All about us, plural

I find it hard to come from the back side of nine days and write any kind of cohesive & intelligible post, so I’m thinking I will simply smush this week’s journey into one blob, kind of like a big ball of bread dough just ready to toss from hand to hand and shape into a loaf, and then throw in photos from the phone, from the camera, from other people, as if the sprinkling sesame seeds atop the loaf.

To at least begin at the beginning before popping it into the oven, the señor & I set off optimistically to drive 2,420 miles in four days, as if we were still 30 years of age and that sort of thing was a piece of cake.

The idea was to get to Sara’s place for Thanksgiving, a noble enough goal, we thought, when it was still in the thinking stages, although I believe in the future, I will take our thinking processes with a grain of salt.

Dividing the “getting there” phase into two days, we shot for Dalhart, Texas, as a stopover for the initial 1,210 miles.  

With the freshness of setting-out excitement, I tried to capture shots of the season’s first snow on San Francisco Peaks as we ripped by at 70 miles per hour.  I vaguely recall that, in spite of huge trucks hurtling past us, the scene was lovely and peaceful with clouds blanketing the summits.

By the time we reached New Mexico’s Mount Taylor, the bloom was still on our cheeks: that impressive mountain also sported a white mantle.  It set us to reminiscing about some fun hiking we enjoyed a couple of years ago on those forested flanks.  

As we soldiered on after that, the sights grew less and less interesting as the winter-short day waned along with our enthusiasm.  Remembering a previous trip that wandered needlessly through Tucumcari, we enlisted the advice of Google maps for a route around the city.  Who knows why, but that voice guide clammed up very quickly, leaving me to interpret the windings visually.

Happy to avoid being lost in town, we were not thrilled with driving an unfamiliar two-lane country road in pitch dark; however, it eventually delivered us to our rather run-down lodging for the night.  Despite its thrift store furnishings, our no-tell motel offered up a clean & comfy bed, all we required to brace ourselves for the second long day on the road.

Worlds different from our preferred mode of travel that wanders this way and that way and stops for a look-see at numerous junctures, we gritted our teeth and ventured on with one short eventful pull-out.

In case anyone wondered if it really is tabletop landscape out there . . .

It was not long after starting up, before the miles of pavement dulled our senses, when I saw a sign (thus it ever begins) about a point of interest.  It required driving off the divided highway for a short distance: there we read a ghost town’s history, and turned back to cross over to our side of the highway, when suddenly and startlingly, red & blue lights began to flash immediately to our rear.

A Kansas state trooper rather officiously sauntered up to our drivers side window and informed us in no uncertain terms that we had not come to a complete stop before entering the highway, and that a complete stop was indeed necessary.  Evidently, my assessing the traffic situation on our right, followed by my breezy “clear right” did not cover our reentry.

We disappointed the officer even more by not having proof of insurance in the vehicle.  By the time he returned after determining that we were not the Bonnie & Clyde type, we chatted him up quite a bit and departed sans ticket(s) after having some interesting conversation.  Despite his initial semi-hostility, he ended up offering us local fishing advice.
 

 

Along the way . . .

In the neighborhood of "What the heck!", I couldn't resist a conversation with two gentlemen hauling an unusual load.  Turns out they were from Florida, returning home after having taken a trailer full of bicycle rickshaws to Las Vegas for use at Formula 1 races.  Methinks they must be charging the proverbial arm & a leg if they can rent equipment to be hauled from Florida.

 

We arrive, and it begins. . .

Despite the frustration of leaving all that enticing landscape behind, we arrived at the approximate time anticipated, thus began hugging, kissing, talking, visiting, cooking & eating - activities that ensued for the next four days.

In anticipation of our arrival, Sara pulled out all the stops by completing her Christmas decorations in our honor.

She is not one to stint on Christmas trees: there is the “memory tree” with family ornaments from the past 50+ years . . .

 

. . . the “regular tree”, Reggie the hedgehog’s tree, and so on.

 

I especially liked the ecumenical grouping of this arrangement with a nativity set (which I purchased in 1964, by the way) arranged on a Star of David cloth given to me long ago by my friend Eve Wynant.

Sara had some work-at-home time . . .

 . . . and then had to go to the office briefly even though it was closed for the holiday.

While she accomplished her task, Tristian & I made sure to leave our respective marks.

 

 

We got out for a brisk walk at the Shawnee Mission Park, an impressive 1,600-acre park dotted with lakes, where we were surprised to find an island with cypress trees in addition to the plethora of mixed hardwoods native to Kansas.
 

In addition to the joy of having time with Sara & Tristian, we were joined by two of our bonus children; Loren & Quinton came from their home in Oklahoma City for a reunion after six years.  

A bowling party ensued somewhere in there, and Chris led the pack in spite of wonky knees - what a show-off!

Boston Baked Beans, Turkey day . . .

Sara presented me with a long favorite candy - Boston Baked Beans - which it turns out never had the slightest connection with anything at all Massachusetts, but indeed are Chicago originals, like the señor.  I was so pleased with that surprise that I actually shared them.

With precision teamwork and brilliantly orchestrated timing for maximum utilization of a relatively small  kitchen, we turned out quite a nice Thanksgiving dinner.  One slight issue arose, however, when I turned off the oven in the mistaken notion that I was switching off the timer.  The result was that I turned a scrumptious homemade chocolate pie into an equally scrumptious chocolate pudding in a pie pan topped with lovely meringue.

 

I tried for a group shot, clearly without great success; this whole selfie thing just seems to be beyond me . . .

. . . and of course there was the usual fawning over Reggie. . .

 . . . and a visit to the Louisburg Cider Mill where we sated our sweet tooths (or is it sweet teeth?) with scrumptious apple cider doughnuts and apple cider smoothies, and purchased items we didn't know we needed.

 

 

 

Second bonus was when we took a jaunt across the Missouri line to have a meet-up with brother-in-law Bob, niece Mary, and great nephews Mason & Jett while enjoying the show and food at the Siki Japanese steak house & sushi bar in Lee's Summit (as an aside: that restaurant and the staff rate tops in my estimation - couldn't be better!).

As with the other kids, we had not seen that bunch in six years, either, so a reunion was definitely in order; unfortunately, the entire clan was not available, but it was a much-needed catch-up.

My heart is sad that we are all so far apart when what I want is the familiarity of frequent visits, but such is life.  I am grateful on this Thanksgiving trip to have at least some time, while knowing that it is not sufficient to be a part of their lives.  Really, I have no words.

On a happier note and lest we think that no more bonuses are ensuing, we had the opportunity to see Lewis when we halted our homeward dash with a night in Holbrook.

Coming home . . .

Returning to Arizona from northward wanders offers the delight of our first sighting of San Francisco Peaks, which always gives me that "I'm home" feeling of satisfaction, and this time, the mountain was extraordinarily stunning with its powdered sugar snow dusting.

22 x 2

As our 44th anniversary trip winds down, we put the icing on the cake with a few more activities.  The Gila River remains a big draw for us, and it did not disappoint, despite relatively low water levels after the summer "nonsoon" season brought only minimal moisture to the area.  

The road into the Gila Box Conservation Area has been blacktopped, but remains mostly a single lane with long straight dropoffs - slightly offputting but then not as terrifying as some we've driven, and the views are stupendous.

I'm always happy when I'm near water, even more when it's a running stream. 

The weather was clement, would have been perfect for swimming; however, we were all about fishing that day, so fish we did.  I thought we might catch smallmouth bass out of that pool, but it was a successful catfish day.

This was the largest one I caught that day, and he was a good'un indeed.

For future reference, we explored upstream a ways, gaining access around flood debris by skirting along the overhanging cliff edge, where we found more good fishing holes. 

Cranes & Casey . . .

As long as we were kinda close to Willcox, we thought, we should see if our wonderful pal Casey was up for a visit.  We did, and she was, much to our delight.

 

Casey mentioned that some of the sandhill cranes had returned for their winter roost; I could not have been more incredulous when we saw not a few, but thousands at a nearby water reclamation spot.  They were mostly grounded for the night, jostling for space and discussing the day amongst themselves in their usual most raucous way.

As is my wont, I was excited at the sight - very excited - so excited in fact that when I hopped out of the truck for the 300th or so photo, my camera caught and hit the ground - an alarming event, but fortunate in that only the UV filter was broken.

This is a first for my blog: a short video, because it's impossible to convey quite what it's like when these thousands of birds gather.   Give it a listen if you like.

Very cool to see moonrise over Dos Cabezas while we were there.

So, the Solomons . . .

. . . really piqued my interest when I began reading about Isadore & Anna, for whom the tiny town of Solomonville is named.  They were said to be Polish immigrants, and they made a substantial mark on Arizona history.  As I researched more, I discovered that although they did emigrate the day after they wed, Isadore had already been busy in the U.S., Pennsylvania to be exact, and returned to the old country to marry Anna and bring her here.  They were actually German, residing in an area that is now Poland.

They originally settled in Pennsylvania, where their first three children were born, before relocating to Arizona territory where they were preceded by at least one family member.  Impressive indeed what they accomplished from meager beginnings!

This is what Anna had to say about their overland journey:

“We sold everything we possessed except our three children, and started on our journey to New Mexico.  We had a very hard trip even on the railroad, traveling with those three babies was bad enough, but when we reach La Junta, the end of the railroad in those days, and had to travel by stage, packed in like sardines, traveling day and night for six days… When we got there I was so tired out to death.” 

I'm glad that Anna didn't sell her three children.  She may have been exhausted from that difficult trip, but soon recovered, and the family quickly commenced to build a life and a community.

As part of his commercial endeavors, Isadore eventually opened a bank.  As stated on this plaque, the existing building is a two-thirds-scale replica of his original bank that anchored what was known as the Solomon commercial block.

How easy it would be to drive through this or any of a multitude of other burgs that are slipping slowly into decrepitude without knowing the once thriving atmosphere.  The few remaining commercial buildings are shuttered and deteriorating.  Some of the adobe residential structures have been maintained and revitalized; others are left to slowly slump under the weight of weather. 

Anna Solomon maintained a sizable hotel as one of her pursuits; it was the social center of town.  In addition to the bank, promoting the establishment of Graham County and serving as County treasurer, Isadore operated a flour mill, stage line, mercantile establishment, charcoal kilns and farms that supplied various military forts.

To say that they were ambitious seems quite the understatement.  The couple, with their six children, eventually moved to Los Angeles, where they spent their final years. 

It is fascinating to me to imagine the many lives lived fully as we live ours, and that we never have an inkling about - what fun I have learning a bit about some who venture into my radar!

Birds . . .

I will not try to name all the birds we identified on the trip; however, roadrunners were notable in their large numbers, more than I've ever seen before, and the cardinals that frequented our feeders were delightful, and of course those thousands of sandhill cranes put on the most incredible show, even though they were simply settling for the night.

 

An unfortunate addendum . . .

Anticipating an early Saturday afternoon arrival at home, we were tooling along on the 202 freeway through Phoenix when we heard a loud noise from the trailer.  Quick as could be, the señor guided us to a stop in the gore strip, a triangular area where an on ramp merges with freeway traffic.

Thinking we must have had a blowout, a quick check soon revealed something far more dire: the left-side leaf spring had broken, and we were officially broken down with one lane of traffic immediately to our right, and three lanes of traffic immediately to our left.  And when I say "immediately", I mean that each speeding vehicle (and there were sooo many) caused us to rock back & forth.

We felt extremely unsafe where we were, and more so when we exited the truck.  The good news, or so we thought, was that we had roadside assistance insurance.  I even cavalierly remarked, "This is why we have insurance".  

That was about half past noon.  Nearly eight hours later, well after dark, each passing moment filled with worry about our precarious situation, the Wolf Pup was carefully loaded onto a flatbed tilt trailer and taken to a storage yard for delivery to a repair shop on Monday.

During those hours, we became well acquainted with three different DPS officers, DPS dispatch folks and more Good Sam insurance people than we cared to.  I lived through the ordeal and even I would be hard-pressed to explain why it took eight hours to make something happen.  Suffice it to say that we put two cell phones to good use while keeping our seat belts fastened in case some 90 mph vehicle should plow into us.  

What a shame that we were far too distracted and distraught to write the great American novel while we sat there.