Thursday, September 15, 2005
On the Road Again—Pie 4
I reached through the open window and gave Bonanza’s horn three long slow honks, trying to keep from sounding rude or impatient, but letting my missing hitchhiker know that I was up.
A few moments later, he came wandering back through the sagebrush, completely naked with streaks of dust in Indian war-paint patterns.
“Sorry, I had to get away from the road to do some yoga and greet the sun,” he said calmly. Naked. “Do you do yoga?”
“No,” I responded, taking another long drag on the lukewarm bottle of milk and grabbing half a dozen Oreo’s before pushing them toward him.
He said, “My name’s Joe.” “Thanks for picking me up last night.”
I grunted, told him my name out of habit and nodded toward the passenger seat.
“You might want to put something on, the vinyl gets pretty hot.”
He pulled a t-shirt and a dirty pair of jeans from his bag and climbed in.
“Toss out that pan of water so it doesn’t spill,” I said. “And don’t mind Lazarus, he mostly stays under the seat, but he may come out and nuzzle your ankles.”
Joe sat down carefully, but didn’t ask what Lazarus was. I liked that. He’d either figured it out or figured he would when the time was right.
“Where you headed?” I asked as I pulled the old VW out onto the deserted highway west.
Joe told me about the Shattered Box Ranch, which he said he thought was about 150 miles down the road. A place he’d worked before and hoped they’d take him back.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Ring of Fire
This is a little experiment in the music-handling capabilities our handsome host’s magic box. It’s not for the faint of bandwidth—the files are high quality and large.
For the test I’ve decided to upload three different versions of Ring of Fire, as made famous by Johnny Cash.
(If you have other versions you’d like to add, email me.)
I’m no expert, but I heard this song was penned by Johnny when he was having a hot affair—the one that ultimately broke up his first marriage and led to him marrying June Carter Cash. You know the rest of that romantic story.
June Carter Cash - Ring of Fire** (From the Press On album)
Bonus Song: *The one Johnny refers to at the end of the prior song
And a brief legal disclaimer: All music presented here is for your listening pleasure on-site, just like you’re listening to my cd’s when visiting me at home. Don’t link to this entry as it’s set to expire. It will disappear and no longer be searchable online (we hope) within about two weeks of the original posting.
*links removed
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Hitchhiker—Pie 3
I’d been driving from Colorado to Oregon. Figured I’d kick around in Eugene where I knew some people I hadn’t seen in years. Then I’d head north. Or south. Or maybe I’d find a reason to settle down for a while. Eugene’s a nice college town and maybe I’d take some classes and hang out and try to meet someone.
I’d packed everything I cared about that could be packed into the back of my beat up, old blue VW bug. Well, not quite everything. What I really cared about was still back in Colorado. But if I hadn’t left right then, I knew there was going to have to be talk of commitment. And her best friend’s going-away present to me was going to haunt all three of us. Better to cash in the change jar ($328.43), close out the bank account ($27) and head west.
Bonanza Jellybean. That was the car’s name. True to the book, hitchhiking defined her life. I’d have stewed in my thoughts alone on that drive west. Bonanza had other ideas. She always picked up every hitchhiker she passed.
We must have been 14 hours out when I pulled into an all-night gas station in God-Knows-Where for a fill-up, a bag of Oreos and a half gallon of chocolate milk. I’d been driving with the windows down and the cassette blasting Fleetwood Mac to try to keep my eyes open. The fact Kate had kept me up for two days before I left was catching up to me.
That was when the hitchhiker walked up with his dirty backpack and asked me if I could take him west. I said, “No, but if you can drive a stickshift you can take me west.” I tossed him the keys and crawled into the passenger seat not even asking his name and not caring if he was going to head west, steal my car or kill me. I was asleep before we circled the highway on ramp.
Three hours later I woke up with the sun in my eyes. The car was pulled off on the side of the road. High desert. Sage brush. Nothing but a strip of perfectly straight highway heading east and west as far as the eye could see. My hitchiker was nowhere to be seen but his backpack was on top of my pile of crap behind the seat. I got out, stretched and watered a burnt clump of dry weeds. I wondered if I should worry as I dug out the lukewarm chocolate milk from under the seat.
Monday, August 29, 2005
‘splainin’
Since Keith got me thinking about explaining, I’ve felt that I should do a little of it myself.
As I sit here on the porch contemplating one of the last times I’ll see this view, I think about what it means.
.
This is the view from my porch, looking west across Lake Washington. My house isn’t quite on the water. If it was, I doubt I would ever leave. But it’s still a beautiful place to live. I walk to the lake and throw my kayak in. My street is quiet. The schools are good.
And yet I’m leaving. Drawn back to the Hotel California.
Six years ago I tired of being one of those people who always talk about leaving behind the rat race but who never do. I got my Washington license and bought this beautiful home I could never aspire to own in California. Four years ago I made the physical move. It has been good. Yet ties with California could not be severed. I flew back nearly every week for work, keeping the office open to serve the clients I love.
Slowly it occured to me that it is not the place you live that forces the ratrace on you. It is how you choose to live. These last few years, sitting on the porch surrounded by evergreens, watching hundreds of beautiful sunsets, I’ve internalized that lesson in ways that go far beyond the mere words. So as I pack to move back where I best like the weather and my work and the diversity and excitement, I am taking special care to pack this most precious gift Washington has bestowed.
[In case you are one of those napping in the back, this is all by way of explanation why updates will be infrequent these next few days.]
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Pie—Pie 2
I rub Pie’s nose and give an affectionate tug on his rather unkempt forelock. Just to hear the sound of a voice, I ask him where he got his name, not expecting a response and getting none except for a toss of his head that tells me he’d prefer I continue scratching his nose instead of saddling up. I tell him we’ve got work to do.
Pie is not a pie. He’s a hardscrabble old grey who’s spent too much time around mules. His coat looks unkempt no matter how well you brush him. His mane is uneven. He’s my favorite and I wouldn’t have begun this ride without him.
When I get back to barn I should ask Tubbs about Pie’s name. I suspect it’s a rather feeble joke—there are plenty of those around here. But there may be more to Pie’s story.
I roll my bedroll, cinch it behind the saddle and head east toward the rising sun. My thoughts turn to the unlikely series of events that ripped me out of my prior life and brought me here just a month ago. ...
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Why I Don’t Fly
The headline is misleading. I do fly. I fly nearly every week. Forty or fifty round trips per year for the last several years.
Those flights have many characters. Sometimes I stretch out and sleep across three rows on a nearly empty morning flight. Friday evenings headed home every seat is packed and the mood is rowdy. Sometimes I put on my headphones and keep to myself. If my neighbor is interesting I’ll talk the flight away.
Once in a while a flight stands out from all others. Often it is the perfect sunset viewed off the left wing from 37,000 feet. That perfect palette of colors that is enjoyed by people in New Mexico and lucky airline passengers.
Very very rarely, there is the ultimate high when it all comes together perfectly and we are flying above the clouds under a full moon. The experience can only be described as rapture. As you descend to just above the clouds, lit with silver light, silent and calm with no sign of the world below, perfection is attained.
Which is why I cannot take the risk of getting a pilot’s license. Come the first cloudy night with a full moon I’d take off and fly and fly and never come down.