STORIES (51-75).....from the road

Story #75....DREAM ON.....Lincoln City, Oregon 8/21/06

    Three of us were standing on a high log -- a woman on my left and someone on my right. Snakes began to appear below us. Shocked, we called for help. Someone came and took care of the snakes, in one way or another. While we were still standing on the log, a huge bug about the size of a hummingbird, landed on the woman to my left -- right on top of her head. She collapsed and died!
    I remember thinking, "Why wasn't it me?" (I often think about how I continue to survive happily in spite of it all.) After all the formalities had been taken care of at the office, and I started to leave, the woman in charge stopped me. "You'll have to do something in return for all this," she said. I told her I'd think about what I could do and return. After I left, I decided I would write a poem for her. Actually I wrote two poems; I thought they were quite good. I returned to the office with the poems and gave them to her.
    Then I woke up! It seems like I dream almost every night. Some of my dreams are very active; so that I wake exhausted. I would like to think that when I sleep, I relax, but not so after some dreams. I don't dream the same dream over and over as some people do; I can't remember ever repeating a dream. Like I never see movies a second time...
    A lot of the time I remember my dreams or at least part of them. Like the one above, I remember writing two poems, going over them, improving them, and being quite happy with the result, but I couldn't remember any part of the poems when I awoke. DARN! All that work for nothing!
    What really amazes me about dreams is how I can have a dream about something I've never done before, never been aware of, never thought about in my entire life. For instance in the above dream, where did the snakes come from? Then I remembered a story from the book I was reading at the time took place in China, and the performing artist had a bag of snakes with him. He was worried about the snakes getting cold. And what about the giant bug that landed on the woman's head and killed her? WEIRD! It's kind of scarey how your mind takes over -- has a mind of its own -- so to speak.
    Sometimes dreams make sense and give you what you want. For example, yesterday I went to a potluck, and I didn't get a chance to try the chicken sausages. Last night as part of my dream, a friend handed me a paper bag. When I opened the bag, there were four sausages. It was an isolated incident, unrelated to any other part of the dream. The dream ended so I still haven't eaten the sausages!
    I've dreamed entire novels in one night. They seem so real at the time. I remember thinking I'll just get up and write a book, but by morning the whole thing has disappeared like birds in flight.
    Rarely, I'll have a dream where I wake up crying. That dream is always about someone I love that's passed away. I usually remember those kinds of dreams, like one where I had a really good visit with my mother. It seemed soooooo real; SHE seemed so real. It was so good to be with her again. It was if she paid me a visit in the only way she could. I loved it, and in the morning, there were tears in my eyes. There have been dreams where I'm with my dog Joy Totheworld who was with me more than 12 years. We walk, play, and laugh together. (Oh dear, here come the tears...) Those kinds of dreams are bitter sweet: wonderful to be with those I'll never see again but sad too because it makes me miss them so. I want those dreams back! I'd like to be able to call them up on demand -- dial in a person's name and dream about them.
    Sometimes the dreams are romantic, and that's nice!

Story #74....LITTLE HOLLYWOOD...Kanab, Utah 6/21/06 (Revised 6/23/06)

Because of the hundreds of mostly western films made in Kanab, Utah, it is known as the Little Hollywood. The list includes:

WESTERN FILMS: Brighty of the Grand Canyon with Joseph Cotton, MacKenna's Gold with Gregory Peck and Omar Shariff, The Shooting with Jack Nicholson, Broken Arrow with John Travolta, The Outlaw Josey Wales with Clint Eastwood

OTHER FILMS: Planet of the Apes, The Greatest Story Ever Told

TV SERIES: The Lone Ranger, Lassie, Death Valley Days, Route 66, Gunsmoke, Six Million Dollar Man

    Many of the stars and film crew stayed at Parry Lodge, founded in 1931, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It's located in downtown Kanab, and you can still stay there or just stop by for a meal. Parry Lodge served the movie industry for more than five decades. The walls are covered with autographed pictures of many famous movie stars, and I heard the rooms are named after many who slept there. Can you imagine sleeping in the room used by Tyrone Power or Ray Milland (if you're old enough to know who they are!)?
    Every evening at Parry Lodge you can see western movie FREE in the Old Barn. I'm not a big fan of Westerns, but I thought it would be interesting to see a movie filmed in this scenic area, and I wasn't disappointed. The opening scene in "Dual at Diablo" was filmed at the red-rock mesa near the city park. I recognized it right away. The movie starred James Garner and Sydney Portier. Both actors were MUCH younger and MUCH thinner than they are today. (Aren't we all?) Last night I saw "One Little Indian" starring James Garner, a very young Jodie Foster, and a mother and baby camel. The camels played a major role. They alone are worth seeing the movie. One can visit several old movie sets located in and around Kanab. One old barn is now used as a real barn at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.
    Ralph, the person who shows the movies, and I talked for a while after a movie. He and his wife have been full-timing for three years. They pick up jobs wherever they go. Being of retirement age, when the employer asks how many hours they want to work, Ralph replies, "as few as possible." The western movies, with Ralph as emcee, are great fun. Before the film, he jokes and chats with the audience, asking where they're from and trivia questions. He knows EVERYTHING about the movies and the stars. I thought he must have been doing this all his life, but he says he learned on this job. He obviously loves it and so does the audience. There are many stories about the filming days in Kanab. Some of Ralph's stories are included below. I hope I got the facts right here; if not, they still make good stories!)

1) A Kanab resident had a small role in "Duel at Diablo." At the end of the movie, he sat on a horse holding a flag. He tells how "Indians" were paid $10 if they just rode by on a horse and $25 if they fell off. With the first gunshot, 100 "Indians" fell off their horses!

2) An elderly woman took home several of the styrofoam "boulders" used in a movie. One windy day, a "boulder" blew out of her yard into the street. She walked over and picked up the "boulder" with ease. A passing motorist was so amazed, he smashed his car into a tree.

3) Frank Sinatra was permitted to use the high school football field to land the helicopter which flew him in and out while filming a movie. As a thank you to the school, he bought new uniforms for the football team, the band -- everyone who needed a uniform. (I've never been a big Sinatra fan, but that helped!)

4) Many extras were hired to be Indians -- hooping, hollering, and shooting arrows at the soldiers. The next day the same extras were hired as soldiers -- shooting at the Indians. So, they all ended up killing each other!

5) After the day's filming, entrepreneurs would search the area for arrows and sell them as souvenirs.

"Ain't you got no ambition in life? Do something. Rustle cattle, hold up a stage coach or play cards or something." -- Bud Spencer in "They Call me Trinity"

Story #73....A VISIT TO PET PARADISE (Best Friends Animal Sanctuary "where they all live happily ever after)....Kanab, Utah 6/16/06 (Rev. 6/23/06)

   (A note to my friends: I don't often send out my stories via email UNLESS I think it might impact my friends in some way. "A Visit to Pet Paradise" is one such story. The amazing thing is I finished the story the same day Louis the cat was in the national news. Louis, who lives in CT, was going to trial for crawling up the Avon lady's leg, holding on, and biting her. She wasn't the only one. Best Friends, the Utah no-kill sanctuary I write about in this story offered to care for Louis, but the judge decided Louis could stay with his owner as long as he was an inside cat....gypsy jane)

    I'd never heard of Best Friends until I reached Kanab, where more than one person said I MUST go there. At first I said, "I just can't visit animal shelters. It is so depressing and makes me feel so sad." (But, really, I'm afraid I'll come home with a pet!) The animals are so hard to resist, and I remember my dog, Joy Totheworld, who lived more than 12 years and was like a child to me. When she died, I decided not to get another pet because I knew I would soon be traveling for many years in my small camper.
    Before my visit to Best Friends, I read all the pamphlets I could find, learning that Best Friends was a no-kill shelter ("where they all live happily ever after"), and I looked forward to going there. I had already made up my mind to visit Best Friends when I met Rebecca at the RV Park where I stopped to take a shower. I admired the mosaic table she was working on. We struck up a conversation, and it turned out she is the Assistant to the Michael Mountain, President of Best Friends. I told her I planned to go there when I leave Kanab on Wednesday. She offered to call and make a tour reservation for me and invited me to have lunch with her in the cafeteria there. Talk about coincidence! Once again life affirmed my plans.
    So this morning, I drove through a gorgeous, red-rock canyon on my way to Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. About five miles from Kanab, I turned off the road to the sanctuary located in Angel Canyon -- aptly named. The scenery on the way to the Visitors' Center was magnificent! Right away I sensed how fortunate these animals were to live in such a beautiful place and thought "Hmmmm, I would like to live here!" The first thing I came across on the path to the Visitors' Center was a lovely area with shade, benches, green grass, animal sculptures, and a pool with multi-colored fish. It had a very Japanese feel, soooo peaceful. After signing in, members of my tour group watched two short videos. Within the first five minutes, I was crying. Even now when I think of an example to share with you, my eyes tear up recalling the pictures of the animals, their sad stories of abandonment, abuse and neglect; how they got to the sanctuary; and their eventual adoption to loving homes. It really tugs at one's heart strings.
    We hopped in the van and started up the dirt road to the horse pastures. Jennifer, our tour guide, told the story of one horse who was in very bad condition when it arrived at Best Friends. Once the vets discovered it had bad teeth, did the dental work, and pulverized its food, its health improved dramatically. That horse is now 45 years old and is the alpha horse in the pasture. (The normal life span for a horse is about 28!) In another area, overweight horses experience natural weight loss by walking up hill and down to get water from the creek.
    When we visited the dog and cat areas, I was especially pleased to see each animal was identified by a photograph on the wall with its name printed underneath for easy identification. At the TLC Cat Club we visited FIV-positive cats and learned that with the proper care, they can live long, healthy lives -- into their 20s! These cats had their own two-room suite (inside and outside) with more toys than you can imagine. There were nooks and crannies where cats like to hide, beds of all shapes to curl up in, and ladders leading to high places where they can observe the world. The cats were active and loving. I was fascinated with Wildcat Village where one of the spaces is devoted to feral cats. Best Friends says feral cats will always be looked after but never asked to be anything but their wild, wonderful selves. I was surprised to learn Best Friends feels "healthy alley cats can live good lives when people in their neighborhoods care for them and spay/neuter them to prevent their numbers from growing." Some even become socialized during their stay at Best Friends and are adoptable "with attitude." Jennifer tells the touching story of a couple who planned to retire. She was going to come to Best Friends to take care of the cats, and he was going to play golf! Sadly, she passed away before their retirement dream came true. In her memory, her husband paid for Casa de Calmar, the building that is home to cats with leukemia. There is a room of memorabilia dedicated to the wife's memory. There was so much there! I could have spent a long time looking at all the cat items -- everything "cat" you can imagine. She was, without a doubt, a cat person! She must have derived many years of joy from them. As I left that room I noticed a water bottle, carrying bag, and tennis shoes by the door, a sad, sweet memory of a cherished loved one. What better way to honor her memory than with a memorial to the cats she adored. I'm sure she is smiling down from heaven right now.
    Another area on the tour was Old Friends where elderly dogs live. Many had health problems associated with old age like arthritis, old injuries, and even blindness. Because of their age and infirmities, all the dogs here would have been euthanized. Animals are adopted at the sanctuary and also from vans full of animals which go to different cities on weekends. The total adoption rate for all animals is about 80%. Of course, everyone celebrates when an animal is adopted, but there is a special joy when an Old Friend finds a new home. The day I visited, the adoption of the blind dog (a very happy and capable animal) was in the works. Again and again on the tour, Jennifer talked about special-needs animals (blind, deaf, needing special medication, etc.). I was impressed at how Best Friends tries to meet the needs of these animals and encourages their adoption. The high adoption rate of special-needs animals is surprising.

    I loved the names given to the different areas at Best Friends:

- Happy Landings where new arrivals stay a while and get a full check-up
- Dog Town where indoor/outdoor areas cover 50 acres
- Dog Town Heights "a gated community"
- Old Friends for older dogs
- Feathered Friends where there is a special pool for the ducks and geese
- Horse Haven, home to 25-30 horses which are no longer ridden
- The Fat Cat Room with "lots of extra toys...but not so many extra treats"
- White Cat Room with a screened-in porch for cats sensitive to sunlight
- Kitty Motel provides extra help and includes an INcontinental Suite
- Triple "R" Rabbit Retreat: "There are 110 invisible bunnies on hot days."
- Angel Village: director and cafeteria for volunteers and staff
- Angels Rest - a final resting place
- The Adoption Center once "ruled over by White Lightning...who doesn't really like other cats, so he's very much in favor of helping them all find good homes -- as quickly as possible!"

    Best Friends has programs that span the nation:

- programs for troubled youth
- summer camps for teens
- internships where students spend six weeks in every area
- universities send veterinary students here for "real life" experience
- workshops on how to start a sanctuary
- programs in humane education
- a rehabilitation center for injured animals
- student/teacher visits
- many volunteers helped reunite pets with their grateful owners after hurricane Katrina

    Some information about Best Friends:

- Best Friends Sanctuary started in 1984
- largest sanctuary in the nation, caring for 1,500 to 1,800 animals
- own 3,000 acres and lease 30,000 more
- 370 full-time employees
- nearly 25,000 people visit Best Friends each year
- 4,500 volunteers stay for a few hours, a week, or longer
- a clinic with three full-time vets
- $25 spay/neuter clinic
- the fee for adopting an animal includes spay/neuter + vaccinations - volunteers park on BLM land free or rent one of the cabins/cottages
- a cafeteria for volunteers and employees which serves a vegetarian lunch

    I learned that Best Friends began in the late 1970s by a group of friends who used to visit local humane societies to help the animals who were least likely to be adopted. Back then more than 17 million animals were be put to death each year. Thanks to Best Friends and other programs like it, today that number is 4.2 million -- fantastic progress but still far to many. The goal is "No More Homeless Pets!"
    As you can tell, in just one morning, I became an enthusiastic advocate for Best Friends Sanctuary. My visit was a positive experience from beginning to end. From the excellent facility to the friendly staff, it is a VERY special place. And they have thought of EVERYTHING; I can't think of one thing that needs improvement. Once you watch the videos, take the van tour, and actually interact with the animals, you (like me) will want to contribute in some way, by adopting an animal, volunteering, or becoming a member (only $25/year). Please consider joining this great effort. Not only will you be contributing to animals' quality of life but your own spiritual well-being.
    (Quotations are from the Best Friends Magazine and from Jennifer, tour guide extraordinaire! To see photographs of adoptable pets, learn more about Best Friends Sanctuary, and join: www.bestfriends.org).

The human spirit is not dead. It lives on in secret. It has come to believe that compassion, in which all ethics must take root, can only attain its full breadth and depth if it embraces all living creatures and does not limit itself to mankind. ~Albert Schweitzer, Novel Peace Prize acceptance speech

Story #72....THE DUMPSTER-DIVING OLYMPICS....Quartzsite, Arizona....5/5/06

    If there were a Dumpster-Diving Olympics, I would be a gold medalist.
    Just the other day, I was strolling by the four dumpsters near my home, casually glancing inside. Sometimes there is literally a gold mine there. This one day, there was all sorts of stuff, including a music box (that actually worked). The problem was the top of the box was on the very bottom of the dumpster, and there was no way to grab it -- not even with the long metal rod with a hook on the bottom that I carry with me in my camper -- just in case. It was a real challenge to figure out how to get the top of the music box. I thought for a few minutes while purusing the contents of the dumpster for ideas. I saw a large cereal box. Aha, I thought. I'll scoot the music box lid into the cereal box with my metal hook. Then, I'll lift the cereal box up with the metal rod. It required a lot of patience (and skill), but I did it. That's when it occurred to me that if there were a Dumpster-Diving Olympics, I would win a gold medal!
    That same day I found one of those clips that holds the table cloth on my porch table that exactly matched the other three. (I had been meaning to buy a fourth.) At the same time, I found several of the safety lights that are on the top of my camper; so I could replace the two that had fallen off (one red, one orange). AND, two bottles of silver spray paint that I was also going to buy ($4.99) to spray my awning supports. Not only did I save a lot of money, but time as well.
    When I lived in the co-op apartment I owned in Seattle, Washington, I was amazed at all the perfectly good STUFF people threw in the dumpster behind our building. There was a 4 x 4 foot space at the bottom of the stairs inside the building. I put a table there and a sign that said, "Leave what you don't want; take what you want." Boy, did I reap the benefits of that idea. Practically my whole apartment was furnished with other people's throw-aways. And it was good stuff. Again, I can't list it all here, but my favorites include a wall-size, oriental screen with herons perched in trees on a red satin background and a very spiritual black and white photograph of stairs leading through an archway. Priceless! Both hang in my Quartzsite home.
    This quality of mine - let's be kind and call it frugal - probably stems from the fact that I was a depression baby, that is born during the depression years. My father died when I was seven, and my mother never worked; so money was always scarce, but I always had a roof over my head and enough to eat. I started babysitting and doing household chores when I was twelve. Except for room and board, I was pretty much self-sufficient financially from that age on. My home in Seattle was furnished from garage sales and dumpter finds. One of my best finds happened when I was out for an evening walk and discovered an oriental rug on top of a dumpster. The rose color matched my dining-room valance perfectly. I was thrilled. Now I can't list ALL of my finds here, but dumpster diving and thrift-store visits are like treasure hunts for me.
    Most of my life I've never had "two nickels to rub together," so to speak. It wasn't until I retired that I felt I had ENOUGH. I am always looking for bargains. At grocery stores, I have enough money to stock up on sale items. It takes money to save money. I always tell people I live like a queen; I have everything I need or want. But I've always watched my pennies; I worked too hard for my money to fritter it away. And now I'm reaping the rewards: RETIREMENT!
    I NEVER pay interest and paid cash for my home in Quartzsite. Since I sold all my furniture when I sold my home in Seattle, my home was empty. I put up a sign in the laundry room: "I just bought a home in Desert Gardens and have no furniture. If you have something you're not using, please see me at Space 140. Thank you!" A neighbor offered me the sofa off her porch which I used until I bought my beautiful sofa. Then an anonymous person left two lamps on my porch -- a perfect match to the sofa I'd purchased. My darling neighbor Dorothy gave me a coffee table, two matching end tables, a tall gold lamp, and two small square tables. A stranger stopped by when I was working in my yard and offered me a swivel chair which amazingly matched my new sofa! My home was practically furnished. I bought a futon for the bedroom, and I was done.
    I like what my friend Vernon said, "You're a minimalist like me." That describes me perfectly!

From The Art of Doing Nothing: Simple Ways to Make Time for Yourself by Veronique Vienne, Erica Lennard :

Like Thoreau, who was a self-proclaimed advocate of voluntary poverty, the medieval Don Quixotes lived hand-to-mouth -- rewarded for their services with gifts in kind.

Don't let mercenary activities take over your life. Show the feudal establishment that there is more to the pursuit of happiness than a job description, a rigid schedule, and a fat paycheck.

Story #70....TEETH OR NO TEETH?....Quartzsite, Arizona....12/20/05

    I was sitting at the bar in the Quartzsite Yacht Club, your typical, small-town, smoky tavern. I don't smoke or drink, but Donnie and Leon play great, danceable music every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday at 8:00 p.m. So I get plenty of exercise while at the same time dying of lung cancer from the second-hand smoke. But, I gotta dance at least once a week or see a psychiatrist, and dancing is much cheaper.
    As I looked around the bar, every guy there was either smoking or drinking or both. I said to Brett (an unlikely name for a bartender), "If you ever see a guy who loves to dance and doesn't smoke, let me know." He glanced up and down the bar and shook his head. Then he asked, "What about teeth?" I must have looked puzzled because he said, "You know, teeth or no teeth?" I doubled over with laughter but managed to stay on the bar stool.
    A couple of days later, my good friends Sue and Joe and I stopped by to see our mutual friends Sherry and Marshall. I told the "teeth or no teeth" story, and I thought they would fall out of their chairs laughing. But the story doesn't end here. Sue stopped by my home a couple of days later and said Sherry wanted to know if I was busy on Thursday. She said Sherry wanted me to come to dinner and meet her boss who "didn't smoke and loved to dance." I was tickled. It's been a few years since I had a blind date, and I wondered if it was even legal at my age. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I went over to Sherry's to accept. When she came to the gate, I said, "Is this the Sherry Dating Service?" We all had a good laugh. When a woman walked up and asked if Sherry could cut her hair, she said, "Well, I'm running a dating service right now." More laughter all around...
    The day of the dinner, I ran into Marshall who told me that their minister would be coming to dinner too. I thought he was serious and felt relieved that there would be another person there. He said, "Yes, if necessary, Sherry and I will stand up for you." I got that part of the joke, but I still thought the minister would be there -- until the minister didn't show up.
    My "blind date" was nice enough, and I was impressed by his environmental T-shirt, but it turned out he hadn't danced in years. It brought to mind the saying: It's not years that makes us old; it's giving up the things we love to do. I used to play cards with two women in their 90s who radiated great energy. They were active, interesting, and fun to be around. And though some people might consider me old in years, I DON'T FEEL OLD! I am determined to live LIFE fully right up until the day I die -- which will more than likely be on the dance floor!

Story #68....MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH BOOKS.....Quartzsite, AZ 11/30/09

    My love affair with books is much like the real thing. It is a thorough checking out and going over caressing of the book from cover to cover outside in and inside out before it becomes a part of my life. It's a kind of romance, really, and here is how it starts: Full of anticipation, I pick up a book that interests me. Whether it be from a library, a bookstore, or a rummage sale, the respect is the same. I carefully peruse the cover, both front and back. The back often has comments from other authors, and I read every one. It usually has the name of the reviewer and the title of a book they have written. Sometimes I jot down the titles to add to my three-page, single-spaced reading list.
    I flip to the inside cover where I can count on a description of the book and the story line. If I'm still interested, I randomly open the book and read a paragraph, to kind of get a feel for what it's about and the writing style. If the book passes all those tests, I turn to the inside of the back cover and read about the author, but by now that really doesn't make a difference. If I got this far, I'm hooked.
    I choose to take the book home with me and place it in the pile beside my bed. I am never happier than when I have books waiting to be read -- never less than five: fiction, poetry, and nonfiction (usually travel, spirituality, health, exercise, cooking, and various how-to books). My favorite books are fiction. When I was younger, I felt once I started a book, I had to finish it. I knew how good it was by how fast I read it and how much I looked forward to reading it, limiting myself to naps and bedtime. Now that I don't have all those years ahead of me to squander as I like, I give a book 100 pages max before abandoning it. I read a couple of books a week.
    Before going any further, I want to tell you that owls inspired this story. Yes, OWLS. While doing a thorough purging of all my closets, drawers, cupboards, and boxes, I came across a tiny book with a one word title: Owls. I immediately thought of a friend I wanted to send it to, whose totem is the owl. But before I mailed it, I did my "romance with books" thang one last time. First, I admired its small size. Then I checked the back cover, inside the front cover, inside the back cover, and started in to read at page one. I love this little book and wanted to devour it one more time before sending it off to my KS (Kindred Spirit), whom I have never met by the way, but we carry on a frequent email correspondence.
    I read every word; there was prose or poetry on one side of the page and art work of an owl on the opposite one. It didn't take long because the entire book is only 56 pages and half are pictures. When I finished, not wanting the experience to end, I turned to the last page and flipped back to the art work, checking it against the artists, among them Edward Lear, Audubon, Durer (remember his famous rabbit?), and A.A. Milne (his Winnie the Pooh is still a favorite of mine from childhood). I know my friend will love this little treasure of a book as much as I do, and gifting it to him signifies the importance of our friendship.

We learned to be patient observers like the owl. We learned cleverness from the crow, and courage from the jay, who will attack an owl ten times its size to drive it off its territory. But above all of them ranked the chickadee because of its indomitable spirit. ~Tom Brown, Jr.

Story #67.....MAD ABOUT VELCRO.....Silverton, CO 8/19/05

    Before I left my winter home in Quartzsite, Arizona, I had to prepare it for the extreme summer heat. One of the chores was covering the windows with a thick, felt-type material with a silver backing to reflect the sun. I used heavy-duty velcro for that job, pausing only momentarily when I realized it is permanently attached to my windows now.
    It started with the windows, and now I'm afraid Velcro has taken over my life. Not all velcro -- just the sticky-backed kind. It started out slowly enough months ago when I velcroed a chapstick just inside the back door of my camper where I could grab it on the run, velcroed my dry-erase pen next to my dry erase board on my frig, and velcroed my clock to the wall by my bed.
    I felt it was getting serious when the other night I had a velcro party of one -- myself. First, I velcroed my cell phone to the camper wall beside my bed under my clock. I had been thinking for a long time that if I needed someone in the night, I probably wouldn't be able to sit up and reach the phone on the shelf. (Assuming of course that I had remembered to write down the address of the place I parked that night.) Then I velcroed my crossword-puzzle pen, that I can never find when I want it, next to the phone. I moved my chapstick, which I had velcroed to the wall behind my pillow and was always knocking down behind the mattress, to a place to the right of all the other stuff. Lastly, I velcroed my black felt marker to the wall under the sink, easy to grab for labeling stuff.
    Every once in a while, I find new things to velcro. My life is so much easier now. I don't have to rummage through all my pens searching for the one I need, and I feel more secure now that my cell phone (for emergencies only) is by my pillow. I can find all my stuff even in the dark. And I'm not the only one that feels secure. I'm sure Velcro feels financially secure having me as a client.

Story #65.....ESCAPING QUARTZSITE.....Payson, AZ.....6/15/08 (Rev. 8/1/08)

    Leaving Quartzsite, for me, is like pulling apart two very strong magnets. It's a hard pull because the attraction is so strong. Each fall I arrive earlier, and each summer I leave later. For the hundredth time: I LOVE IT HERE!
    Amazingly, there are people who live in Quartzsite year round. As I prepare to leave for the summer (June 14), it is way above 100 degrees. How can anyone stand to live here in the summer? I managed up to now because I bought an air conditioner this year. What I didn't think about was traveling without air conditioning in my truck -- always at least 20 degrees hotter inside the cab. And it was only June! This high heat continues through July, August, and September -- sometimes 'til mid October. (November is pleasant, and then Quartzsite goes right into winter -- sometimes below freezing at night. Then March and April are pleasant, April being the prettiest month when the desert bursts into bloom.)
    Sitting here in my folding chair by the side of my camper with my feet propped up, I begin to relax after a grueling day of travel yesterday. Even though I had completed most of the page-long tasks for leaving Quartzsite for the summer, it still took me more than three hours to get everything done. There are some things that must be put off until the last minute: turning off the water, electricity, and propane; covering the front door; emptying the frig to the camper and then stuffing the frig with wadded up newspapers; eating breakfast; and finally a last shower on the way out.
    I was up before six yesterday, and it was 9:30 before I stopped for an iced coffee on the way out of town -- a special treat since I stopped drinking coffee years ago. I figured I needed something to keep me awake during the long, hot drive to Payson, AZ. The temperature reached 110 degrees during the day. You can imagine how hot it was inside my truck without air conditioning. When the temperature reached its peak, I kept hoping I wouldn't pass out from the heat. Heaven help anyone who has car trouble during this heat wave. They would perish in minutes. This thought crossed my mind several times as I watched my gas gage go down and my engine temperature gage go up. "If the indicator gets above half way, I'll stop and put in more coolant," I told myself. At that point, I noticed it was a tad bit over half way, but who would want to get out in this heat? Rolling down the window was no help -- just a blast of hot air.
    I chose two possible routes to Pine, AZ, my ultimate destination: I could bypass Phoenix by taking I-10 to nearby Hwy 60 through Wickenburg to Hwy 17 (a route I've never taken before) north to Camp Verde and then southeast to Strawberry and Pine. Or, I could take I-10 to Hwy 87, head north to Payson, and spend a night or two there before driving the 15 miles to Pine on Monday. The incentive to take the latter route was the Saturday-night concert in Payson's large, beautiful park by a lake with ducks.
    I knew I was nearing Phoenix when I came upon rows and rows of look-alike houses as far as the eye could see, only five feet from their neighbors. How can people stand to live this way? I could visualize people coming home to their houses: take the first left, count down five streets, turn right, count down 10 streets, turn left, and home is the fourth house on the right -- the one with the white trim. Perhaps living five feet apart was healthy for family relationships as one could never have loud disagreements without their neighbors as audience!
    With one eye on the gas gage and the other on the temperature gage, I was still able to enjoy the stunning patches of bright yellow, magenta, and red-orange plantings along I-10 as I drove through Phoenix. Even with atlas in hand, I can never make the transition from I-10 to Hwy 87 without stopping for directions. I drove blindly along, not taking the exit to Tucson, fortunately. I got off at the exit that said Mesa because I remembered that on the atlas, it was south of Payson. Lo and behold there was a sign with an arrow pointing to Payson and Hwy 87. It was about this time that I noticed the mileage on my 1990 truck flip to 170,000.
    So I stopped at Carl's, Jr. to cool off, make sure I was on the right route, and fill my three ice cups. I ordered a seven-layer burrito -- the cheapest and healthiest thing on the menu -- even though my camper ice box, one-fourth the size of my home refrigerator, was bulging with food. I was SO hot I couldn't stand the thought of fixing lunch inside my sizzling camper. I sat there until I found out I was headed in the right direction and until I felt less than medium-rare. Checking my atlas, I was pleased to see that Hwy 87 from Mesa to Payson was indicated as a "scenic" route, and it was, a steady climb passing through a saguaro forest along the way.
    I had a quarter of a tank then, and I thought I should get at least a couple of gallons of gas ($4.05/gallon) to get me to Payson, about 80 miles away. But I hesitated as the gas prices gradually went up to about $4.19/gallon. Now I was in open country; no more gas stations. I sweated out those last 80 miles, coasting downhill in neutral whenever I could. My heart lifted every time I saw one of those signs by the side of the road with a picture of a truck going downhill and the words "use low gears." I had a couple of good, long runs. Things were getting tense. About 30 miles from Payson, I had 1/8 tank of gas. Would I make it or be forced out on the highway in 110+ degree heat and surely die of heatstroke by the side of the road?
    Each year I write myself a note to leave Quartzsite by May 1, BEFORE the hot weather hits, but I never do. Last year it was June 2 and this year June 14. What I always forget is that when I leave Quartzsite, I have to drive in HOT, HOT weather. One year I drove from Quartzsite clear to Astoria, Oregon before the temperature was less than 100. (Then I drove south down the Oregon coast and froze!) During today's drive, every other thought was about inquiring about getting air conditioning for my truck as soon as I got to Payson. I also thought I'd find a solar place and see if I could run a solar air conditioner in my camper; so I could sleep at night when the temperature hits above 70.
    I made it to Payson and was rewarded by $3.89 gas. I found a shady place to park at the concert. After trying to nap (it was too hot), I got out my chair, made tea, and listened to the band practice. I kept telling myself to change clothes and carry my lawn chair down to the green, grassy park, but I could not make myself move -- even with the large ants strolling up my legs. (They didn't bite.) Finally, when I heard the announcer start the concert, I got myself together and headed toward the bandstand. I sat for two hours and listened to big-band music, even though that's not my style, delighting in the fact that I even got cold.

I learned several things this trip:

1. From Quartzsite, I can get to Payson on one tank of gas (barely).
2. My camper will go more than 230 miles on a full tank of gas.
3. A large cup of ice in Mesa will last all the way to Payson.
4. THAT I NEED TO LEAVE QUARTZSITE BEFORE JUNE!

Story #63.....PERSIMMONS.....Pahrump, Nevada.....12/15/04

    I went through a "chicken" period in Key West, Florida. Now I seem to be doing food -- peanut butter, rutabagas, and now, persimmons...
    Persimmons are very strange fruit -- out of the ordinary -- not like bananas and oranges and apples. I'm sure people avoid them for that reason. I was brave enough to buy one once years ago in an oriental grocery store. It tasted kind of bland and left a pucker in my mouth which was very unpleasant. It's beautiful though: a bright orange-red on the outside, and the pulp inside is a lovely melon color.
    One morning in Tecopa, while walking to the hot springs, I happened on a sale at the community center. One woman was selling home-made raisens for 25 cents a bag -- the most delicious raisens I have ever tasted -- very sweet and kind of crunchy. I bought all she had, as I use them each day in oatmeal. The next day I went back and bought the rest. Another woman was selling huge bags of shelled walnuts for $2.00 a bag, another addition to my daily oatmeal. (I've read that walnuts are the healthiest nuts, followed by almonds. Health experts advise us to each a few nuts each day but only a few because of the fat content.) The first woman also had persimmons -- lots and lots of persimmons. They were packaged five to a bag for $1. What a bargain, and I hardly ever pass up a bargain! Even though I remember not liking them, I went back to have another look. I told her my experience with persimmons, and she said that one has to wait until the persimmons are very soft, squishy, mushy -- similar to an over-ripe plum or tomato. She let me taste one that was just right. It was delicious: sweet with no pucker. She said the riper they are the less pucker. A fellow at the booth said his wife bought 35. She puts them in the freezer, takes them out as she needs them, and puts them on the windowsill. In a couple of days they ripen to the required softness. His favorite recipe is to scoop out the pulp and put it in a blender with two cups of milk. I made a note to try it. The woman who grows them says she just slices one in two, lengthwise through the stem, scoops the pulp out with a spoon, and eats it that way. They are also excellent dried.
    I tried all those things. Delicious! Now I am crazy about persimmons and am sorry that I bought only one bag at five for $1, especially since I saw them in the grocery store for $1 each.

Story #62.....RUTABAGAS.....Pahrump, Nevada.....12/7/04

    You all know what rutabagas are; don't you? Those round, beige tinged with purple balls about the size of those used in croquet and almost as hard. I first tasted rutabagas at Mrs. Wilkes' Boarding House in Savannah, Georgia -- one of about 15 dishes on the community table. They were the consistency of mashed potatoes, golden in color, and slightly sweet, reminding me a little of turnips. I liked them and vowed to cook some in the future.
    About six months later I bought three. About two months later, I cooked them. Two out of the three were still good. I peeled them and cut them into small pieces so they would cook faster. Peeling and cutting them was no easy job; they were as hard as rocks. It took both hands to get the knife through. Last night I ate them -- all of them. They weren't very good --nothing like the ones at Mrs. Wilkes'. I wonder if it had something to do with the fact that I started cooking them in Tecopa and finished cooking them in Pahrump, Nevada three or four days later, still in the same pot. I mashed them with the potato masher; the consistency was nowhere like mashed potatoes. There were large lumps; Mrs. Wilkes' must have used a blender to get them so fluffy. And, they had very little flavor, even though I kept adding butter and cream, which always makes potatoes better.
    I am writing this story now because I doubt that I'll ever cook rutabagas again. And I seriously doubt whether I'll adventure further into the realm of unknown vegetables -- say parsnips.

Story #61.....PEANUT BUTTER.....Port Townsend, Washington.....9/1/04

    One Sunday in August, I decided to park in one of my usual spots facing the water in Port Townsend. It was walking distance to the co-op; I could get my daily walk in and save money on gas. I had time before the Sunday Unitarian Service at 10:00 a.m. to have a rare cup of coffee and hope for a half-price almond or pizza bagel (divine!), regularly $1. No bagel, but I did get a bonanza of marked-down produce, including a tomato that must have been five inches across.
    After leisurely enjoying my coffee and baked good, I walked back to my camper. As I approached it, I saw something sitting on the ground by the front door of my truck. It was a huge jar of JIF peanut butter. "Oh, dear," I giggled to myself. "I must really look homeless." But let me tell you, I am nowhere near homeless enough to eat JIF peanut butter which is sweet and tastes like it might have a lot of hydrogenated fat -- although it was chunky. When I do buy peanut butter, it's always Adam's or any chunky peanut butter that contains only peanuts and salt. But the bottom line is, I don't buy peanut butter. Being a peanut-butter-aholic, I just can't keep it around. I just love it too much.
    I didn't want to carry this huge jar of peanut butter with me in my camper, and as luck would have it, an honest-to-goodness, authentic, homeless man walked by. "Sir," I said, "could you use a jar of peanut butter?" He replied, "Yes, thank you Mam." And that was the end of that. I didn't get the peanut butter, but I did get a good story to tell my friends later that day.

It was developed in 1890 by a St. Louis doctor for his patients with bad teeth.
Peanut butter accounts for over half of U.S. peanut production.
Americans eat almost 7 pounds of peanuts and peanut butter per capita.
People who become hysterical when peanut butter sticks to the roof of their mouth have arachibutyrophobia.
It takes about 550 peanuts to make a 12 ounce jar of creamy peanut butter.
Creamy peanut butter is preferred on the East Coast, Chunky on the West Coast.

Story #58.....TWISTER, THE STUCK-UP DOG.....Quartzsite, Arizona..... 5/11/05 (Revised 2/6/10)

    Twister is about the cutest dog I've ever seen. One of those small, black and white, Boston Terriers with that kind of flat face that causes her to snore -- her only fault. She's smart, quick, full of energy, and VERY loving. I pet sit her whenever I get the chance, and I refuse to charge because being with her is a delight and payment enough. Twister knows me now and is always happy to see me -- exuberant is a better word: jumping up and down, turning in circles, running to and fro until I FINALLY subdue her with my 100% undivided attention in the form of conveying sweet nothings and lots of petting. Would that everyone were that glad to see me! Actually, I think of Twister as my dog; she just lives with the couple down the way.
    One lovely evening in Quartzsite, my friend Barbara joined me for my evening walk. "Have you seen the beautiful cactus gardens behind the homes at the northwest corner of Desert Gardens?" I asked. She hadn't; so we walked that way, about a half mile from my home. The cactus were sooooo beautiful! After oohing and aahing for a few minutes, I said, "Let's go get Kay and Ernie, friends who live nearby." When they appeared at their door, I said, 'You have to come see the cactus; they're spectacular." To my surprise, they didn't know about the two homes with the amazing cactus even though they lived nearby. It took a little convincing, but I finally talked them into it. "Bring Twister along," I said.
    We took the back route along the wash, stepping carefully over rocks and debris and, as usual, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes. Twister was everywhere, enjoying her adventure into unexplored territory. The first yard we came to was obviously loved. Someone had spent hours and hours placing bricks around many of the cactus and building paths throughout. There were numerous bird feeders and pans of water, plus many new cactus starts. (Cactus are one of the easiest plants to start: just remove a leaf, dig a hole, plant it in the ground, and water it until it takes hold.)
   We moved on to the next garden, even more spectacular than the first. Peering over a pile of brush in the back of the yard, my friends were amazed at what they saw: huge cactus, many taller than we were, the varieties too numerous to mention. I don't know the names of many cactus, but I recognized a tall saguaro and an organ pipe. My favorite had large, round, purple leaves with yellow blooms on each leaf. Who knows how many years it took to get cactus that large?
   It was nearly dark as we continued around to the front of the houses, making a circle back to Kay and Ernie's home. As we headed back, we paused to view the cactus in the front of a house. Suddenly Twister started yelping at the top of her lungs. She didn't stop, and my worst fear was that she had been bitten by a rattler. Kay ran over to her and picked her up. That's when we saw the two-inch long, teddy bear cholla cactus stuck to her front leg. What was worse, spines were stuck in her face, mouth, and under her tongue. Apparently Twister had tried to remove the cactus by biting it.
   The teddy bear cholla is so named because of its abundance of thin, white spines give it a fluffy, cuddly appearance. It is a particularly deadly cactus, not because it can kill, but because segments come off the plant so easily. Just brush by it, and it attaches to you with hundreds of spines. Try to remove it, and the spines stick in your fingers. Heavy, leather gloves and pliers are the only way to remove it. Because Twister was in such agony, Barbara folded up her light jacket and tried to remove it, but the spines came right through the material. Ernie decided to go back to their house to get what he needed to remove the needle-sharp spines, while we slowly followed with the ailing dog.
   On their front porch, while Kay struggled to hold Twister, Ernie pulled the cactus away from her leg; then he started pulling the spines out of her leg one by one. Next he started on her face. The area around her mouth was covered with painful spines. Doing her mouth was not easy. Twister was hurting so much, she snapped at Ernie. "Perhaps we should call a vet," I suggested. "I think she needs to be sedated." When we noticed the spines in and underneath her tongue, we all agreed that was the best thing to do.
    It was about 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday night, but I grabbed the phone to give it a try. It couldn't have been a worse time: a weekend, at night, and a Sunday. I reached a recording which gave an emergency number. I called that number and amazingly, a person answered. When I told her the situation, she said she would try to find a vet and call back. There was nothing to do but wait. I asked Kay and Ernie if there was anything else Barbara and I could do. When they said there wasn't, we left, wishing them well.
   The next day I heard from Barbara that Kay and Ernie had driven to Blythe, 20 miles away. The vet sedated Twister, and Kay held her while the vet removed all the spines, including the ones under her tongue. There's no way we could have done that. It cost about $100. A couple of days later, I stopped by, and Twister was her usual active, happy self, and her relationship with Ernie (the one with the pliers) was ALMOST back to normal!

"Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more." ~ Agatha Christie

Story #55.....MRS. WILKES' BOARDING HOUSE.....Savannah, Georgia.....5/11/04

    I stayed in Savannah through the weekend just so I could eat at Mrs. Wilkes' Boarding House, which is only open Monday-Friday from 11:00-2:00. I heard about Mrs. Wilkes' restaurant years ago; it's in every guide book ever written "not to be missed." Mrs. Wilkes' is no longer a boarding house -- just a restaurant now.
    The doors open at 11:00, and I was advised to get there early. I aimed for 10:30, allowing time to get a bit lost after taking the bus downtown. When I arrived at 10:40, there were already ten people waiting. I knew I would get in on the first seating. While waiting, I peered in the window and saw a room of about five tables with table cloths, all with eight or so place settings, each with ice tea -- how southern! (I later learned there was a second dining room.) I read the short article on the door which said that Mrs. Wilkes, in spite of her advancing age, still worked every meal.
    When the door opened, the first ten people were let in, and the others waited outside. I was the first one at the second table. The table was filled with all kinds of dishes. The ones I can remember are: two kinds of potatoes (mashed and au gratin potatoes), gravy, a lima bean and black-eyed pea mixture, greens, okra with tomatoes (which I actually liked), green beans, squash casserole, broccoli with cheese sauce, cabbage, biscuits, and corn muffins. The meat dishes were her famous fried chicken (which I never eat but did today) and melt-in-your-mouth beef chunks (ditto). I skipped the sliced tomatoes, pickled beets, and cucumbers, figuring I could eat those any old time. I really liked the rutabagas, which I had never eaten before. An elderly woman next to me said she cooks rutabagas and potatoes and then mashes them together like mashed potatoes. I can't wait to try that. I told her it reminded me of another potato dish, Colcannon, an Irish or Scottish recipe that adds thinly sliced cooked cabbage to mashed potatoes -- one of my favorites -- cheap and tasty. She knew that recipe too. For dessert there was a choice of old-fashioned banana pudding and blueberry cobbler. Since we were short one person at our table, I had both! That makes about 20 kinds of food, and I'm sure I've forgotten something.
    Eating at Mrs. Wilkes' took me right back to my childhood. I haven't had a meal like that since I was less than ten years old, living in Memphis, Tennessee -- something I haven't thought about for many, many years. My mother had friends who lived in Como, Mississippi, and it was such fun to visit there. They lived in one of those huge, old, southern homes with lots of land. They were cotton farmers. I have fond memories of the meals there. Lunch and dinner were always like Mrs. Wilkes': bowls and bowls of fresh vegetables from the garden -- whatever was in season -- just picked and served piping hot. Butter and milk (still warm from the cow) were available. (My mother would never let me drink the raw milk because she was afraid of the disease you can get from drinking unpasturized milk.)
    Strange how we forget those early experiences until something happens in our lives that takes us right back to that time in the past. There I was, an adult sitting at a cloth-covered table in Mrs. Wilkes' restaurant in Savannah, Georgia, and suddenly I became an eight-year-old girl again. All the memories came rushing back -- not just of the wonderful meals in Como, Mississippi -- but many more childhood memories. Nostalgia creeps in...

Story #54......KEY WEST, UNCHAIN ME NOW.....Key West, Florida.....4/5/04 (Revised 4/28/04)

    Now don't get me wrong. This isn't a bad thing. Actually, the chain I talk about is a golden chain -- each precious link leading to another -- as good or even better than the one before. So that I wonder if I will ever be able to leave Key West. The longer I stay here, the more I find to do. For instance, April 18 is my dear friend Deborah's art opening, and I would so like to be there to celebrate with her and share her joy and excitement. And I just noticed the Bite of Key West is near the end of the month, an event I really enjoyed last time I was here. Just two more of the golden loops that hold me in Key West.
    This past Sunday was particularly awesome. That morning I biked to the croissant place on Duval for my once-a-week indulgence, this time a raspberry-coconut croissant and a forbidden cup of coffee. Since I was on my way to church, it was a good day to be bad. I sat on the bench outside where I could watch the foot traffic. People watching is a favorite pastime in Key West. The people here are so delightfully eccentric. I engaged in a lively conversation with the guy sitting next to me, a chiropractor here on vacation, who shared many of my feelings about alternative medicine.
    I had a few extra minutes so I stopped by a nearby bookstore to browse through the travel books. Walking out of the bookstore, I noticed a small, thick book with the title Instant Karma. Now, I'm VERY interested in Karma, strongly believing in it. (I like this definition of karma: What you put out, you get back.) I opened the book at random, and the sentence at the top of the page said something like: Treat every ordinary experience as extraordinary. I could not believe my eyes. I was blown away because the title of my book is "Wanderings: Living the Ordinary Extraordinarily." Talk about instant karma! This day certainly held a lot of promise.
    I biked on to the Unitarian Church where the program was about labyrinths. I didn't know anything about them, and to tell you the truth, I wasn't too interested. Since labyrinths are an alternative kind of thing, it could be more interesting than a lot of topics, I thought. There was a guest singer that day. When he was introduced, I realized that it was the terrific musician who performed at The Bull last night where I danced and danced and danced. I told the musician, Fremont John, that I'd see him dancing that night and invited several people from the church to join me.
    The talk about labyrinths was wonderful. I didn't realize how powerful and spiritual they are -- a healing presence. The speaker said that there are plans in the works to build a labyrinth at the hospital in the Key West area, a perfect place for a labyrinth. By the end of the talk, I decided I'd like to contribute to the project once it's approved. I asked her to send me a copy of her speech; so I could have more time to assimilate the labyrinth information.
    After church I rode past my artist friend Deborah Molise's house and decided to just knock on her door to say a hello -- a quick five-minute visit. She came to the door with the phone in her hand. When she saw me, she said into the phone, "You won't believe who just knocked on my door." And to me she said, "I'm talking to my friend in Georgia who I just sent a copy of the 'When I am Old, I Will Wear Purple' poem." (She had told me about this friend and how much she loved purple so I gave her a copy of the "purple" poem to send her.) Deborah and I were both amazed at this coincidence. While there (much longer than five minutes), Deborah showed me a new project she was doing with her writing. Her two quotes sitting on the table were:

Believe you were born
to live the life of the
wanderlust fairy.
To solely create and
have endless exciting
journeys.

The Happiness Seeker
A creative individual blessed with the
Courage to follow their dreams.
To be someone they believe in.
To strive for ultimate happiness,
Beyond anyone's opinion.
However long it takes and wherever
their path may lead.

    How I related to those quotes! They seem to be speaking directly to me and the life I'm leading -- another gift of the day. I told Deborah that my whole day had been that way -- filled with serendipity.
    And it doesn't end there. That night I went dancing at The Bull where Fremont John was playing. When I asked him which woman at the church service was his wife, he replied, "The speaker." Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. This fantastic musician was married to the woman who gave the fascinating speech about labyrinths that so inspired me! Will wonders ever cease? (Hopefully not!)
    By this time, I was in utter amazement at all the wondrous things that happened to me that day -- a day that would be hard to beat. It was 4/04/04. Do you think the date had anything to do with it?

P.S. Well, if the day above was "yin," then the next day was "yang" or vice-versa. I woke up in the middle of the night and noticed that my fan had stopped. I spent half the day trying to find a 12-volt fan that I could just plug into my solar outlet. Nothing! Another omen, I thought, that is telling me it's time to leave Key West. There's no way I can stay in my small camper in the heat and humidity without a fan. Next, I discovered that everything on the shelf below the ice box was soaking wet. The tube that takes the water from the melted ice to the outside was clogged up. That means emptying out my frig and running a narrow wire through the tube inside. If that doesn't work, I have to run the wire up from the outside as well until the water comes gushing out. Of course, since everything was out of my frig, I had to clean it. It was one of those days when nothing seemed to go right; the complete opposite of yesterday. The grand finale of the day was taking a shower, and of course, I forgot my underwear.

Story #53.....CHICKEN JOURNAL.....Key West, Florida.....4/8/04

    When I was in Key West two years ago, I went through a chicken period. I wrote four stories about chickens (see my "Stories" link #6, 8, 9 and "People" link #6). I reviewed those stories recently and realized I hadn't done nearly enough chicken-watching this trip. And then magically chickens appeared in my life: As I was waiting at a stop sign, I noticed a chicken family crossing the road -- unusual to see a rooster, mother hen, and several babies all alone, all together. I was reminded what fascinating creatures they are. (It's like watching birds at a bird feeder. Mesmerizing! And kind of a meditative experience.) Right then and there, I determined to do some chicken watching soon, before I leave -- just for the joy it gives me; just for the awe I feel from seeing these magnificent creatures surviving in Key West, against all odds.
    So now I am back to chickens -- lured by a charming mother hen and her 11 chicks at the college here. Here are my notes from my chicken journal:

    11:00 a.m. - Walking across campus for an early lunch, I pass by a sunken area with a low wall and dense tropical foliage, about 15 feet across. And there they were! A mother hen surrounded by 11 lively chicks. It was absolutely delightful, and I was very pleased. Of course, I stopped to count the chicks: 9? no 10, and finally 11 confirmed. It's hard to count rapidly moving objects.
    11:10 a.m. - I bring out Suzanne who works in the campus restaurant and the two young children of the owner. We ooh and aah over the baby chicks who pay no attention to us whatsoever. We all count them and agree on 11. "That makes 13," said the boy, who added the mother hen and another hen on the opposite side. "That's right," I responded, thinking back to the days when I was a teacher, loving to remember that time in my life: seeing children delight in new experiences.
    12:00 noon - After finishing lunch and some paper work at an outdoor table by the restaurant, I wander over to the chickens again. The chicks were all under the mother hen -- but not quite. Even though she had feathers fluffed out to the max and her wings extended umbrella style over the chicks, little chick bodies poked out on all sides. "I love watching them," I thought, "but there's not enough for a story here."
    12:30 - On my way back from my car, I made a fourth swing by the chickens. The chicks were busily searching for food, as was the mother hen. They were on their own. One chick hopped on and off the mother's back, and later on, three chicks hopped up, and lingered a moment before crossing to the other side and jumping off. The mother hen never stopped what she was doing. Later, a chick hopped on the mother's back and was just settling into her soft feathers when the hen started walking again, and the chick fell off. Gradually, the chicks gathered underneath the mother again, who had almost mastered getting all 11 chicks underneath; only one small body was visible. The mother hen closed her eyes, and one wonders if she is having a chicken nap. She probably needs one; it must be hard work looking after 11 babies. (I had my hands full with two!) Ever alert, she opens her eyes, stretches her neck, and peers all around, maybe sensing some unknown danger not apparent to me. Minutes later, everyone is up and busy again, foraging for food -- refreshed, I guess, from their quick nap of less than ten minutes. I haven't figured out what the mother hen does to get the babes to gather underneath her. Is it that she squats low to the ground, fluffs out her feathers, and spreads her wings? Or is it a sound she makes that I don't hear? I have heard her make a low, slow, calm, clucking sound when someone approaches and she wants the babies to follow her away.
    I sit and watch the chickens for a long time -- observing and taking copious notes. (I feel a bit like Jane Goodall and the gorillas!) Eleven chicks, 11 gifts of nature, all uniquely designed in a variety of colors from off-white, to light yellow, to tan, to brown. I am wondering how many will grow up to be hens and how many to be roosters. My favorite is the one that's all white except for two bits of black on its tiny wings. There is another off-white chick with a bit more black on its wings and some added to the top of its head. There is a tan one with a dark brown stripe going from its head to its tail. Of the 11, three are off-white, one is pale yellow, four are tan, two tend toward gray, and one is medium brown. That makes 11; doesn't it?
    1:30 - About an hour later, the chicks have disappeared to take another nap I suppose, and so will I. But first, I walk over to the pottery area to ask the instructor if he has a shallow dish I could use as drinking water and a bath for the chickens. (I remembered from my other chicken stories how baby chicks love water.) He comes out with a beautiful, hand-made, ceramic dish to replace the plastic carton which the restaurant gave me. I check many times during the day to see if the chicks are in the water. Debris in the water is a sign that they've discovered it, but I want to see them there. Finally, the chicks approach the shallow dish. Heads down, they take tiny sips, then raise their heads to swallow -- a slow process. Next, they jump in the water to play. JOY for all concerned, including me! And, it looks like I have a new job: to clean the water bath at least once a day. I am there so often the chickens show no concern when I enter their area.
    4:00 p.m. After my nap, I circle back to the chicken area and sit on the wall. The mother hen is digging energetically with her feet -- a dig with each foot and then a hop backward. Dirt covers the chicks behind her, and they quickly shake it off. I was amazed to see the chicks had already developed this technique: two digs and a hop. So young; so smart. The hole gets deeper and deeper, the edges much higher than the baby chicks in its center. The hen and chicks are quite close to me now, within three feet. I feel pleased that I am ignored, which to me means the mother hen is unconcerned about the chicks' safety and trusts me. Can animals sense love and respect? I think so.

Story #52.....YOU GOT PELICANS; YOU GOT A PELICAN SHOW!.....Key West, Florida.....3/3/04 (Rev. 3/20/04)

    "I could write a story about pelicans," I thought as I found myself on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, mesmerized by these fascinating creatures. They seem prehistoric to me, and I never tire of watching them.
    I love white pelicans, but now brown pelicans have caught my eye, and they are my favorites. The first one I saw this trip was at a little lake on the road just before Flamingo Campground in Everglades National Park. It's beauty took my breath away. This was a mature pelican: long, dark beak; white head and neck; and brown body -- huge, stately, sophisticated even! I think it was the stark contrast of white and brown that made it so startlingly beautiful. I had obviously never seen a mature, brown pelican before. The lake was smooth that day, providing a mirror-like setting for this majestic bird, and the experience was enhanced by silence all around. This pelican was not as active as most. It moved very little, as if it were a pelican toy sitting on a mirror. I gazed in wonder at the blessings of Mother Nature.
    The second pelican I saw was at the marina near the Visitors' Center in Flamingo. Actually, there were several brown pelicans floating, flying, swooping, and diving into the water. Pelicans are normally very active birds, seldom still, and that's what makes them so interesting to watch. You got pelicans; you got a pelican show!
    Higgs Beach in Key West is prime, brown-pelican territory. They are the most prolific birds on the beach next to the gulls and terns. Maybe they just seem prolific because they are so noticeable. Pelicans fly along very close to the water looking for fish. When they spot one, they climb about ten feet into the sky, circle back, and dive head first into the water. It seems they always catch something, although one can't tell right away. It is only when the pelican raises its head out of the water, points its beak twoard the sky, and jiggles its elastic sack of a throat in a swallowing motion that one knows for sure. The pelican (and I) are almost always rewarded.
    White Street Pier is another great spot for pelican watching. I was fascinated one day by the antics of three pelicans that seemed to be working in harmony as a team. Two were sitting close together on the railing when another flew up. I was amazed at how it zoomed toward the other two, wings spread, at break-neck speed, only to land within inches of them. The other two never budged. They knew. Was there some kind of trust here? And were they waiting for their buddy, who was late? Soon, without any observable signal, the three would take to the sky, circle round, and splash beak first into the water close together. Then the pause, followed by the raised heads, the jiggle of the elastic throats, and yes! the gulping down of fish. This act would be repeated over and over again. I wondered how they were able to execute the perfect timing of this exquisite pelican dance. Was there a leader? Who told them how high to fly, who told them when to dive down, and where? I couldn't help but think of The Blue Angel airplane stunt team, and I have affectionately named these three The Brown Angels.
    The other night, I was leaning against the concrete railing at White Street Pier watching a glorious sunset. Suddenly a pelican came flying straight at me. Wings spread, it was at least five feet across. Showing no sign of stopping when it was within two feet of me, I moved back, and it landed right next to where I had been standing. Next time, I won't move because I'm sure the pelican knew exactly what it was doing and had accurately gauged where it wanted to land -- right next to me. It sat there for a while, long enough for two photographers to snap pictures of this gorgeous, mature, brown pelican with the Key West sunset as a background.
    Pelicans are mostly floating on the water or flying in the air above the water, but sometimes they waddle up to the sand. Often their wings are outstretched, and they give them a quick flutter once in a while to facilitate drying. Then the preening begins. The pelicans beak is so long, and it's neck is so flexible that it can reach most anywhere on its body. I saw one turn its head completely around so that it could reach the very tip of its tailfeathers. So much fun to watch!
    Recently, when I looked up into the huge, clear, blue sky, there was nothing as far as the eye could see except for a lone pelican soaring above me. Its wings were outstretched, and it moved with the air currents this way and that. No wing flapping necessary. It seemed to be just leisurely enjoying itself, not needing to go anywhere, relishing the moment -- kind of like me. It made me smile to think that this pelican, all by itself, was having a wonderful time. I could definitely relate.
    One day as I watched a brown pelican, it seemed to have a friend. I think it was a tern that floated right by its side. The pelican would do it's fishing thang. The tern didn't do anything. It didn't even share in the catch. I wondered what the relationship was between the two. After a while, the tern flew off, and I thought it was the end of it, but then it returned to the pelican's side. Who knows?

Postscript: The Story of My Pelican by Albert Schweitzer "is the story of Albert Schweitzer's tame pet pelican, as told by the pelican himself. It tells how as a young bird he was rescued and fed by Albert Schweitzer and Nurse Emma Haussknecht, and how he went on to assume a place of importance at the hospital, guarding Schweitzer's door by night and often accompanying him on walks. The Doctor's Pelican describes his warm friendship with Schweitzer and Mlle Emma, and his generally hostile relations with everyone else, human and pelican alike. Written in a breezy style that appeals to children and adults alike, this short book is charming and instructive. It shows the responsibilities, hard work, and warm rewards of living with reverence for all life. Each page of text has a facing page with a large, black-and-white picture of Monsieur Le Pelican." Here is a bit of the book:

"At night, I love more than anything else to be near where [Albert Schweitzer] is and mount guard over him. After getting my fish from the kitchen, I perch on the door that closes the veranda near his room. Whoever wants to come up on the porch gets warned off by my hissing. If the visitor pays no attention, I hit him hard with my beak from above--European or African, it makes no difference to me. After dinner, when the Doctor is sitting by the light of a lamp at his work table, I fly to the door of the enclosure surrounding our old shelter and perch there facing him. When I hiss or click my beak, he says to me, 'Dear pelican, dear pelican!' Sometimes he stops writing and talks softly to me in the night. Those night hours spent with him are very precious to me. When his light goes out, I sleep until dawn, the hour for fishing."

Story #51.....BEGGIN' FOR ADVENTURE...Homestead, Florida....1/5/04

    I always find money. I take it as a sign of prosperity, and I do feel "rich" in so many ways. I've found a total of at least $89 since I've been traveling -- $59 of it in the last three months, and that's not counting the change I find daily. Mostly I find pennies, then dimes, sometimes quarters, seldom nickels. Of course I realize I am probably one of the few people on earth that still pick up pennies. I like to believe that they really bring good luck. I was enlightened as to the meaning of finding pennies by Roy, the Chicken Lady's Husband (See Story #6 on my "People" link) who lives in Key West, Florida -- a delightfully eccentric person who always makes me smile when I see him. I was interviewing him in the graveyard (his choice). It was a short walk from the Unitarian Fellowship. When we stopped walking to sit on one of the huge grave stones, I noticed two bright, shiny pennies on the ground. I still have those pennies today, two years later. "Ah, good luck," I said, but Roy noticed that the pennies were face down. "Nope," he said, "Begging for adventure." "That fits," I thought.
    Lately I have been finding lots of pennies, and you know what? They're all face down. Since I'll soon be heading down the Keys to Key West, "beggin' for adventure" will become real.

P.S. After writing this, while going out the door of Sedano's, I found a penny. What do you think? Heads or tails?