and take a hard fought 20-19 win over the best (and probably only) Alaskan team we had ever played.  Incidentally, our rally was the start of a pattern for us in this tourney about which you'll soon learn more.  Note: The Glacier Kings went on to win gold in the "A" division (4th flight) of the Huntsman Games.

     Huntsman Tuesday is always a light day as the games' staffers are involved setting up the gala opening ceremonies to be held that night.  As such, we always only play one game, usually somewhat early, on Opening Ceremonies Tuesday.

     Just as with the guys from Alaska, so too did we then think we might have an easy game today with Brantford Nissan from Ontario, Canada, just north of Toronto.  The question was, "Can those Canadians boys really play ball?"
     Soon enough, the answer was, "HELL, YES!!"
     After 6 innings, we were down again just as we had been to the Alaskans.  The score this time was 14-10.  My question to myself was "Can we catch lightning in a bottle two games in a row?"
     And my answer was, "Is a bear in the woods Catholic?"
     I think you can see where I'm going with this.
     Well, in a 7th inning that the likes of which had never happened before to any of the ancient ballplayers on my team, a group of 13 guys who on the average had played 100 games a year for 45 years, well, NONE of them had seen an inning like this one.  We batted around the order once ... then we did it again ... and started on our third time through the order.  Runs were streaming across home plate like water over a New Orleans dike.  By the end of the inning, we had plated no fewer than TWENTY-FIVE RUNS!  The Canadians were so upset, they were housebroken.
     Final score: Rox-35, North of the Border Whipping Dogs-14.
     Note: The fine Brantford Nissan team went on to win gold in the "AAA" division (2nd flight).
     As is our custom on Opening Ceremonies Tuesday, the team met for dinner at the wild game "Gun Barrel" restaurant and totally ignored the O.C.  Some year I will have to attend.  Afterwards, team general manager and spiritual leader Jim Erickson and wife Carol joined us at the mammoth Tuacahn outdoor amphitheater to see a wonderful performance of "Thoroughly Modern Millie," and she was ... thoroughly modern, I mean.  Tuacahn is a force of nature, situated immediately against the backdrop of the area's red rock mountains.  It's an incredible venue that you have to see at least once in your lifetime.

     After everybody plays three games the first two days at the Huntsman, the 53 teams are then seeded by ability into seven divisions (Major, AAA, AA, A, B, C, and You've-Got-to-Be-Kidding) and each division then plays a double-elimination tournament starting Wednesday to determine gold, silver, and bronze medal winners in each division.  We were placed in the major (top) division.  There is also a "Major-Plus" division, sort of a super-human-hybrid-of-seniors supposedly with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal seniors.  But as you'll see, the lone Major Plus team, Northern Express, had their problems with the lower rated teams.  That's why they play the games.
     To make up the four-team Major division, they took us, two other major teams, and Northern Express.  In the first winners' bracket semi-final game Wednesday, we took on the strong BRL team from Salt Lake City.  As was our style that week, we made it to the top of the 7th trailing 27-17.
     I bet you can see what's coming.
     Maybe not.
     Our first two batters made outs.  One out to go.  The fat lady may not be singing, but we could hear her warming up out back.

     And then another incredible Rox inning occurred.  Yes, the never-say-die Rox scored 11 times after two were out to take the lead 28-27.
     Deep breath!
     Unfortunately, we should have held serve for another 25 runs.  BRL came back and got the two runs they needed to hand us our first Huntsman loss in two years, 29-28.
     In the losers' bracket, we then took on Major Plus androids Northern Express from Antelope, California.  As a Major Plus team with no one to play, they were in our Major bracket just playing exhibition.  In their entire history at the Huntsman Games, they had never lost even one game ... until now, that is.  In this game, we actually led 22-20 in the top of the 7th, but we didn't let that bit of good fortune go to our heads.  We went for 13 more runs.  Northern gamely came back with 10, but it wasn't to be.
     Final score: Rox-35, Formerly Undefeateds-30.
     On Thursday, October 10, our final day at the Huntsman, we needed to beat Handiland Flooring in order to get back to the championship game.  This time we were the home team, so, of course, when we trailed in the last inning 24-19, we knew exactly what we needed to win.  

And sure enough, 7th inning lightning struck yet again, the winner being a walk-off base-hit to center by some ne'er-do-well author who shall remain nameless in this blog to win for the Rox, 25-24.

     

     Thus, the gold medal game arrived.  It would be our 3rd trip to the finals in the last three years (2011-silver medals; 2012-gold medals).  Once again we cut to the 7th inning.  Once again, we're down, this time 24-17.  And familiarly, once again we score a bunch, crossing home plate seven times.
     It would not be enough.
     The curse of being the visiting team was too much for us to overcome.  BRL quickly got the only run they needed in the bottom of the 7th to take the gold medal, 25-24.
     We were proud of our silver medals and were happy with our efforts at the plate.  In our last 5 games in St. George, we averaged 29.2 runs per game; we scored 62 runs in those five games IN THE LAST INNING ALONE!  Not bad for a bunch of old guys.

     So, the Huntsman Games are over for another year.  We'll need that time to recover.  On Friday, I went and watched two of our players, Robbie and Dan, play for an Over-65 team from Michigan as they won their division.  Those guys are real sadists: they played double the amount of games we did in the same amount of days ... AND they're 65 years old!
     OK, the last day in town was Saturday.  Time to rest up, battle our colds, and reflect on the 21st anniversary of flight 373.
   

 Flight 373?
     Yes, every year on October 12, Diedre and I celebrate our survival of flight 373 from Cincinnati to Minneapolis.  You see, on this date in 1992, we were keeping to ourselves while flying home from a business trip (Diedre's business; my general fooling around) when the pilot came back toward all of us passengers with a worried look on his face.  The head flight attendant then herded us all up to the front of the plane and gave us directions on how to survive a crash.
     SAY WHAT?!  SURVIVE A CRASH?!
     It seems they were getting a light flashing in the cockpit saying the landing gear was not operable.  They weren't sure if that was true, or if the light was just going all kitty-whompus.  So we were all going to find out which it was, walking down the terminal to do battle with baggage claim, or going head-first into the tarmac and eating a lot of gravel.
     As Diedre and I sat there hand in hand, the attendant came to me and asked me to perform her duties "in the event she became incapacitated."
     Again ... SAY WHAT?!
     Well, as you can tell, ghosts can't write blogs, at least not very well, so we must have made it home alive.  But on this date every year, we take the time to remember how lucky we were that day and to remember to love each other and enjoy life to the fullest, no matter what.

     I'm just sayin'.
     Now, back to the serious side of being funny.  We'll be leaving bright and early ... well, maybe just "early," tomorrow morning for Kanab, Utah, and the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.  That place is incredible.
     See you there.

Montrose, Colorado and Torrey, Utah - Days 144-151 of 178 Day Trek

OK, gang, this one's going to be a short one ... You know, I don't really appreciate the sarcastic applause.
     Bygones.

     Wednesday, September 25, was a much more excruciating travel day than we had first supposed.  It wasn't that it was so far; it was the mountain climbs coupled with narrow two-lanes and roads under construction that made for some white-knuckle drive-time.  It took us nine hours to go 335 miles.  Keeping this big rig on the straight and narrow through these tight, uneven byways made for a bit of tension.  The only thing that made me smile on this particular road trip was passing a building with a sign out front that read, "The Feed Store Church."  I mean, was it a feed store or was it a church?  Or was it "TWO ... TWO ... TWO MINTS IN ONE!"?
     OK, maybe the drive was making me goofy ... goofier, perhaps.  Moving on.
     Montrose, Colorado,  has incredible scenery and natural wonders which include waterfalls, cliffs, forests, and majestic mountains.  We saw none of it.
     After 144 days on the road going full-speed almost every day seeing people, attractions, playing golf and softball, well, we were just plain exhausted ...
     There's that sarcastic applause again.
     We needed a stop just to do nothing.  So we did.  We worked very hard at it, and by 10 that night, were completely exhausted from doing nothing at 90 mph.
     WHEWW!
     The next two days went as follows:
-Thursday, September 26-Catch-up days, work on blogs, do nothing
-Friday, September 27-(See yesterday)

     All right, time to wake up and start doing some world-traveler type stuff.  With Old Mother Diedre's cupboard practically bare, we took off for the local Farmers' Market on Saturday followed by a town walk.  We love these small town walks; you always find some interesting stuff, and the walk is never much more than 3 blocks.

     Once at the Farmers' Market, I reflected back on the nutritional portion of this trip  (I know, what an odd thing for a virile hunk such as myself to be doing.  Stay with me.)  We've gotten a lot of great, natural foods, and not always from farmers' markets.  We've actually done quite well sponging off the largesse of ... surprise, surprise! ... our softball friends.  We got eggs right from the chicken coop at Bruce and Chris's in Brighton, Colorado; blackberries from Jim and Carol in Mount Pleasant, Michigan; blueberries from Lud and Lydia in Black River Falls, Wisconsin; and of course, from the massive farm of Jerry and Shiela in Frankfort, South Dakota, we got the essential element that sustains life on this planet ... Culver's Frozen Custard?!  You can probably see me right now smiling at you right through your computer screen.
     A town walk is easy entertainment for a mind as small as mine.  I smiled at shops with names such as "Tools, Sports, & Pawn", "Rod Rental," and "Discount Cigarettes" which, incidentally, included a drive-up window (well, of course smokers would be too lung-tired to walk up).  I was infuriated, however, by "Selig Avenue," named after one of the city's founders.  I, of course, related it immediately to baseball, more specifically Bud "Sleazebag" Selig, commissioner of baseball who is soon retiring before he ruins baseball altogether.  I mean, no World Series in 1994?!  Come on!  (Never say I'm not one to hold a grudge.)
     

718 E. Main, Montrose, CO

The city also had some great house architecture.  The home at 718 E. Main is on the historic registry list.  It was built in 1902, and is now one of my new favorite houses after the blue house in Ouray, CO, and the Lake of the Isles house in Minneapolis. (Refer to previous blogs from Ouray, CO and Minneapolis, MN for photos.) I've dreamed of owning that Minneapolis home since 1980.
     Montrose also sports a variety of incredibly large statues downtown on many of the main street corners.  Here's one of a bear and her cubs fending off attacking eagles; gee, the Bears versus the Eagles ... where have I heard that before?
     When we finally made our way back to home-sweet-RV, I flipped on the tube and what did we get?  Lucy and Ricky in "The Long, Long Trailer."  It cracked us up.  They just reminded us so much of ourselves.  Strangely, Diedre tended to act more like Ricky while I assumed many of Lucy's idiosyncrasies.  Can you say, "VITAMEATAVEGAMIN"?

     That night we took in two breweries, the Horsefly and Two Rascals.  The latter was housed in a 100-year old building that was formerly a children's clothing store and was now being run by Brandon, a 30's-ish retired fireman with an English girlfriend.  For dinner that night, I felt like having Italian, but Diedre said she was just starving for some Tibetan or Nepalese fare.  That's not all that strange for her ... she's known for strange likes in both food and men.

"Two Rascal" - Great brewery that we hope survives.

     We found "Guru's," a Himalayan diner.  I wasn't sure at first, but I eventually came around and actually liked the "Breast of Yak Bisque"; Diedre tried their "Yeti Souffle," but it was too wild for her taste.  And so it goes.
     Sunday, September 29, was yet another travel day.  We were on our way to Torrey, Utah, a place so scenic and lovely, in fact, that two friends of ours traveling with us, Dante Bichette and Betty Boop, decided to get married once we arrived.  They did, so she's now "Betty Boop Bichette."  Note that the Better Business Bureau won't let her use her new initials.  Anyway, they've taken up housekeeping on our dashboard (photo) where they keep an eye on the road for us.

I was concerned about how we were spending our time, so I made up a pie-chart of an average 24-hour RV day for Diedre and me.  It goes something like this:
     -sleeping:        7:30
     -eating:             :42
     -drinking:         1:06
     -sightseeing:    2:11
     -WAITING FOR THE &(@-#%&*  LITTLE BLUE COMPUTER CIRCLE TO STOP SPINNING AROUND AND AROUND WHILE I WAIT TO GET ON-LINE AT THESE CAMP-SITES: 12 FRICKIN' HOURS AND 31 MINUTES!!!
     Just a moment while I compose myself ... thinking of hot fudge sundaes, grand-slam home runs, fairies ... ahhhh ... there, all better now.

Diedre's legs covered with Afghan and Cats as she lay sick in bed.

     Monday, I dragged my suddenly near-death wife out of the comfort of her cat-infested bed and made her take the 1-mile walk to town for some sustenance, the term "sustenance" giving the locals all the best of it.  Too weak to protest, Diedre faithfully followed me to my choice of cuisine for the evening:  "Slackers' Burgers."  The less said about them, the better.
     On the morrow, Tuesday, October 1st, after we had been resting up for far too long, we finally got out of the campground and all its amenities (including their battery-operated sock warmers) for that eagerly awaited drive for a hike in a park ... a "National" park.  We were especially excited because it would be the first time we would be using our senior passes good for free admittance to all national parks, museums, and memorials ...
     only ...

     yes, you're way ahead of me on this one ... THE IDIOT FEDERAL GOVERNMENT SHUT DOWN!!!???
     Really?!
     Weren't the soupheads in Washington at all aware that they could have put my 3-mile walking streak in jeopardy of being broken?  Fortunately, I was able to find the Torrey, UT, cemetery, thus completing my days walk for the 3rd time on this trip in a cemetery (See Emerald Grove, WI and Taos, NM).
     The government shutdown really affected us that day.  We were going to go to Capitol Reef National Park specifically to hike to the Hickman Natural Bridge.  With the shutdown, we were reduced to purchasing a postcard of this amazing act of nature.  We also had plans to tour a local national museum, but when we got there, literally tons of people (referencing the 35% obesity rate from a survey in that morning's paper) were milling about in the parking lot sobbing, gnashing their teeth, and tearing out their hair.  And it was no wonder!  We, too, were equally crushed by the first-time ever closing of the National Silly Putty Museum.  My Sunday funnies will never be the same.
    


 So our national park/museum outing had been reduced to stopping at roadside rests and parking lots and taking photographs as all the entrances were sealed off and blocked by armed guards who were, incidentally, being paid overtime.     I don't get that.  Somehow, this is still George W. Bush's fault.
     Here I am doing my best Mary Tyler Moore-on-the- Nicollet-Mall imitation at a cliff formation called "The Fluted Wall."  We have other pictures of Diedre imitating Ted Baxter, but they're no where near as haunting as me imitating Mary Richards.

     Unfortunately, the heartbreak of no national parks had other residual negatives attached to it the next day.  And all the rest and relaxation in the worlds was not going to stave off the coming plague.  For the first time on our trip, disease struck.  Diedre developed a cold.
     I'm bravely battling its effects, but just like the U.S. in Viet Nam, I fear the fall of Saigon (metaphor for my health ... I know, it's pretty sad to see an accomplished writer revert to his grade school mentality ... crayons not included) is near.  I mean, Diedre and I share everything, right down to my "Marmaduke" boxer shorts.  I'm keeping up my extra walking, taking massive quantities of Vitamin C and Flintstone Vitamins.  I feel as if the cold wants to attack.  I'll keep you updated with news from the front ... or at least, the back of the front.
     OK, today is Thursday, October 3.  We're pulling ourselves together and heading off for Mesquite, Nevada.  My time may be limited on this plane of existence, but duty, also known as "softball," calls.  Talk to you again next week.
     HI-OHH!

Santa Fe - Diedre's Birthday Week - Day 137-143 of 178 Day Trek

Travel days are an interesting phenomenon for the intrepid duo.  I do all the driving, usually about 300 miles or 5-6 hours on the road.  That's my job, along with taking out the garbage and seeing what's on TV.  Diedre does the cooking, cleaning, litter-box duty, makes the bed, and about a thousand other things.  Yet somehow, she thinks I've got the more difficult job.  (Please don't let on to her and ruin the good thing I've got going).  So with all the hard "work" I do on driving days, she's decided that as a reward, I get to choose where we eat that night and what kind of food it will be.  Travel days dictate we eat out, because once we drive, set up camp, feed the cats (there's about 11 of them ... what's that, dear? ... oh, I guess there are only three ... my bad) and then clean up, there's no way either of us (read: Diedre) wants to cook.  So poor little old me has to choose the restaurant, which is virtually always some dive serving pizza, a food that's not great for my delicate diet, but if the crust is thin enough, I get by.
     And that's the way we do things here at Air Barty One.  Pretty good deal for me, huh?
     Wednesday, September 18, was just such a travel day to the beautiful town of Santa Fe, New Mexico.  We ate downtown at Rooftop Pizza, an excellent Italian restaurant with a marvelous view looking down on the city.  SCORE!!

     Santa Fe is the oldest capitol city in the U.S. at 403 years; the central Plaza and the Palace of the Governors were both built in 1610.  To give you an idea of its age, that's even older than some of the guys on my senior softball team.  (BA-DUM-BUMP!)  Its population is about 65,000, making this capitol the best of small towns for accessibility and things to do.  You can walk absolutely everywhere in town without aggravating your corns.
     We have some history with Santa Fe.  Besides our ill-fated RV-rental trip last year with Diedre's mom, we also once spent Thanxxgiving there with friends Fudd, Bugs, Tommy C., Ma, and Ma's two kids, one of whom turned out to be her husband.  And we were there once again on the fortuitous date of July 7, 2007 (7/7/07) for the wedding of Fudd (she, a beautiful lady artist) and Bugs (he, a very patient, understanding man).  The rehearsal dinner the previous night is legendary for Ms. Diedre Kaye's costume malfunction.  It's a little too embarrassing for this blog (Is that even possible?!), so you'll have to ask her about it the next time you see her in person and she's had a few drinks.
     The next day was one of rest, relaxation, laundry (actually one of the few jobs for which I'm responsible), and general RV repair.  Now, don't go getting any pictures in your dusty little brain of me in my best Mr. Goodwrench overalls overhauling the transmission or smelting the carburetor (Is that even a thing?)  I do best at more menial jobs such as emptying the ash trays of gum wrappers, checking the Johnson Rod,  or even seeing if we need more headlight fluid.  I am also hell-on-wheels at changing light bulbs.  Being 6'4" qualifies me for that onerous duty.
     Saturday was our big day in town.  We started off by visiting their wonderful farmers' market.  This market was different than all the rest we've been to in that they actually offered ... farmers' produce!  Amazing, huh?  No crafts, no kettle corn tents, no banks trying to sell you on a new Visa card.  Just fruit, veggies, eggs, and meats.  What a novel idea.  We also met the market's manager, Paolo, who just happens to be the nephew of our Boulder cousins, Doug and Christie.  A nice young man who, after college, thought he'd try Santa Fe for six months, then got this great job running a year-round farmers' market and, before he knew it, he had been there three years and is still enjoying it.  What a great young man.
     From there, it was on to the Fenn Art Gallery.  Readers of my book ("The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown" for those of you who may have missed the one or two or 47 times I've mentioned it in this furshlugginer blog) will recall that on page 145, Peter was married at the Fenn Gallery 30 years ago.  For those of you keeping score, it was wife #4.  The gallery has a remarkable backyard garden where Peter and Mary were going to be married (a cold spell drove the wedding party indoors to the spacious art gallery).  The garden area has a pond and  quite a few trees.  But its main attraction is the location of massive bronze statues everywhere.  It's really quite enchanting.

     Art isn't really my thing, although I am into velvet Elvis paintings and any medium that portrays dogs playing poker.  But I was amazed by the statues populating this overgrown backyard.  And there, across the pond, I spotted most likely the single greatest bronze statue I have ever seen: it was four kids trying to rescue a kitten from the top of a tree.  From my vantage point on the other side of the pond, I was sure the bronze kids were situated against the backdrop of a real tree.  It was only when I got closer that I found out the tree was ALSO entirely bronze, right down to the small branches and leaves.  WOWZER!!  Check out the photo and see if you can tell which kid is me (Hint: I'm the one with raspberry jam on my face.)
          **Important addendum: that bronze is only $360,000 if you're interested ... and if you are, you don't sound like the type of person who would waste his or her time reading this drivel.**
     While DK then took some time at the library to work on our book (the one she's writing, not the one I'm coloring), I wandered the plaza-area downtown.  I know I said I wasn't into art, but I had to stop at the Chuck Jones Gallery.  The man's a genius, his paint strokes so bold, his depth at getting the inner character of what he's trying to say conveyed to the viewer by the most abstract of means.  Oh, to clarify ... Chuck is the guy who drew Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck , and the Road Runner.  My inner child, who's not too far from the surface, went absolutely wild.
     

After a fine burger dinner at something called "Santa Fe Bite," we made our way up to the Santa Fe Performing Arts site to see the play "Good People."  We can't always be going to a ballpark, so on this night, I threw Diedre Kaye a bone.  The show had excellent actors, the story was pretty good, but the support departments of the theatre left a bit to be desired, especially with the theatre-sheriff sitting at my side taking actual notes on her Etch-A-Sketch.  The sets and costumes were both a bit shaky, and the scene changes were interminable.  That plus the fact that there were only 17 of us audience-members in an auditorium that seats 300 on a Saturday night, well, it had to be disappointing for those most capable actors.  In general, we enjoyed it.  After all, it's "theatre!"
     Desperate for another day of rest (No eye-rolling, please) we sat back on Sunday and had a good old-fashioned family cookout.  Our guest was the aforementioned Tommy C., more properly known as Tom Costello.  Tom's father, Red Costello, was Diedre's god-father; he was such a nice man.  So is Tom, who is a lifelong friend of Diedre's family, going back to racing tricycles with Diedre's older brother Doug in the family's small kitchen in Richfield in the late 1940's.  I think Tom and Doug were in college at the time ... whatever.  Tom has graduated from riding tricycles to becoming a nationally ranked bridge player (I'm just guessing on that last one; I have no idea how to play bridge, my game being "43-Man Squamish.")  It was a lovely dinner, just getting done before the rains came.  The only problem with Tom is that he ends every utterance by asking, "So, who's on first?"  (That's for you Abbott and Costello fans out there.)
     Monday, September 23, was a day that will live in infamy --- it was my bride's birthday!  I woke her up by singing a gentle little love ballad by the Beatles.  The neighbors immediately called and asked if we were shaving the cat.  Hey, I never said I was a great singer.  So sue me.
     See if you can guess how old DK is based on the following cryptic lyrics from that song:
          "Will you still need me?
               Will you still Feed me?
                    When I'm __-__ "
     We'll give you a little "Final Jeopardy" thinking music to build suspense.
     OK, enough with the tomfoolery.  She's 41 ... right, dear?
     

For her birthday, we took a long awaited return trip to Taos, mainly to view the Taos Pueblo.  Fifteen years ago, we made the same trip, only to find out after an hour-and-a-half drive that the Pueblo was closed.  This time we called ahead.  Fool us once, shame on you; fool us twice, well, you'd be like everybody else, I suppose.
     There are two ways to get to Taos from Santa Fe: the high road, long but scenic, or the low road, not so scenic but much faster.  We opted for the high road going and the low road returning.  It was the right decision.  So, we took the high road and everyone else took the low road and they were all in Taos before us.

     The Taos Pueblo, a native American community for over 1,000 years, was a bit of a disappointment.  The AAA book said the charge would be $10/person with a $6 camera fee.  I suppose since everyone now has a camera-phone, the locals gave up trying to enforce the camera fee and instead just charged everyone $16.  I got screwed there, since I don't have a camera and the only cell-phone I use is an old one that runs on gasoline.  The only thing worth having its picture taken was Hlaauma (North House), a millennium old structure that looks like an apartment building covered in adobe.  The rest of the Pueblo was either tourist shops or else was restricted to tourists.  It's a living community, so I suppose it would be weird to have people walking through your living room on a daily basis.  But hey, they get their $16 a person, so that's got to be worth something.  OK, maybe I'm being too hard on the old Pueblo.  Moving on.
     In downtown Taos, I found the old cemetery where Kit Carson and  his family are buried.  I mainly remember Kit from the old "Kit Carson" TV show I used to watch on Saturday mornings when I was a kid.  But there was a lot more to him than I remember from that show; he was a scout, a soldier, then later a lieutenant in the Union army in New Mexico during the Civil war, a trapper, and a well-respected Indian agent.  Kit was also hired as a guide for a major exploratory expedition into the Rockies, thus playing a major role in opening the west all the way to the Pacific.  He was a skilled horseman and hunter.  He was well known as a fearless traveler in Indian country, probably much like me when I make my daring and reckless journey to Apache Junction for softball games.  At times a politician, he played a large role in California's independence after the war with Mexico.  In his spare time (spare time?), he also managed a ranch east of Taos.  I'm not positive, but I think his hobbies including knitting and macrame.  All this, yet he only lived to be 59.  I think his death was some sort of bizarre macrame explosion.
     

Here's Diedre at the 400 year old plaza in Taos with her snazzy new cowboy hat.  Annie Oakley's got nothing on Ms. Kaye.  400 years. eh?  I'm sure it's always a battle between Taos and Santa Fe as to who is older, much like I used to brag to the neighborhood kids that my mom was older than their moms.  Funny ... Mom never seemed to think too highly of my bragging on her.
     At last count, Diedre's birthday haul, besides the swell new hat, included nearly 100 e-mail birthday greetings.  Gee.  On my birthday, I got one crank phone call and an email from the King of Nigeria offering me a million dollars to use my checking account for the transfer of some royal funds.  You may laugh, but that money is going to be a good investment for our future.
     For her birthday dinner, Diedre chose the El Paragua Restaurant in Espanola, NM, a little town between Santa Fe and Taos.  Back before starting on our Ulysses-like odyssey, I had e-mailed all friends and relatives asking for unique places to see or try.  Our cousin Jan Price suggested El Paragua, a quaint little Mexican bistro with great architecture and a long culinary history of almost 60 years.  Husband John Price added that he would crawl on his knees to eat at El Paragua.  After a wonderful meal (I had the fajitas while the birthday girl had chili rellenos), we felt it was as good if not better than any Mexican place we had ever tried.  And I'd have to agree with John ... I, too, WOULD crawl there on John's knees to eat at El Paragua.

     In a continuation of the birthday that would not end, Diedre took her birthday check from her two moms on Tuesday and splurged on a SPA day, going with a cream-cheese and asparagus facial, a mani-pedi complete with nose and ear hair trim, and a full-body massage by scantily-clad Nubian warriors.  Meanwhile, I was back at camp working on an especially tough hangnail.
     Later that night, the birthday and our time in beautiful Santa Fe came to a close with Birthday Dinner-Part 2.  We met up with Tom Abbott ... uh, I mean "Costello," and had Diedre's favorite meal, sushi.  I have to admit that it was awfully good, especially the sashimi dolphin with bald eagle stuffing (Kidding).
   

 On Wednesday, September 25, we left New Mexico to make our way to Montrose, Colorado.  Note that on this trip, gasoline was $2.99/gallon in New Mexico; the cheapest the Genie could find us in Colorado was $3.59/gallon.  I did the math, using all ten fingers and several very angry toes.  Sixty-cents a gallon has a big impact on your wallet when your RV tank holds 80 gallons, so we filled up in New Mexico--we're not total idiots, contrary to what you might believe after reading this blog.
    Up next: four days each at Montrose, Colorado, and Torrey, Utah.
     See you then.

Dallas-Amarillo - Day 127-136 of 178 Day Trek

Here's a line from our favorite TV show, "The Big Bang Theory" uttered by the hugely eccentric Dr. Sheldon Cooper:
          "I'm not crazy.  My mother had me tested."
     
Back to the blog.
     

     Texas is a big state, probably a little too big for our puny driving efforts.  Our trek on Sunday, September 8, from one Texas city to another was 475 miles, about 9 hours on the road.  That's way too long for old farts like us.  (Actually, I'm the old fart; Diedre is more like a breath of fresh air.)  It was the farthest and the longest we had traveled in one day since we bought Air Barty One.
     I was rewarded for my untiring efforts with a trip to Grimaldi's Pizzeria, a chain pizza place that is one of my favorite (and least glucose-threatening) restaurants.  I also love their Caesar salads; a small one is big enough for the two of us, and we always ask for extra anchovies ... really!  Pretty unusual to have two people who both like anchovies.

At the Vineyards RV Resort - not our RV though

     We noticed that our RV park, the Vineyards Campground in Grapevine, Texas, had been voted the country's number one small campground in 2012.  And we can believe it:  it has huge camp sites, wooden decks for the RV'ers, a wonderful lake upon which we had a prime spot, and all the other amenities you'd hope to have but so often don't.
    Just a quick note about Dallas freeways.  So far on this marathon vacation, we've driven to 14 states, logging almost 7,000 miles, and not once has Penny, our faithful GPS girl, ever let us down.  But in one afternoon driving the maze-like Dallas freeways, complete with road construction on every square inch of their roadways for over 50 miles, she was so confused that she ended up giving us directions in Swahili, then gave up and tried to run off to Mexico with our toaster.
     Dallas roads are a zoo, and their drivers aren't any better.  In Missouri, an electronic sign over the road promoting safe driving said Missouri had lost 650 people so far this year to traffic accidents.  The same sign in Dallas cited over 2,200 deaths, and that was just since last Thursday.  These are some aggressive drivers.
     Other problems included us getting stuck in an infinite loop that had us passing the same homeless guy on the corner asking for money 6 times.  I was sure we had arrived at the nexus of the universe.  Diedre became so upset with the driving situation, she decided to quit the RV life and join a monastery.  Fortunately, I was able to talk her down from that ledge ... I told her the cats would really miss her.
     Moving on.
     

On Monday, we had dinner at my cousin Sydney's along with her husband Forrest, their son Alexander, and Sydney's sister and my other cousin, Alexandra.  It got a little confusing with three people being called "Alex" at dinner, so I opted to have them call me by my favorite nickname, "Toodles McGee."  Of course, there would have been no confusion if they had learned to pronounce the 2nd "X" in my name.  Note the "Tri-Alex" picture, henceforth known as "Alex Cubed."
     The next day we made it to our 9th and final professional baseball game of this year's trip; the 9 games included 7 major league and 2 minor league stadiums.  We've now seen 16 of the 30 major league baseball parks.  We'll hopefully see another 10 in 2014 and the final 4 in 2015, so I do NOT want any new ball parks built before we're done!

     ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, BALL CLUB OWNERS?!!
     Tuesday's game was in Arlington, Texas, between two teams battling for the lead in their respective divisions: the Pirates of Pittsburgh (National League Central) and the Rangers of Texas (American League West).  Now, I had the foresight to order six tickets for this key game four months ago for us and my two cousins and their husbands.  One would think that four months lead time would be enough ... and, of course, one would be wrong.  Three of the four bailed on us with lame excuses about having books due back at the library.  Fortunately, cousin Alexandra, the only one who couldn't come up with an excuse to avoid going to a ball game with me, was willing to stand on the street corner and go, "PSSST ... buddy ... you want a good deal on some hot tickets?"  When that didn't work, she was able to get three friends to go (including an "Alexis," giving us two nights in a row of "Alex Cubed."  Geez, how did I miss having a picture taken on this one?)

   We also lucked out on parking.  Just two blocks from the stadium, Diedre had found on her ever-vigilant "Genie the I-Phone" a parking lot where they charged just $5.01.  From there, every half-block you walked closer to the stadium, the lot fees increased: $10 for a block-and-a-half, $15 for a block away, and $20 for just a half-block from the stadium.  It was $250 if you wanted to park on second-base.    Alps would be so proud of me ... er, I mean "us" for this one.  And remember, it's not that we're so cheap.  We did buy an RV for nearly six-figures.  At the time, I had one of those Happenings coupons where if you buy one RV, you get the 2nd one free.  But we thought, "Hey, what are we going to do with a 2nd RV?" so we opted for just the one.
     

Practically every stadium in the bigs now has a statue out front of one of the greats in their particular teams history.  And the Rangers were no different.  Here's a picture of me with Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan.  The really stiff one is me.
     Pittsburgh squeezed by the Rangers, although it was an exciting game, coming down to the Rangers' best hitter up in the bottom of the 9th representing the winning run.  He struck out, extending our losing streak for the home teams to 4.
    Wednesday, September 11, is a day that you'll always remember: it was "Day 600" of my 3-mile a day walking streak.  That 1,800 miles is the equivalent of my walking from Phoenix, Arizona, to Hudson, Wisconsin.  Funny note about the streak:  two days earlier after dinner at my cousin's, we arrived back at the RV park 11 PM.  It was only then that I realized I hadn't yet done my 3-mile walk for the day.  So as Diedre relaxed in her flannel jammies, the ones with the "footies" still in them, with a three-olive martini in her hand, three furry, snuggly cats on her blankie, and the "Food Channel" blaring on our giant flat screen TV, I grabbed a flashlight and set out in the dark to walk the wild uncharted badlands of Texas.  Now, that's dedication ... either that or "stupidity."  You decide.
     

My Wednesday three-mile walk was part of our Grapevine, Texas, pub crawl.  Diedre, of course, sampled the great beers of the world and some fine local brews, whereas I, on the other hand, went out on a limb and tried some of their more obscure drafts such as Miller Lite, Coors Light, and Bud Light.  That's just how I roll.
     Grapevine is a fun little town in which to walk.  Practically every building is on the National Historic Registry.  And I noticed during our trek that the Grapevine women were hot ... wait a minute, it was 97-degrees ... everyone was hot.
     The people there were almost universally nice, although I did get into a confrontation with a guy I perceived to be the town's mayor (see photo).  He was like a rock during our argument.
     The next day Diedre came down with what I think the locals call "Grapevine's Revenge," so I was off on my own for "Alexx's Fun Day of History-Part 2."  I easily made the post-rush-hour-traffic trip into Dallas and parked right behind The Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza ... better known as the old "Dallas School Book Depository," site of Lee Harvey Oswald's infamous assassination attempt.  At the time, I was in Mrs. Moeller's 8th grade science class back on November 22, 1963, when the principal broke in over the intercom and began broadcasting the radio report of the shooting to the entire school.  Things have never quite been the same.
     On the plus side of my tour that day, a tour which included standing both just feet from where Oswald shot the gun and to within a foot of the spot on Elm Street where President Kennedy was when he was hit by the final bullet, upon further inspection I think I may have uncovered some new clues that may help solve the whole "2nd shooter" theory.  We'll talk.
     Friday was a huge day for us.  It was the day we got to meet with Billy Huckaby ... no, he's not some hot new country singer.  He's the publisher of my book.  Just in case there's a one-in-a-million chance you haven't heard me go on about my book, it's called The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown.  Note that film rights are protected, so don't go around trying to shoot this cinematic bio on your cheap little Tracfone.
     Billy is such a good guy, actually "a good ol' boy," Texas cowboy from top to bottom.  And the extra good news is, he's most likely also going to publish my first novel, Single Elim, which has been lining the bottom of our bird cage for the last several years.  Upon his acceptance of yet another book by me, I went immediately from Cloud 9 to about Cloud 14.  Now, we're also working on a book-signing with Billy and Peter at the National Rodeo Championships in Las Vegas in December.  That would be huge for us.  He has a table there at Mandalay Bay, rodeo headquarters, for the entire two weeks of the rodeo, so the book should get some nice exposure to people partial to cowboys.  YEE-HAW!!
   

 Since our meeting was on the Fort Worth side of town, we decided to take in the Fort Worth Stockyards National Historic District," about 15 square blocks of tradition, nightlife, shopping, and family fun.  It's sort of a Disneyland for cowboys.
     It seems the difference between Dallas and Fort Worth is like this:  Fort Worth's big nightclub is called "Billy-Bob's Honky Tonk."  In Dallas, a comparable establishment would be named "William-Robert's Bistro and Fine Dining."  Fort Worth was our kind of town.  I may have had a sarsaparilla or two too many, because I ran into the local Deputy Fife.  Here I am being bailed out by Diedre.
     On Saturday, our last night in town, Alexandra's husband Gordo had returned from his business trip to Canada.  If I have this right, Gord, through his company, is responsible for all the audio-visual features at Graceland.  In fact, he's gone through the tour so many times that he's all "Elvised" out, if such a thing is possible.
      Alex and Gordo came out to the campground to see how the other half lives.  Diedre had gone out earlier shopping for groceries, but had managed to make a stop at the local Grapevine winery, where we had coupons.  Since I don't drink wine, Diedre felt in was in all our best interests if she drank both our free glasses of wine.  What a gal!
     We had cocktails lakeside, then went out for pizza.  That Gordo is just the best guy; not only did he spring for dinner (much over my feeble protestations), but then he went beyond the call of duty and bought 20 copies of my book (Have I mentioned my book?  It's called The Fastest Gun in Hollywood: The Life Story of Peter Brown.)  TWENTY COPIES?!  I guess he thinks he can re-sell them on the Chinese E-Bay market.   What a guy, Gordo!
     

Sunday, September 15, we broke camp, doused the campfire, got the cattle ready for herding (maybe that should be "cats"), and hit the dusty trail for that great cow-town of northern Texas, Amarillo.  The name "Amarillo" means "yellow" in Spanish; I guess it comes from the yellowish color of their soil.  Anyway, I've been driving through Amarillo at least twice a year for all those years we had houses in both Minnesota and Cave Creek, AZ.  And during all those drives, we raced right through Amarillo on I-40, never once stopping to look around.  But on all those trips, I had always noticed a giant yellow restaurant with all sorts of eclectic decor out front summoning me from the seat of my Ford Explorer.  It's called "The Big Texan Steak Ranch."

     All the Big Texan's signs for the last 200 miles promoted their special: eat their ... wait for it ... SEVENTY-TWO OUNCE STEAK (Yes, that's 6 pounds of cattle flesh) plus a baked potato, broccoli, rolls, and, I think, your napkin, and you get it free.  Chuck Pappas has often said to us, "FREE?!  NOTHIN'S FREE!"  And here it's certainly not free if you don't finish it all in one hour.  In that case, your dinner tab is $72.
     Well, this time we finally stopped at The Big Texas Steak House, much to the anguish of my wife's pleading eyes who would have preferred "Salads Are Us" for dinner.  But I had seen this place for at least 20 years and I was not going to miss the chance of seeing some bozo take on a 6-pound steak.  Actually, THEY (the steak house) sent  a limo to pick us up.  They know a big eater when they see one (Diedre, not me).  Upon arrival, we could see that everything there was huge.  Here's Edith Anne ... I mean, Diedre, sitting on her dining room chair.

     I think the challenge is now out there for known eaters such as Mr. Steve Alpert (St. Louis Park), Mr. Howard Deichen (Carleton College), and Mr. Wendell Curtis (The Rox Over-60 softball team).  The contestants that night (there were six big, strapping cowboys) were seated at an elevated table in the center of the dining room.  Steak groupies gathered around them,grabbing at their clothes and seeking autographs.  Above them was a massive digital  timer just like they use at the Olympics.  The striped-shirt referee raised his hand, shot off a starter's pistol, the clocks sprang into action, and the eaters chowed viciously down.
     Final score: Steaks-6, Cowboys-0.
     The steaks won.
     Here's a September 16 fun trivia fact for you Alexander Adventurers blog-fans: 156 years ago today, the song "Jingle Bells" was copyrighted.  The really amazing thing about it:
     it was actually written for ... wait for it ... THANXXGIVING!  Who'd a thunk it.
     As we're finding out, every city has places to see.  Even Lusk, Wyoming, population 345, kept us entertained for a day.  And so did Amarillo, Texas, a city previously thought only to exist as a rest room stop on I-40 for wayward truckers.  But today, we got out and about and saw what Amarillo really had to offer.
     Did you know that the Amarillo Globe-News Center for the Performing Arts houses not only the Amarillo Opera, the Amarillo Symphony, but also the Lone Star Ballet?  Really!  That's a lot of class for a little cow town out in the middle of nowhere.  Of course, the ballet is the only one in the world where the dancers do plies' while wearing cowboy boots.  Hey, you try it if you think it's easy!  They also have the Texas Pharmacy Museum, one of the few museums Diedre was really interested in seeing.  But I had to draw the line somewhere.  I mean, what's next, "The Insurance Salesman Hall of Fame"?
     

We started off downtown where I posed next to a statue at a Wells Fargo Bank of the Mighty Casey, star of the Mudville Nine baseball team and goat of the big loss in the epic poem, "Casey at the Bat."  Note in the photo that I'm wearing my Cubs tee-shirt and my Texas Rangers hat, two notable losers (the Cubs for the last 115 years, the Rangers for the last two weeks), who appropriately go along with the Mighty Casey, known loser from the 2nd greatest baseball poem ever.  The best, arguably, goes as follows:
     "These are the saddest of possible words,
          Tinker to Evers to Chance!
     Trio of bear Cubs fleeter than birds,
          Tinker to Evers to Chance!
     Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble;
     making a Giant hit into a double;
     words that are weighty with nothing but trouble ...
          Tinker to Evers to Chance!"
     (And "No," I have no idea what "gonfalon" means.)
     I also have no idea why his statue is in front of a bank building in Amarillo, TX, so I put ace research assistant and all-around good gal Diedre Kaye on it using the vast resources of "Genie the I-Phone" and amazingly enough, in less than five minutes, she was fast asleep.  Just thought you, my adoring public blogsters, would want to know.
     We then got our 3-mile walk in by traversing the rails-for-trails track in beautiful downtown Amarillo.  The trail had formerly been used for that famous set of train tracks, the Rock Island Line, which I'm told, is a mighty fine line.

     From there it was off to the Amarillo Zoo, all 16 acres of it.  It did have my three favorite animals: tigers, lemurs, and raccoons.  On Mondays, all the staff takes the day off, so there was no charge to see the animals.  They leave the baboons in charge.  To my eyes, the zoo seemed to be more efficiently run on Mondays.  Just an observation.
     Although what the zoo lacked in variety of animals, they more than made up for in imagination.  What they claimed was a rare Australian Dingo-Buffalo was, I'm pretty sure, a Texas Longhorn Steer with a mustache painted on.  And I know their vicious Saharan Desert Devil was just an ordinary Billy-goat with an attitude problem.

     We finished off this gala day (If a gal a day isn't enough for you, I don't know what is--Groucho Marx) with a trek out to Amarillo's art-in-the-wild Mecca to see a performance piece of some great size: The Cadillac Ranch.  It turned out to be 9 half-Cadillacs planted tails-up in a cornfield, then covered with graffiti-laced spray paint.  I may not know art, but I definitely know what I don't like ... and this was it.  Now this artist-as-farmer must know what he's doing planting these here Cadillacs.  The crop looked so good that my mouth started watering.  I mean, we all knows them Cadillacs is good eatin'.  (I have no idea where that all came from.)

     Diedre and I always look forward to the start of the fall TV season, so we can see what tripe the networks have come up with and plan our viewing schedules accordingly.  Tonight was the premiere of the first new show of the season, "Sleepy Hollow."  It was a sort of "Ichabod Crane Meets Rip Van Winkle and Wakes Up in 2013 New York Along with the Headless Horseman" kind of show.  I mean, really, hasn't that just about been done to death?  We gave it the obligatory first show watching, but by the end, it was so confusing that we knew two meager intelligences such as ours would not be able to follow the story line, especially while out on the road with various degrees of antenna or cable reception.  "Sleepy Hollow" gets a "No" vote from us.
     OK, on Tuesday, since I had finished my homework (the heroically written Memphis blog) while my wife was a few weeks behind on writing her cookbook for heart/diabetes patients, I was allowed a "Senior Skip Day."  That meant a day trip for me alone out to the Palo Duro Canyon.

     Never heard of it?
     Neither had I.  And more's the pity ... it's the 2nd biggest canyon in the U.S. after that big hole in the ground in Arizona.
     On the drive to the canyon through the hinterlands  I noticed that the little rural, two-lane, decrepit roads had a speed limit of ... SURVEY SAYS? ... 75 MILES an HOUR???!!!
     Are they insane?  It shows that Dallas isn't the only place in this state with nutballs for drivers.
     The PDC is 600 feet deep and 120 miles long.  I walked 3 of those miles before rain sent me high-tailing it back to the safety of their gift shop.
     Amarillo surprisingly had some heavy memories for us.  A year ago in July we, along with DK's brother Remy, had rented an RV in attempt to relocate Diedre's 94-year old mom, Barty, from Tampa to about 10 minutes from us in Scottsdale, AZ.  The nearly 3,000 mile trip was supposed to take us 5 days.  Unfortunately, Barty only lived in Scottsdale for 5 days before she passed on to that big golf course in the sky.  So memories of that trip aren't great for us, although Amarillo always brings a smile to the our faces.
     You see, while driving along on day 4, Remy decided since we were in Texas, he had to have himself some Texas bar-bee-cue.  Diedre jumped on the magic Genie and within seconds, she found us "Henk's" just off I-40 in the heart of Amarillo.  It was a little nutritionally-challenged hole-in-the-wall, and those are always the best kind.  Remy and I barely let the RV come to a halt before we leaped out the doors and into the aforementioned Henk's.  Diedre had stayed back preparing her mother's usual soup and sandwich.  But at that point, the unsinkable Barty boldly announced, "NO!  I ... WANT ... BARBECUE!"

Barty at Henks in July, 2012

     And so the four of us had barbecue.

Diedre returning to Henks in September, 2013

     Barty had rallied, maybe for the last time.  She voraciously chowed down on some good old Texas pork ribs.  There was sauce flying everywhere as she downed the complete plate of ribs, cole slaw, and baked beans.  It was the most she had eaten on the trip.  You have never seen such a smile as she had on her face at that moment.
     So back to 2013.  Diedre and I thought we'd try to recapture the moment with a return to Henk's.  But I think it was Oliver Hardy who said, "You can't go home again."  And we couldn't.  The place was the same, yet different.  The food was just average this time.  The moment had passed.
     

Final resting place for Barty's violets

We had given Barty African violets for her birthday several years ago, and she had kept them alive.  After her passing, Diedre took the violets and nurtured them well.  They seemed to be blossoming every few months.  So we took them on the trip this year in Air Barty 1; for the 1st 4 months, they did very well, as if Barty was along with us for the ride.  But in the last month, they started to fail.  So, we decided to return them to the last place Barty seemed truly happy -- the ignominious Henk's.  Just outside Diedre found a patch of grass where she planted what was left of Barty's African violets.  Maybe, just maybe, in a few years we'll come back and they'll be thriving.  One can only hope.
     On our return to the campground, our spirits were lifted when we were hit with some great e-news.  Steve Peterson, the artistic director you'll no doubt recall we had met with back in the Minnesota-Part 2 blog, had confirmed with us that  HE WAS INDEED GOING TO PRODUCE "BUZZARD BALL," my first play, in the Twin Cities area next March.  What an exciting bit of news!  So all you Minnesota types, keep your calendar open for the Minnesota premiere of "Buzzard Ball" March 7-16.  Diedre and I will fly back for the first two nights' shows on Friday-Saturday, March 7-8.  Stay tuned for more info.
     Proving that gluttony is really no sin, we made a return trip to the massive Big Texan Steak Ranch on our way out of town, this time for their Texas sized breakfast buffet.  The deal there was, if you ate 51 eggs, they'd tell you, in no uncertain terms, that they liked you.  Not quite the prize we were looking for, so we opted for spam and porridge.
     On to Santa Fe, New Mexico.