Oroville, sandhills
February 14, 2017

I am horrified and disgusted by the news about the impending Oroville dam disaster, less certainly than the displaced residents of the towns below the dam, but more than some others because of my history with that wonderful place of my childhood.

I spent portions of quite a few summers in Oroville at the home and farm of my grandparents, Zack and Pearl (Taylor) Kelley, and savored every bit of it. 

My mind is unrelenting in conjuring those memories, so I will allow myself to record what I can recall of those times.  Zack & Pearl worked their Oroville farm for more than 20 years, having acquired it after they left their desert ranch on East Antelope Creek in Yavapai County, Arizona.

I remember when the dam was under construction that Grandpa semi-retired from farming.  He built three houses fronting the road; he and Grandma moved into one and rented or sold their farmhouse and the other two houses.

One of the new residents was involved with the dam construction.  The most I remember about that family is that they owned a ski boat and were perfectly fine with taking me and my sister along on outings where we learned to water ski on the Feather River.

The river was the universal center of all recreational activities for pretty much everyone in the area.  It had a wild & woolly past, having been dredged by gold seekers in the previous century, resulting in large gravel mounds lining its banks in places.

Other places along its course bore the remains of early habitations and commercial enterprises.  One of our favored fishing spots was near the bridge in Oroville; my grandparents loved to fish.  I remember the day Grandma got a fish hook stuck into her thumbnail from a casting line (probably Grandpa’s).  That required a trip to the hospital and resulted in a lifelong mangled thumbnail.

Further up in the mountains was a place called Bidwell's Bar, a super picnic and swimming spot that we often frequented.  The Feather River was known to be treacherous for swimmers; stories abounded about people being pulled under the water’s surface by whirlpools and quicksand while wading.  Drownings were common, or so it sounded to me.

A bridge crossed the river just above Bidwell’s Bar, allowing us to walk across to the other side.  I think that my father, Ira, Uncle Lewis and my older brother, Frank, were in a group that crossed the bridge, planning to swim back.  To this day, I am a very weak swimmer, certainly no match for that wide water with swift dangerous currents, but foolishly, I went along.  I have no idea why I was allowed to attempt that.  I gave it every ounce of energy I had, but remember sinking somewhere out in that vast expanse; I shall never forget going down to a level where my eyes were just above the water’s surface and seeing far on the shore all the picnickers, including my mother, and realizing that I could not get there.

And that is where that story ends: how I escaped the clutching waters of the Feather River is erased from my mind, but evidently I did, because here I am.  Somehow, that experience never diminished my love and admiration of that magnificent river.  When we visited Oroville a few years back, I was actually able to find my way to our fishing spot near the bridge.  That was in Oroville at a section now below the dam.  By then of course, all those wonderful places above the dam no longer existed, covered by the lake.

The farm . . .

My grandparents’ farm is just possibly the most idyllic place I have ever had the pleasure to visit.  Their driveway was marked by two stone posts that Grandpa built (they were still there when we visited in 1997).  Their house was not visible from the road, being set far back along the lane. 

The house had an attached garage, quite a marvel to us who had never seen such.  A few steps up from there took a person into the house.  My greatest fascination was reserved for the cedar-lined closet that was so deep it served one bedroom from one end and another from the other end.

Walking along that dirt lane was a true pleasure of the senses; I most remember the serenity of the place and the subtle smells.  Even now, the smell of a fig tree conjures those carefree summery memories.

To the left was Grandpa’s olive orchard that he watered via sprinklers on metal pipes that he set up and took down every irrigation.  What a hard worker he was, my short wiry Grandpa!  He had crews of workers come in to do the harvests.  I remember the hubbub of the men clambering up and down ladders.

That orchard is where I chipped my little brother’s front tooth.  We were messing around out there  - me driving the car (I started driving at an exceptionally young age, far too inexperienced to have a car full of younger rowdy kids).  David was sitting on the open back window ledge and refused to get down when I told him to, so I started up anyway, causing him to fall forward and crack his tooth on the roof of the car.  I undoubtedly caught holy hell for that stunt; there are things I wish I could remember - the consequences of that action are not among them.

Back to walking down the lane: there was a field on the right before coming to the house.  The house fronted on the drive and was a lovely old farm house with a swing on the porch and a peach tree within arm's reach (Oroville was superb fruit country).  Picky and spoiled I was, without a doubt; I loved peaches, but not that fuzzy skin, so someone always peeled them for me while we were all relaxing on the front porch, a favored non-activity on those long summer evenings.

And root beer floats!  That’s where I learned to love ‘em.  Grandpa would bring home a frosty gallon jug from A&W that we would savor poured into glasses filled with vanilla ice cream. 

A special treat was taking a sugar bowl out to Grandma’s strawberry patch and dipping those lusciously ripe berries before popping them into our mouths.  That was pay for ridding the tomato plants of horn worms - a job given over to my sister Vicki and me.  We couldn’t bear to step on them and hear them squish, so we would roll a large stick of firewood over them.

Another of our escapades involved open-ended 50-gallon barrels and a slight incline.  We took turns climbing in, tucking chin to chest, knees around our ears, and allowing someone to give us a good kick downhill.  Truthfully, it didn’t feel all that great to remain in the barrel until it came to a crashing stop against a tree, but it was even less fun to fall out along the way.

Grandpa also raised pigs and had a small dairy; the pig sty and milking barn were further back along the drive.  It was fun to watch his small herd come in from the pasture at the end of the day, where he called each by name as they went to their assigned stanchions.  He milked them by hand and then the refrigerated stainless steel tanker truck came to pick up the milk as it did at numerous other small dairies.

The creek . . .

I’ve saved the best for last.  At the very back of the farm past the drive, past the barns and pens and beyond the pastures was the most intriguing creek ever!  Its banks were mostly obscured by brambles of blackberry vines.

My cousin Johnny and I spent untold unfettered hours there.  By way of preparation for going down to the creek, we would secure a sturdy branch of just the right length, tie a string onto one end, procure a sturdy straight pin that we bent in the middle at a 45-degree angle to knot onto the end of the string and, with Grandpa’s dog Queenie happily joining us, we would set off across the back field. 

Queenie was not so fond of us as she was of what we did along the way.  You see, there was an ancient long unused outhouse back there, which when kicked, would result in large rats racing out in every direction.  It was Queenie’s great joy to wildly careen back and forth chasing them until all were out of sight.  It's a wonder rats didn't run up our pant legs.

All that was then needed was to find a way through the thicket and to quietly drop our lines in, hoping for a big strike.  I think we mostly caught catfish there, and I remember excitedly watching a muskrat swim by once right in front of me.  In some places, the creek was shallow enough or the fish large enough that their backs would stick out of the water.

We were told that the water was contaminated from the hospital expelling waste into it, meaning that the fish we caught had to be soaked in salt water before cooking.  Somehow, that was supposed to decontaminate them - how naive we were in those days!  Or perhaps it was not polluted at all - I have no idea - it looked and smelled very nice, and we were happy. 

Typically, we would carry a pail to the creek; when we tired of fishing, we picked blackberries for Grandma to bake into cobbler.  She, too, was constantly on the go - cooking, canning, sewing - they were quite a pair: he was so short that even as a child, I had to bend down to give him a hug, Grandma taller and somewhat the other direction from wiry.

He was quite the master at dominoes and loved to entertain us by standing on his head, even at an advanced age.

In addition to destroying the beauty of that fascinating Feather River, the dam dried up all the tributary creeks, including the one on Grandpa’s farm.  I was so saddened to discover that when I ventured back to share its remembered wonders with my family.

Now the Oroville Dam is on the verge of doing the unthinkable, and the folks in the charming town on that magnificent river are in danger of losing their homes, business and livelihoods - what a travesty!

Michael & Christina . . .

Returning to the Goose Loop Trail from my walk down memory lane: subsequent communications with the nice young couple we met there, Michael & Christina, convinced us to return to the Cibola Refuge and remain until late in the day for the opportunity of more birdwatching and maybe seeing more sandhill cranes.

As we traversed the outback of the Refuge, we came upon approximately 75 to 100 white pelicans and the snow goose population had increased to something in the neighborhood of 300. 

Burrowing owls were satisfied once again to pose for portraits.

The real prize, though, was the sandhill cranes!

When we there earlier, we thought there just were not many wintering at the Refuge.  We now had the thrill of watching and hearing them coming in for their evening roost - hundreds of them arriving in formations of 20 or so each as if magically materializing in the air, announcing their arrival with their unique purr-like call, and jockeying for space near the pond - a magnificent sight indeed - what a privilege to witness it!

Scouting along the Colorado River, we found a superb fishing spot on a sand bar - good fishing, not so much for catching.

This metal sculpture caught my eye - loved how they had the old trailer there looking ready to load.

Recovery in the desert

February 11, 2017

Deuce coupe . . .

“Little deuce coupe” - somehow, I can’t get that old Beach Boys tune out of my head every time I think about our second sashay around the Goose Loop drive in the Cibola National Wildlife Refuge - Deuce coupe, goose loop - oh good grief, the surgery has affected my mind!  The tunes of my youth are etched firmly into the gray matter inside my cranium, sometimes leaving little space for issues more pertinent to daily life (or perhaps there are no matters more pertinent than 60s music - a person could do worse with his brain.).  If you followed any of that, I fear for you.

At any rate, we are safely ensconced in an oh-so-much-quieter-and-pleasant RV park: back at Arizona Oasis in Ehrenberg, Arizona.  We appreciated this siting just fine the first time we were here; this time, we have the unsavory experience in Phoenix for comparison - a world of difference!

This is how RVers in Ehrenberg do winter.

So . . . back to the Goose Loop.  The first time we did it, last November, it was my first real hike after ankle surgery.  This time, it was my first real hike after eye surgery, a coincidence only.  So away we went, my eye’s gas bubble bobbling and jiggling, distracting, but low enough in my vision to allow some very fun bird watching.

Stopping at one pond (one is not allowed to disembark from one’s little deuce coupe or other conveyance on the loop), we identified species floating thereabouts and noticed one lone snow goose among the Canadas (obviously an aptly named drive) until a hundred or more of its counterparts rose up from a field off to our side to noisily fly over and join him.

Other water fowl we got on that pond were northern pintail, American widgeon, American coot, double-crested cormorant, neotropic cormorant, lesser scaup, ruddy duck, northern shoveler, mallard, great egret, and bufflehead, with Say’s phoebe and black phoebe busily harvesting insects over the water.  All in all, there was quite a racket as they jockeyed for territory.

A bit further along was the hiking part - something mysteriously called the Corn Field Trail - but who am I to question these things.  It is an excellent hike, winding through brushy and treed habitat created especially for the willow flycatcher, which was not on our list of finds, by the way.

In that copse, we did manage to see ladder-backed woodpecker, ruby-crowned kinglet, white-crowned sparrow, Abert’s towhee, northern flicker, robin and yellow-rumped warbler.

From the blind at the trail’s mid-point, another pond netted us a pied-billed grebe as the only list addition; however, there was a mob of mallards unlike anything I’ve ever seen - definitely brought up the adage about birds of a feather flocking together.  They were massed on the shore and into the water - infinitely more than I’ve ever seen in one place.

Completing the deuce coupe/goose loop drive gave us a few more birds, including some very cooperative burrowing owls that seemed completely fine with us pulling up next to them and being photographed. 

We also identified kestrels and starlings and saw a few small groups of sandhill cranes.

Shortly afterward, we encountered a nice young couple who had met because of burrowing owls (that’s a whole different story) who said they had arrived earlier in the day and watched many cranes dispersing to outlying feeding grounds.  They later texted to tell us those incredible birds returned in large numbers after we had left the refuge.  Not to worry - we shall return.

Goose surprise!

Our new acquaintances, experienced birders, told us they thought they had identified an Aleutian cackling goose amongst the Canadas.  That was entirely new to us; a quick look-up in the bird book explained that cacklings were previously considered part of the Canada goose complex and consist of four subspecies, with identification criteria not entirely worked out.

Without those folks’ alert, we had assumed that all were Canada geese.  The possibility of sighting a life bird propelled us back to the first pond for further perusal with the scope.  It is doubtful we could have identified any of the other three subspecies; however, the Aleutian breeding leucopareia has a white neck ring.  Sure enough, there it was - fairly easy to spot once we knew to look for it - very exciting find for us!

The island. more birds, bobcat . . .

At nearly 20,000 acres, the Refuge has so many more exploration possibilities that we intend to enjoy.  I suspect that most visitors drive the main loop and depart; in our out-back forays so far, we have not seen anyone except an occasional ranger.

The so-called Island Unit is an interesting bit of real estate.  Its name is derived from the fact that it is the only territory within the state of Arizona west of the Colorado River.  In general, the river delineates Arizona’s western border with California; however, as rivers are wont to do, it changed its course eastward into our state, leaving an “island” of Arizona with the current river course on its east side and the old river channel west of it.

The old channel still carries water and the main river has been channelized, presumably to keep it from changing its mind once again.  In between and thereabouts are many miles of flat alkaline flood plain, often impenetrably brushy.

Other places in the Island Unit, though, are maintained as migratory bird habitat: cultivated fields of alfalfa and grass alternate with marsh and pond areas.  We explored lots of the region via truck until we ran out of vehicle accessibility and then got in a fine hike out into the hinterlands.

As we lunched on the river levee, we spotted a Mississippi kite soaring along the water course.  Whilst wandering back roads out there, we also got phainopepla in a favored spot atop a lone high branch.

Lunch overlooking the Colorado River.

Along the old river channel and hiking the berms that separate the various marshes, wading ponds and reedy canals, we came up on a whole different bunch of avian life. 

There we saw goldeneye, red head, loggerhead shrike, cinnamon teal, snowy egret, white-faced ibis, and green-winged teal, while overhead, there was Bonaparte’s gull, vermilion flycatcher, violet-green swallow and a belted kingfisher.

The ibis were just a touch creepy to watch as they continuously lifted their spindly legs and dipped their beaks into the water, altogether resembling a herd(?) of spiders.  Really, what does one call a whole passel of spiders, other than a nightmare???

It was great fun having all those wonderful places to explore: the weather was perfection - high 80s with pretty cloud cover and light breezes. 

With all those miles of trees, brushy cover and water, there is surely a multitude of wildlife that easily conceal themselves.  One, though, did not hide at all - a bobcat peered at us over an embankment.  As we gained a better perspective, he was exiting out the other side.  Although we got to watch him for quite a while, we did not get the camera focused for a shot.

I am fascinated by these peaks rising so abruptly.

Trinity Grace, sky sights . . .

Because we planned to attend a music program back at the Oasis, we did not stay to watch the evening arrival of the cranes.  Joe & Carol Young’s performance was excellent - greatly enjoyed by a rowdy audience.

The highlight of our day, though, was live video chat with Sara and Trinity to watch our eight-year-old granddaughter open the birthday presents we sent her.  Although I previously managed to maneuver my way through Skype, it now seems to have defeated me.  Lewis made it happen for us at Christmastime, but he was not here to assist the old folks, so Sara got us onto Facebook video - infinitely better - thank goodness for techy offspring!

That same cloud cover that made our day so pleasant put the kibosh on moon eclipse and comet viewing, unfortunately.  Ah well, I think neither was to be particularly spectacular.   

Quartzsite, Hi Jolly . . .

We are near to that section of the Arizona desert that is known far and wide as a snowbird haven.  Many thousands arrive each winter to set up their RVs in parks or to dry camp throughout BLM property.  When we climbed a hill near there, we could see RVs stretched out for miles and miles.

Because Quartzsite is a fairly close drive from home, we’ve never bothered to venture down there to see what the excitement is about, so now on vacation, oped for a look-see.  Hmmm. . . "don’t bother" is my opinion.  Lots and lots of swap-meety kind of stuff, rows of stores with rocks, gems and an amazing assortment of odds and ends and junk, an “arts and crafts” show that is a euphemism for acres more swap-meet - unimpressed, but now I’ve done it, don’t need to do it again.

The Quartzsite of my youth was a tiny desert enclave made notable primarily by the monument to a chap known as Hi Jolly.  Chris had never seen the structure that memorializes that unique character, so we stopped over at the burying ground.

Born to Greek and Syrian parents, Philip Tedro adopted the moniker, Hadji Ali, later bastardized to Hi Jolly when he immigrated to Arizona in the mid-1800s to head up a camel corps experiment by the U.S. Army to use camels for desert travel.  Evidently, the Army’s other pack animals were panicked by the much larger camels; that coupled with other problems and lack of Congressional funding at the beginning of the Civil War caused the unit to be disbanded.  Hi Jolly eventually relocated to Quartzsite where he lived out his life.

Also found in the pioneer section of the Quartzsite cemetery - I am clueless as to its meaning.

Large flocks of redwing blackbirds gather in the park's treetops to serenade us of a morning, if one could be so bold as to call the cacophony a serenade.

We opted to be sociable within the RV neighborhood by attending the bonfire on the beach . . .

. . . in addition to meeting some interesting folks, we enjoyed Mel's Dutch oven peach cobbler with whipped cream!

We are always interested in the crops we see cultivated in various locales.  A farmer was just beginning to disc in this harvested field of broccoli.  We had seen only cotton and alfalfa in that area previously.

Cloudy skies prevented us from observing the lunar eclipse and the comet, but afforded us some fine sunrises seen right from our trailer window.

An adventure of another kind
February 6, 2017

Not so long ago, I received an unexpected and surprising note from my friend Jim’s left foot, surely not an everyday email (but then, Jim's dogs also email, so maybe it shouldn't be that surprising).  That missive opened up a whole new world for my body parts, some of whom had evidently waited for 70 years for the opportunity to speak up, seems that once they knew they could get a message out to the world via the computer keyboard, there was just no stopping the most “vocal” of them.

My left eye appears to be the spokesman, and well he should - he’s the latest of my body’s miscreants.  Don’t get me wrong; I love my left eye and appreciate all his hard work.  I know his problem is not of his own making and that he would just as soon be tootling along without any of this folderol.

Allow me to let him introduce himself as he did when he first realized he had a say-so and was responding to a friend’s query about his well-being.

“G’day to you!

This is Rita’s left eye writing about my anticipated experiences.  We have met before; however, our introduction has never been formalized.  You may call me Lefty; if I may be so bold, I will call you by your first name, although I am unable to verbalize, as you can imagine.

You have heard about my upcoming surgery.  The whole affair is quite a surprise to both Rita and me, and not one Rita is particularly thrilled about.  We have scarcely had time to get used to the idea, but then better to git ‘er done, we both agree.

Clearly (pardon the expression), Rita, while not excited about the necessity and its immediate aftermath, is grateful that my particular issue is deemed repairable.

I knew there was a problem, but it took Rita a couple of days to see (again, I beg forgiveness) that something was amiss.  When the light dawned (she noticed that her central vision on my side was no more), she was fortunate to be seen (can’t seem to help myself) quickly by the purveyor of all things ocular, who opined as how I had developed a wrinkle in my macula (crying out pete’s sake, I have been working non-stop for 70 years - what could you expect???) and that I had best be seen (really, it just happens) by a retina specialist who would be in the office two days hence.

That feller was not nearly as encouraging - seems the so-called wrinkle was in fact a hole (please refer to previous comment regarding my age and efforts).  He cited a 95% success rate for surgery, thus Rita and I agree that we are good to go.

Alas, there are a few flies in the ointment: first, the surgery has to be performed in Phoenix, and second, she must remain in that god-forsaken place for no less than five (or eight, depending on who is speaking) days, and third, but by no means lesser, Rita is told she must remain face-down for three days following the medical intervention.  If that ain't a boy-howdy, I don’t know what is!  Of course it won’t bother me nearly so much, but she is pretty whiney about it.  In fact, I’m a little excited because I get to wear a pirate patch afterward!

After eavesdropping on Rita’s conversations with Chris, I understand that, while the timing could have been infinitely worse, my little issue is throwing a monkey wrench into other plans.

I heard them say they will take the trailer to the big city for our stay there, and the surgeon is okay with us going from there to Ehrenberg, after the prescribed interval, to enjoy the previously planned 10-day stay there, which is without charge because Chris will be performing music for that bunch.

Somehow or another, some other shorter separate trips have now combined so that we will go directly from the valley hellhole to Ehrenburg, thence to Tucson and finally to Wilcox, and home by the end of February.  Whew!  I will have my work cut out for me with so much to see; sure hope I am up to the task after surgery.

Rita prefers not to know too many details about the procedure - can’t imagine what her problem is; it’s me that is bearing the brunt of this surgical invasion.  We do know they will be draining my fluid and replacing it with gas, which has to do with not coming home right away to higher elevations lest I blow up (or something).  The face-down business is just odd; she doesn’t quite understand that and definitely can’t figure out how one goes about such, but I presume she will follow doctor’s orders to insure my best opportunity for recovery.

Because I have a multitude of very annoying floaters, Rita now wonders if flushing me out will eliminate those pesky intruders.  Perhaps she will come out of this with half the number of floaters; Righty, my partner, of course will still have hers.  Rita seems happy about the possibility of eliminating an entire flotilla.

ocularly yours,
Lefty”

So now Lefty has undergone his surgical repair, which the surgeon deems a success; however, he is reluctant to release his hold on the keyboard, being the center of our current universe.

“Lefty here again.  Geez luize, I’m sure glad I didn’t know what this was going to be like ahead of time!  Don’t they know I’m a delicate little thing, sensitive to that kind of invasion??? 

Oh well, I liked the folks at Barnett Dulaney, all very nice, at least until they came at me with those instruments!  I have to admit it was kind of embarrassing that Rita was a bit ditzy during the surgery.  She later told Chris she could see my innards being sucked out (don’t worry; I intend to rejuvenate anew).  Then she thought the surgeon said he was mopping up my insides with a q-tip, so she tried to be amusing and asked him if he was doing surgery with a q-tip.  Good grief, I can’t take her anywhere!

Third day post surgery and Rita has been quite the whiner.  Some of my fellow body parts are not the happy campers, either, most especially Neck.  Besides me (the most important player in all this), Neck and Shoulders are just about at their wit’s end, I am told.  Neck complains day and night that his job is to hold Head upright, he takes pride in doing his job, and it’s against all the laws of nature to keep Head in a downward position, not to mention it hurts like the dickens.

Chris & Rita shelled out a good bit of dough to rent vitrectomy (that’s the name of my surgery) recovery equipment; however much that has helped, Neck complains of constant pain, nevertheless, and Face - wow, you should hear her!  Three days in this unnatural position has caused all fluid to gather there (this morning, Rita sneaked a quick peek in the mirror and didn’t even recognize the person reflected there.

I have to admit that Face really is taking a beating through all this.  In addition to the aforementioned issue, she is really singing the blues about that eye patch, too (very disappointing to me - I was promised an impressive pirate-type patch and what I got instead was a namby-pamby clear shield with holes in it - of course it does help me to breathe).  Anyway, my shield is affixed to Face’s skin with exceptionally adhesive tape that pretty much rips her skin every morning when she removes it - and she gets a whole week of that!

I had to chuckle while Rita was in the trailer’s bathing cubicle attempting to affix toothpaste to toothbrush this morning (She really does need me in conjunction with Righty to have any depth perception).  She finally managed, but it took a good bit of finagling.  Good thing she knows where Mouth is, anyway.

Following that exercise, she emerged (face-down, of course) to stumble into the so-called kitchen where she sipped coffee through a straw - can you imagine that!!?? - sipping coffee through a straw?  I heard her say it wasn’t very satisfying, about like the night before when she sipped wine through a straw - oh buruther, these people!

And you should see (that word sure pops up a lot for me) the two of them trying to set up equipment, pads, pillows, mirrors, computers, books and the like to enable Rita to sleep on her face, read emails (and occasionally to type one - too bad she doesn’t have a tablet - that would make it easier) . . .

. . . and watch television.  She leans forward and rests her head on a contraption with a table underneath.  The tv screen is reflected onto a bizarre mirror doodad, a wholly uncomfortable and unsatisfactory arrangement, but a person has to do something to pass the time.

Rita checked out audio books from the Prescott library; she says that helps some because she can let Neck rest while she listens to those. 

A favorite amusement was the game Rita’s friend Linda devised to keep Brain from rotting (Rita should ask Linda if she really thinks Brain is so close to its demise that three days of inactivity would do it in).

 Be assured we all joined in to stimulate Brain with Linda’s clever diversion (Taste Buds provided the impetus; Linda included dark chocolate as rewards).  It also worked to get in a few hands of Banana-grams.

All the vitrectomy recovery paraphernalia repurposes to allow face-down vehicle travel - to hear Rita tell it, also not overly fun.

 I have failed to mention Hair, primarily because she seems completely hopeless.  All this hanging down with Face thrust through vinyl doughnuts has resulted in Hair standing askew every which way.  The rest of us wonder if she will ever be the same.

In Chris’ unending quest to be amusing, he thought Rita should try birdwatching by peering downward through the binoculars at the mirror which ostensibly would be aimed at avian life of one kind or another.  They did see a cactus wren this morning, scrabbling around under a bush for nest material.  At least Chris said he saw it; Rita just saw her feet.

Ears have also asked to be mentioned.  They are being assailed with unaccustomed big city racket, especially accentuated because our RV site is separated from a popular convenience market by only a wooden fence.  How spoiled Ears are - more attuned to back yard bird calls than obnoxious revving engines, sirens and constant traffic.

The one thing Ears did not expect to hear here (heh, heh - Eyes have a sense of humor, too, you know) was train whistles.  Rita poo-poohed Chris’ thought that he heard such until they drove out of the park to find - lo and behold! - the Phoenix light rail comes clear up north to Dunlap!  Who knew?!  Would have liked to ride just for the fun of it, but then again, how fun would it be to sit there looking at the floor???

Not to be left out of doing her part, Wrist just piped up to remind me that she is our guardian, wearing our warning bracelet to remind us and medical personnel about that tiny, but mighty, gas bubble lurking in my innards.

While Rita was allowing me use of the computer, Chris was working on a job - he has contracted to arrange and score some songs for a Phoenix musician.  It keeps him off the streets.

In addition, we all enjoyed some great music he played on the park’s nicely tuned piano.

Prior to our collective malaise, we all enjoyed an evening out, and don’t think we didn’t appreciate it!  Chris & Rita drove way downtown to dine at the original Macayo’s, an iconic eatery born the same year as Rita (yup, that’s a long time ago), and one they have always enjoyed.

As it turns out, it will be their final time to enjoy that unique ambiance; for reasons none of us can imagine, the restaurant will be moving out of that location, a never-to-be-equaled establishment - no one passes the Aztec-inspired pyramid without noticing it.  Taste Buds appreciated the opportunity - they said the chicken-stuffed poblano with enchilada sauce and Baja sauce could not have been better.

The huge fanciful mosaic dragon on the back wall and the hand-carved front doors are to be auctioned off before the building is demolished to make way for an apartment building, although Rita wonders how the dragon will be extracted from the wall.

Tuesday is freedom day, and are we ever looking forward to looking up again!  I will not be of much use visually for several weeks while I finish healing, but Rita will be able lift her head and use Righty to gaze around.  For now, my sight is limited to peering through what resembles a colorless jelly-filled lens.  I am told that when Rita rights her cranium, the gas bubble will rise to the top, but in my upside-down refractory fashion, it will appear to her that she is looking out over the jiggly stuff until eventually, I complete my aqueous fluid rejuvenation and the gas dissipates.

Until then: Here’s looking at you!”

The royal palms for which our RV park is named.