Adventures at 35 mph!

The old proverb goes, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” That is very true, but there are still a thousand miles to travel. Unless, of course, the trip is longer, which was our case. Actually, in all, our trip was about 7500 miles. Thankfully, only about the first thousand miles of that journey involved continuously brutal travel conditions.

We were moving out of Alaska, and everything we owned was packed into the back of our 1975 Dodge pickup and our boat, which was pulled behind it. I called that truck The Warthog, because it was so rusty, so ugly, and so tough. It was the only appropriate name. For our trip, The Warthog was grossly overloaded.

That first step was March, 3, 1993, at four in the morning. The sky was clear and it was a brisk twenty degrees below zero as we rolled out. It was an emotional event as we intentionally said goodbye to our chosen homeland and began our journey back to the States.

We had not gone far when the trouble began. Actually, we were probably still in the driveway when I noticed it. Frost heaves! Frost heaves were, and continue to be, part of northern living. The roadbed freezes and buckles upwards creating a speed bump effect. It's annoying for sure, but after so many years of driving on roads like that, I had become complacent. What made those frost heaves special was the fact that The Warthog was so loaded down, and there was so much weight on the trailer tongue, that driving over 35 mph was impossible.

We heaved, bounced, bucked, and jostled our way down the highway. It was like crossing a railroad switch yard for over a thousand miles. And that is how we spent the first thirty-odd driving hours of that trip. It did rock the kids to sleep nicely, I'll say that much for it. I had a less relaxing experience.

Our first stop was Beaver Creek, Yukon Territories. We pulled in at about two in the morning. After a few short hours of sleep, we got on the road again. That's where the lodge owner's oversized dog bit me on the shoulder as I was checking the tires in the morning. There were a few tense moments of standoff between me with an ax that magically came into my hands and the dog that evidently had never been threatened with extinction before then. The anti-social dog got a stay of execution due to an owner who hastily locked it up while I was deciding if it was worth the trouble in a foreign country. I had avoided injury due to a thick Carhartt coat. The owner never apologized or even made eye contact with me as we checked out. I was less than impressed.

The next night's stop was Watson Lake, Yukon Territories. I don't remember how late it was when we arrived there. I do recall that the motel was attached to some kind of night club, and seemed to be of questionable character. It was ridiculously noisy. It didn't matter, there were no other options for hundreds of miles, and I was too exhausted to drive any further.

Watson Lake was actually about 1100 miles into our journey, and the road conditions improved after that. Our travel speed average went up to 45 mph. Doesn't sound like much, but it improved morale.

By the third day, we were hopelessly behind schedule with no possibility of making the next planned destination. Fortunately, as we entered British Columbia, there were more frequent towns with amenities. We rescheduled our next stop to be realistic and pressed on. That day we stopped at Liard Hot Springs and took a fifteen minute dip.

All the emotions of leaving my life-long dream of living in Alaska, all the tension of the difficult driving through the icy mountains, all the stress of the horrible roads, all the pain in my lower back, washed away in that 105 degree spring. So did all my ambition and all my ability to stay awake. I felt like a rag doll after that stop. Somehow I managed to drive to our next destination. It has been twenty-two years now, and I still think about that hot spring.

There were yet thousands of miles to travel on that trip. It took a long time. But, in the end, we had a great, wonderful, horrible, delightful, frustrating journey in the books. We had encountered deadly cold, blizzards, treacherous travel conditions, wonders of nature, hostile animals, near brushes with death, mean people, wonderful people, breath-taking scenery, pleasure, pain, unexpected adversity, and unbidden assistance.

In all, it turned out to be a great adventure, and we had not even been looking for one.

Can I Go Out and Be Bad for the Rest of the Day?

I already know the answer to that question.

I got that nugget of insight back in my early twenties. I was at a store called Bi-Mart, in Roseburg, Oregon, making my weekly purchase of wonder glop to keep my jalopy running. As I was perusing the latest offering of miracle cures for worn out cars, a well dressed, middle aged woman approached me.

She seemed all in a dither, and I knew when she called me Sir something was really wrong.

“My husband gave me this list of tune up parts to buy for the car and there are so many options I have no idea where to start and my lunch break is only thirty minutes and could you please help me know which items to get,” was how it all came out.

Ever the teacher, I replied, “Um, sure.” And while inconspicuously glancing around for a hidden camera, I began with her list.

“First you find the make, year, and model of your car in the book. See, here. Then you go to the the air filter column, this is the one.” (Pick from shelf, drop in her cart.) “Then the oil filter column, it's this one.” (Pick from shelf, drop in her cart.) And so on down the list of parts.

I don't think she heard a word I said. Whatever model she was did not seem to feature an OFF switch. All the while I was explaining the parts book, she never stopped gushing about what a great help I was, and how remarkable it was that I had such knowledge of car parts.

I'm not sure if I just looked that stupid and it was a surprise to her that I was helpful, or if she was afraid I would turn into a serial killer without some positive feedback. In all it took less than five minutes. When it was done, she thanked me profusely and left me with, “You've done your good deed, now you can go out and be bad for the rest of the day!”

I was just as stunned as you are.

Since then I have often wondered, was she like that all the time, an over-the-top version of Mr Rogers? Or maybe it really was a hidden camera show and my response was just a dud. What if she had just escaped from an institution and I unwittingly became an accomplice? I may never know. But I do know this, every time I do a good deed, I have permission to go out and be bad for the rest of the day.

Me, a Hopeless Romantic?

It was on a cold February night in the early 1980's that I asked my girlfriend to marry me. We were college students in Iowa and, at that young age, she did not have enough sense to run for it when I popped the question.

When she teared up, I suddenly feared I had asked an absurd question. I knew she was not swayed by the size of the diamond, as it was nearly invisible to the human eye. I double checked to make sure I had not knelt on her toes. Ruling out logical explanations, I did the discreet thing and asked why she was crying. Turns out, it was February 10th and she thought I just could not wait until Valentine's Day. Yes, she mistook me for a hopeless romantic.

There was only one problem, I never gave Valentine's Day any thought. My memories of that day and celebration were less than fabulous. In school, I recall watching the popular guys getting loads of cards and candy from the girls. And the cards I gave out might as well have been labeled: Caution! This card is infested with anthrax, dog slobber, and RV's cooties. Good ol' St. Valentine's Day just did not hold any happy romantic reminiscence for me.

The truth was, the tenth was pay day and I was able to pay off the ring that day. It was not especially romantic, just practical.

So here we are thirty-three years later. You might have guessed she said yes. Poor thing, she's been stuck with Mr. Practical all these years. I hope I did not ruin her life.

As practical as I am, however, we do celebrate a few important dates. We celebrate the day we met. We celebrate the day we almost met. We celebrate the first time she saw me eat a peanut butter sandwich. I guess that was amusing to normal people back then. We celebrate the day we “went steady,” the day I proposed, and the day we got married. We sprinkle in a dozen or so other random important memory milestones and count our marriage years and months as well.

Thinking about it, I wonder how we get any work done with all that celebrating. Maybe being practical is not all that bad after all.

I Would Never do a Movie Review on this Blog

Or so I thought. The purpose of this blog is multifold. First, it is to connect with my readers. Second, it is to entertain my readers. Third, it is to share a little bit about myself, without getting overly intimate, with my readers. And, naturally, there is the profit motive. Yes, I would like to connect with more people who might purchase my books. I could really use the money.

What this blog is not: a social band wagon, a Sunday School lesson, or a media reviewer. It certainly does not want to be a political tool. (I feel like I should wash my hands off with soap after typing that.)

So, what would compel me to do a movie review? Well, in my own defense, I'm not actually going to review the movie. I'm going to share how it affected me.

I normally steer clear of movies based on true events. Mostly because when I sit down to watch a movie, I want to be entertained. True stories tend to be less than totally true to promote someone's agenda. That is annoying to me, not entertaining. I want to be transported away from my real life troubles for a time.

I don't want to be preached at or have my “purpose” defined for me. I have a Bible. I read it daily. I find my purpose and inspiration there. That said, I do enjoy a movie that portrays inspiring people and/or actions. I don't like movies that are poorly written, vulgar, or gratuitous in their gore. I intentionally keep it PG-13 or under.

Which brings up the movie: The Good Lie.

I was prepared to dislike it. The title was a bit of a turn off. It had all the makings of an entertainment fail by my standards. It is based on true events, stars an actress that I'm not overly fond of, is touchy-feely, and it took in a horrifically complex problem in our world in one vast sweep.

Despite all of that, I loved it. I even cried. You've got to be a good writer to elicit tears from me.

They did not tell me to feel sorry for these people, or who to hate, or who to support. They did not implicate anyone with political blame. They did not insult anyone's beliefs. They did not embrace any of the readily available cliché scenarios that could have turned it into a corny sitcom. They did not end it with a dramatic tragedy or with a shallow fairy tale ending. They simply told the story. They wrote it well, acted it well, and edited it well. And I fell for it.

So, if you have a couple of hours to burn and want to be entertained and maybe even inspired a little, check it out. I give it two thumbs up. And I'm still thinking about that chicken.

My Wife is an Undercover Agent!

She seems nice enough at first glance. Most people tend to think of my wife as generous, loving, and kind. That is most likely due to the baby sweaters she knits. For years, just about every newborn we knew received a handcrafted, Smithsonian quality, custom-colored baby sweater from her. Her philosophy on knitting is if it can't be done to perfection … oh, no. There are no excuses. It can be done to perfection.

She is also an editor. My editor, to be precise. It is that penchant for perfection in the minutia that makes her a fantastic grammar editor. Unfortunately for her, I am a grammar slob. I love to tell the story. I love to write the story. I am not in love with all the rules of my native language. Consequently, my wife of these many decades is by default a grammar enforcement officer.

One of the great frustrations for me is that when I ask my wife to do a quick read through to see if I am connecting with the reader, she systematically edits her way through. I begin to wonder if I have completely missed the mark. I question my self worth. I ponder the universe. I rewrite the entire tome in my head. Then she says, “This first sentence has a problem.”

FIRST SENTENCE! I have reread this stupid thing fifty-three times waiting for you to do a quick read through!

Most of us know someone who is on the grammar police force. They catch our chronic misuses of the language and, at times, can be annoying in the process.

My wife is not like that. She's on the Grammar SWAT Team. When she makes a bust on a grammar crime, the door gets kicked in, the place gets teargassed, and everyone in the room ends up face down on the floor with their hands zip-tied behind their backs! Then everything gets searched and cataloged and there is no negotiating.

This makes her sound stern, militant, and somewhat autocratic. That's not really the case at all. I guess I just give her lots of material to work with. So, if you happen to think my wife is sweet and kind and would like to see her alter ego, just hand her something to proofread. But you had better have thick skin or be really in love with red pencil marks.