From: Meridian, Idaho

At one point in my life – admittedly, long, long ago – I considered myself to be quite knowledgeable about most things computer-ish. Oh, not cutting edge…I don’t mean that. Still, back when the “empire” was still but a gleam in Bill Gates’ eye, I was keeping up. Along with several other guys at work, I knew how to communicate with those early computers using DOS; I had a fair grasp of programs and how they were designed to run. Not that I was all that smart about the financial prospects Mr. Gates was thinking about. If I had been that, I wouldn’t have pooh-poohed that first copy of “Windows” a fellow supervisor (at Portland Approach Control) had obtained. I was not alone…there was not a soul working with me who actually bought a few shares of Gates’ new venture: Microsoft.

The thing is, as computers became more magical with each new version of “Windows” and Steve Jobs’ interpretation of the same sort of machine, I kept falling farther and farther behind. So far behind that the state of the art is now such that if add-ons, program updates, plug-ins, and the like do NOT go through an installation procedure automatically, I am utterly without a clue as to how help them. Fact is, one of the first problems I encounter – invariably – is that I don’t even understand the terminology anymore. Which means that even when I obtain good instructions to accomplish a given task, I can’t follow them. ([1] Turn on the framistan; be sure to allow at least 30 seconds for it to warm up. [2] Enter the breezimus code, found on either the left or right side of portal. [3] Download Version 117.a.34u of Installation program. If your computer was constructed in April of the past year, however, use Version 117.a.34x. (Attempting to use the incorrect version of this program will cause the internal Gosforgaatzen to explode, almost certainly destroying the framistan in the process.) You get the idea.

Sooo, for some weeks Janet has been unable to amuse herself by playing games on the website called Pogo.com. Dominoes, Mah Jhong, Euchre, and many, many more…actually, I defy you to come up with a game that can’t be found on Pogo. The site has not worked for her because, as the onscreen message told her, “This game requires Java to be resident on your computer.” Well, obviously, during these several weeks we have both tried over and over again to follow the steps Pogo techs had listed for getting Java to work. (As luck would have it, each of us was even successful. Once. But on both occasions, the fix was temporary…and very short term.)

While Jan was in Michigan a few days last week, one of the things on my “To Do” list was to once and for all get her computer to work on Pogo. I failed. I told her we would need professional help, and that such help (found on a website that appears to be loosely connected with either Pogo or Oracle (primary maker of Java, I think). On this tech support website, I was introduced to pictures of several technicians, each of whom advertised his or her own charge rate for expertise…by the minute. Most were at $1.00 per minute. The lowest I saw was $0.50 per minute; the highest was $1.50. Huh? I can only assume all these young people – Pakistanis? Indians? Bangladeshis? – are private contractors, working for themselves under the “umbrella” of whatever website I was looking at.

So who would choose the low bidder? I would expect the 50 cents an hour guy to be an apprentice of sorts, or perhaps a brand new “expert,” ready to practice with his first client. I didn’t choose him. And I felt similar apprehension about selecting the high bidder.

At the buck-a-minute rate I got Saima, a nice looking young lady. We communicated by typing online, which I’m sure was far better than by voice. It is one thing to understand the English language and type the correct words; it is quite another to speak it in a way that enables a listener to understand it as well.

During the process leading up to “hiring” Saima to fix my problem, I was given an option for two different payment plans. Alas, I was unsure of what either one actually meant. I knew I didn’t want to choose one that would result in charges with no reasonable limit. As in, “Oh, yes, sir, you selected the payment type that allowed me to continue working on this issue until my grandchildren had completed college.” So the option I chose had me select a payment range I would be comfortable with: (1) $5 to $10; (2) $10 to $20; (3) $20 to $50; and so on. And no guarantees that I could tell…for any range.

So I told Saima I would like her to fix my problem for $20 to $50 dollars. “Ah, very well, you agree to pay me (via the credit card info I had already entered) $50 dollars, U.S.” Did she think I was offering a choice between the two amounts? Surely, what the website was saying was that I agreed to pay up to $50, if the technician worked that long on the issue. Yeah, yeah…I know I should have asked for more clarification, all the way through the ordeal.

Saima then told me she would have the problem fixed in…oh…five minutes. This would have been the perfect time for me to jump in and point out that the final charge, based on her posted rate of $1.00 per minute, would be $5.00. But of course I didn’t. There’s no telling how much I would have agreed to at this point…suffice to say, I considered the 50-dollar price tag to be cheap at twice the price!

The small program that allowed us to type back and forth online also gave Saima complete access to my (actually Janet’s) computer, and just as soon as the financial business was taken care of, she began. I could watch what she was doing, but she was going at a speed that gave me no chance to understand it…no chance to learn to be able to do it myself, should it ever become necessary again in the future. She was not able to finish the work in five minutes…it took her 8 or 9. But she did fix the problem! As to what would have happened if she had hit 50 minutes without a resolution, I suppose she would have continued. We had, after all, agreed upon a flat fee of $50.00 to “fix the problem.” Jan is happy. I’m happy. Saima is happy, I assume, since she made about $5.00 per minute instead of $1.00. Now if Pogo will keep its act together for the remainder of my lifetime, we will ALL be happy.

As a society, it appears we have reached the point where computers have become a virtual necessity of life. When they break down, we will pay whatever it costs to get back into cyberspace, whether for repairs or, worst case, a brand new machine. They (computers) have obtained the same status as, say, cars, televisions, and dishwashers: We cannot live without them. Or, at least, we choose not to live without them. The government agrees. They must, since they have determined that all citizens are entitled to a cellular phone, whether or not an individual can afford to buy his/her own. Perhaps Uncle Sam will buy the next computer I need? Or pay the cost of any future repair this one may need?

**********

I’ve doing a bit of work on the boat during the past week. Greasing, changing oil, buying a couple gadgets. So Thursday I thought I’d better check it out at Arrowrock and do some Kokanee fishing. I keep getting new tips, and new fishing tips need to be verified as soon as possible. For example, son Greg advised me to try using salad shrimp as bait. “Best if nuked a few seconds to toughen them up. They’ll stay on the hook better.” It sounded like a heck of a good tip, so I bought a couple dozen of them on Wednesday. Thinking to not nuke them until the day I would use them, I put them in my garage refrigerator. And of course that’s where they still were when, on Thursday morning, I was on the way to Arrowrock with the boat. Ah, well, the route takes me by a different Albertsons grocery, so I was able to stop in a buy a few more shrimp. Greg was correct about the need to “zap” them a little, though…as they come from the store, I can now verify they won’t usually stay on the hook very long.

Besides the new bait, I had developed a theory that Kokanee fishing might be better earlier in the morning. The last time I had been out (Saturday) I got on the water at 10:00 AM and caught my only kokanee twenty minutes later. Ergo, had I been there at, say, 7:00 AM, the “bite” may have roaring hot. That’s the theory, anyhow.So on Thursday I began trolling at 8:10 AM…and got my first bite at 10:20 AM. So much for the “early bird” theory, huh? Which, aside from the disappointment of the moment, actually made me happy. I’ve never been much enthused about really early fishing, and I just proved — again — that one doesn’t normally have to do it.

I nearly always fish two lines. (Yes, Idaho allows it…as long as one pays the extra fee in order to use a second pole.) At one point during the day, I saw a strike on my starboard-side pole. That was the end of it…whatever it had been had not come back to give it a second try. After a couple minutes had passed, I felt it would be wise to check the bait.

It’s kind of a hassle. Checking the bait, that is. You see, when fishing for Kokanee, one has to get the bait positioned fairly deep in the water, and since I wasn’t using a “downrigger” to assist in doing that, I had let out quite a bit of line. Plus, I was using 3 ounces of lead weight.

As I stood patiently cranking the reel handle, facing sort of towards the right-side stern, some movement to the right caught my eye. It was a Kokanee, making a series of jumps…not twenty yards behind the boat. Under my breath I muttered something about what a nervy, smart aleck fish, taunting me so blatantly. In a college football game, he would have drawn a “taunting” penalty for sure!

Then I remembered that I had another line in the water…the one streaming back from the pole on the port side of the boat. I spun around just in time to see the rod tip spring back from its doubled over position…and then remain still. Aaarrrgghh! While I had been reeling in the bait-less line on the right side, the jumping fish had gotten hooked up on the left side! Of course by the time I stopped the trolling motor and had the port side rod in my hand, the wiley Kokanee was long gone. His jumping antics had worked exactly as he had hoped they would, i.e., created enough slack in the line that he could shake the hook loose. Rats!

It was, by then, getting later in the day. Despite my reluctance to leave without anything to show for my efforts (except, that is, three squawfish reeled in, smashed in the head, and tossed to the waiting seagulls), I had had enough. A slight breeze had come up…just enough to make retrieving the boat on to the trailer a small challenge. This time, however, I put on the waders that I’ve carried in the back of the pickup for years, and I was surprised at how much easier the job went.

On the way out from the boat ramp, I stopped at Geezer Beach long enough to catch a couple of Rainbows. The first was a bit over sixteen inches long…a pretty nice fish. The second was shorter by a couple of inches, but I knew that between the two of them there would be plenty for supper. (We didn’t eat them Thursday night; I fried them up last night and am happy to report they turned out very good. We finished off all four fillets.)

We have a great day going on here in the Treasure Valley. Janet is already outside moving dirt and various plants from here to there…and, occasionally, back again. I’d better get this posted and make an appearance out there to supervise.

Bud

 

 

From: Meridian, Idaho

I can tell you now with some certainty that it takes me two full days without fishing to recover from three full days of constant fishing. When Jerry and George left for home Thursday morning I was pretty much done with it forever. We had put in so many hours with such a meager showing (in fish), I was ready to put fishing behind me and take up some pastime that would be more productive…something like bungee-jumping, perhaps. Or devoting the remainder of my life to photographing the world’s insects.

I had no trouble at all staying away from the lakes on Thursday. (Truth is, I slept half the day.) Even Friday found me happy to stay at home and work in the yard most of the day. (I will admit, however, that I caught myself looking in the direction of the lake a couple of times.) Saturday dawned with blue skies and no wind. Worse yet, as I was waiting for Sarah to make my mocha at Lucky Perk, a fellow pulled into the parking lot, towing a boat.

“Where to?” I queried when he entered the shop. “Arrowrock,” he responded jauntily, “…only had time to catch six Kokanee yesterday evening, so we’re going back today to get a limit.”

My ears definitely began to twitch upon hearing this news. We continued chatting a bit, mostly with me asking questions – What are you using? How deep? How fast? Etc., etc. — and he answering. Most interesting to me was the fact that he does not use downriggers, which are devices designed to enable a fisherman to fish depths that he otherwise would be unable to reach while trolling. Most successful Kokanee fishers do, I believe. I have a small one that attaches to my boat with a clamp, but I’ve never gotten into the habit of taking it along with me. It’s actually kind of a hassle. Which means that any tips I can get to catch the wily Kokanee without using it are golden.

And that was that. Before I had even finished my mocha, I had my boat hitched up and headed east to Arrowrock Lake, the current “go to” destination for would-be Kokanee catchers. And this despite the fact it was a Saturday morning – and a beautiful, sunny one at that – which would mean that 93 percent of the boaters and fishermen in Boise would be headed for the same place.

Thankfully, Boise is still a relatively small town. Even if every boater and fisher in the Treasure Valley headed for the same lake on the same day, the crowd would not approach some I’ve seen at opening day boat ramps in the Seattle area. Even so, when I arrived at the point where I could first glimpse the lake, I was stunned at the amount of traffic. The beaches (Geezer Beach, included) were choked with campers, pickups, SUVs, travel trailers and more; the boat ramp was surrounded by dozens of empty trailers, evidence the smarter fishermen had gotten on the water much, much earlier. Ah, well, I knew aforehand it was going to be busy…what could I do at that point but get in line to launch.

Luckily, my boat is of a size (16.5 feet, aluminum hull) that is not all that difficult to either launch or retrieve…I’ve done both singlehandedly many, many times. But the ramp at Arrowrock has no floating docks, which, in itself, makes operations a bit dicier. Then, too, the stress of wanting to be super efficient and done quickly (knowing one has an audience and a number of waiting launchers) can become a factor. But as it happened, there was a fellow, name of Joe, (along with his wife and teenage daughter) waiting for a friend, already on the lake, who was to see them and come to pick them up. He asked if I could give them a ride out to the friend’s boat.

After seeing the amount of gear in his SUV, I explained that I could take the three of them with no additional equipment, or one of them with some equipment, or just one of them, who would, after transferring to the friend’s boat, would alert the friend about the two people and equipment remaining on the beach. Joe agreed that option C was probably the best. While explaining the options to Joe, my turn in line came up, so Joe was in a handy spot to help me launch by holding the bow rope. No problems encountered. After I parked my truck and trailer and returned to the shoreline, Joe informed me that his friend on the water had seen them and was rapidly approaching. So we wished each other luck and went our respective ways. It was then 10:00 AM, straight up.

At 10:20 AM, I had my first strike of the day. It turned out to be an absolute dandy Kokanee, bright as spanking new dime, and 17 and a half inches long! He didn’t put up much resistance at first, but when he neared the boat he commenced a memorable aerial exhibition. I’m not kidding, here…he jumped 6 or 7 times when he got within 20 feet of the boat, and I will swear he came out of the water 4 or 5 feet most of the time. Of course while it’s fun to watch such fishnastics, it is worrisome, as well, because it is not unusual at all to have a fish come “unbuttoned” during a jumping spree.

Besides not having any help with the boat, there is another fairly serious disadvantage to fishing alone…especially when fishing for Kokanee. It can be difficult to get the fish in a position for the net to be used. Why? Because when trolling for Kokanee, one almost always has quite an array of “stuff” between the hook and the swivel on the main fishing line. From the top: A weight (to aid in reaching lower depths in the water); a line rudder (necessary to avoid the spinners twisting the leader into a tight little knot); a string of willow-leaf spinners (to attract the fish); a line snubber (a small bungee, the purpose of which is to reduce the shock to a Kokanee’s notoriously “soft” mouth); a 12 to 18 inch – or longer – leader; and, finally, a lure of some kind, baited with a white maggot or a single kernel of white (shoepeg) corn.

All of that gear takes up space. “So what?” you ask. Well, listen and learn. Unless one remembers to use a super-long pole, one finds himself in the position where it is impossible to reel in enough line to bring the fish to the surface near the boat. That is, the collection of “stuff” below the line swivel (beyond which he cannot reel) is too long. With the pole in one hand and the net in another, the fisher can’t raise the pole high enough that the fish on the hook end becomes reachable with the net.

In this case, my pole was, happily, just long enough. Once the fish got a bit tired, I was able to net him without much difficulty.

“Hoo Boy!” says I (to no one in particular). It is going to be a GREAT day!

And it was that…in every way but Kokanee-catching. Oh, I did manage to catch one additional “keeper” fish…a thirteen-inch Rainbow. A fish that had no business swimming at the depth where Kokanee hang out, and had no business biting at the little red and white “hootchie” lure with a solitary kernel of corn on the hook. Other than the two keepers I left the lake with, I caught six of the infernal squawfish (Northern Pikeminnow) that infest many of our rivers and lakes. I suppose I should keep those, as well, if only to use them as fertilizer. But I don’t…and I rather doubt I’ll ever start.

When I launched, the sun was a pleasant, warming influence…a delight to see, making its leisurely journey across the sky. By the time I had the boat back on its trailer, that same sun had become a surly, sweltering beast, mercilessly baking everything in its path. Any piece of metal on the boat, any piece of fishing gear left exposed, became too hot to touch, even momentarily. Between the sun and the blasted squawfish, I had to cry, “Uncle.” This, despite the notion that crossed my mind to stay into the evening, when, surely, the Kokanee “bite” would improve again.

A small breeze had come up. It was a Godsend while I was still on the lake, but it added another complication to what was already destined to be the most trying part of my boat-operating day. But as luck would have it, a Good Samaritan was standing by to offer help. Of course I nevertheless found it necessary to wade into the water up to my weasel, but I’m not sure what would have happened without his help. You never know…I could still be there, fishing from the bank as I waited for the breeze to subside.

Once I had my prize on the filet board Jerry made for me, I confirmed the rather hurried measurement I had made in the boat: 17.5 inches, sure enough. If I ever learn to fish for these guys well enough to catch six of them on the same day, I will have enough to fill my Little Chief Smoker. As you may recall, I smoke most of the trout I bring home, save a few that Janet and I cook up fresh for supper. Smoked trout is good; smoked salmon is better…waaayyy better, in most everybody’s opinion. Of course I kept the fillets from yesterday’s fish, now frozen. They will be smoked sooner or later. But while I like the result of smoking previously frozen fish, I think smoking fresh-caught fish makes a better end-product.

By the way, I know there are a few people out there who tend to be suspicious about fishermen’s’ claims regarding the size of the fish they catch. I’ve included this last picture just to remove those suspicions. In the picture, you can clearly see the mark at 17.5 inches, proof positive my Kokanee was that long. So there! Now don’t you feel ashamed for ever doubting me?

My honey will be home tomorrow night. Hallelujah! We spoke on the telephone last night, and she said the “Celebration of Life” for Hal was a good one, and she was glad she flew back for it. But she said, also, that she will be glad to get home. She couldn’t be more glad than I will be to have her back here! Happy Mother’s Day, Janet!

Don’t forget to wish your Mothers and Wives a wonderful day!

Bud

 

From: Meridian, Idaho

I can clearly feel a smash-hit country song welling up inside me. This morning my wife left me; my two bestest fishin’ buddies left me; if I had a dog, I think he would have left me, too. I just need to come up with a catchy tune, eh?

The last I saw Janet, she was going through the TSA checkpoint at the airport…and she disappeared into a private room. Why? Anticipating a lot of back pain during the flight (and some building up even before we left for the airport), she had worn a thermal pain relief belt. (Shaq O’Neil hawks them on the television ads.) And above that first “add on,” she wore a high-tech spinal support belt, a leftover from her post back surgery recovery period several years ago. Not only did that one bulk her up even more, it had some small metal parts. “No, no,” the inspectors cried when Jan offered to take the belts off. (I suppose they expected some sort of booby trap. Which of course was silliness…her boobies weren’t involved with the belts at all.) They did, however, do a very careful inspection of each contraption. They also had a machine to a chemical “sweep” of Jan’s hands, and especially the support belt, looking for a “footprint” of explosives.

Ah, well, Jan assured me the TSA people were very nice about the hassle. It certainly would have been more irritating if they had been jerks.

Since we can no longer escort our flying loved ones and friends into the concourses, I left the terminal soon after Jan completed her security check. Getting home at about 5:00 AM, I did the only sensible thing and went back to bed, sleeping until sometime after six. Jerry was in the process of waking up, too, and we both heard the doorbell when George showed up from his accommodations at Shirley’s house. We had some coffee and before I knew it, Jerry and Geo were on the road for home. So I did the only sensible thing again and went back to bed.

I truly look forward to this annual visit by the guys! We fish hard for three days, and I can let you in on a little secret: Fishing for three days in a row is just about enough. It was super fun with great company and wonderful weather (until about 5:00 in the afternoon when the T-storms would start building), but even so, none of us was particularly broken up about the fact we weren’t going out for a fourth day. Even fishing can start to seem like work if one never gets a break from it, y’know. (There’s probably a kernel of basic wisdom in that statement, wouldn’t you say?)

Unfortunately, the fishing over the three days was slow by anybody’s standard. On Monday morning we drove – with my boat following closely behind – to Little Camas Reservoir, remembering how we absolutely sluiced the Rainbows there last year. (It was so good, we went there twice instead of just once.) But as we crested the last hill on the highway and the lake came into view, we quickly realized that the lake hadn’t actually come into view…all we could see was the dry bottom of the entire eastern half of the reservoir. What water remained in the lake – and I’m guessing there was no part that held more than 10 feet of water – was well below the boat launch. Moreover, the beaches surrounding the muddy water were slippery, slimey, 10-inch thick nasty black MUD! Not only could we not safely get the boat in the water, we couldn’t even easily fish from the bank without any real tall rubber boots! But as we looked around the pathetic little lake, we saw that on the opposite side there were a few people bank fishing, so we drove around the dam to join them.

The fishing started like gang-busters (as they say)! Jerry caught the first (within five minutes of casting out) and I caught one of similar size shortly afterward. Next, I caught quite a nice one…estimated length: 17 inches. (No, really!) Hoo Boy! With that fish I was in the money for biggest and, at least for the time being, the most. The fish slipped out of my grasp and flopped its way over the rocks I was standing on…and back into the water. Aaarrrgghhh! Geo and I each caught one small bass during the day, and I managed to land another trout, which put me back in the money for biggest and most…but that was it for the action.

Since we had kind of an early deadline for being home and cleaned up for supper, we gave up even earlier than we probably would have with such slow action. Although it had been a beautiful weather day, the towering cumulus clouds were forming and approaching from the east. Besides, we knew that Jan was making a turkey dinner, and going all out: turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and everything. No one felt bad about leaving Little Camas early, and that’s for sure.

Confirming our suspicions, the Idaho Statesman reported this morning that the snowpack in the mountains around Little Camas was only about 40 percent of normal this winter; worse yet, the spring has been dryer than normal, causing the demands for irrigation water to soar. Today, the state Fish and Game Department declared Little Camas to be open for “salvage fishing,” meaning that instead of being limited to six trout, fishermen could each take 20. In fact, it seems the Game Department knew quite early on in the year what was likely to happen…they had not planted any trout in the reservoir in 2013. Which means that with all the fish being caught and/or dead in the mud a month from now, there will be NO “holdovers” in Little Camas for next spring’s fishing. Blah!

But if there’s one thing that will cure the no-fish-blues, it is a turkey dinner by Jan! Friend Shirley (George’s sister-in-law, who says she doesn’t mind putting him up for a few days) came over to join us, and we had a fine meal.

Tuesday morning dawned just as nicely as Monday had, and we were all bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to excel! Cascade Lake was our destination this time…about the same distance to drive as to Little Camas, although with a little more time enroute, due to some stretches of curving highway. After some morning nourishment at Grandma’s Restaurant in the town of Cascade, followed by a quick check at Fishing Headquarters (also known as Tom’s Tackle Box), we finally got the boat wet at the boat launch just west of town.

It was another gorgeous day! The surface of the lake – also a reservoir, in reality – was like a mirror; not a single cloud interrupted the blue of the sky. We began trolling our way up the east side of the lake within minutes of leaving the dock. Our hearts were young and gay; we fairly bubbled with enthusiasm for what was surely to come, i.e., a day spent hauling in one giant perch after another. None of us wanted to be the first to say, “Enough! My arms can’t take it anymore!” (Yes…we started by trolling, so those of you familiar with fishing for perch will know that we were primarily looking for trout to begin with.) And, sure enough, I had the first strike, and I got it close enough to the boat that we could see it was, indeed, a Rainbow. And quite a nice one, at that. Alas, he came “unbuttoned” before we could get him fitted in a net. But the next strike, which came when a perch, the stupid fish, mistook Jerry’s line for mine, was eventually landed and deposited in the live well. It was a 14-inch (almost) Yellow Perch. A dandy! Had we been able to locate any of its fellows on subsequent passes over the spot, I would have anchored the boat and had the boys fish straight down. Alas, we couldn’t find them. Continuing to troll the remainder of the day, we landed 3 trout in addition to the perch Jerry had begun with. Another very meager showing. And, just as had happened the previous day, storm clouds began marching in from the southeast. We managed to get rained upon just a bit before we had the boat back on the trailer.

Wednesday we had saved for checking out my “home lakes,” Lucky Peak and/or Arrowrock reservoirs. As we pulled away from the house in the morning, I could definitely feel a “dip” in our spirit of “gung ho.” But, fishermen are noted for their temporary lapses of enthusiasm. Once the boat was in the water at Arrowrock, and a breakfast beer had been consumed, a neutral observer would have assumed we had just ended a two-year moratorium of fishing. That is, we were ready to “go get ‘em.” Well, you see, as we had been parked in the parking lot of Albertson’s (where I needed to buy a can of white corn, better known as Kokanee bait), a delivery truck driver had come over to brag about his weekend fishing at Arrowrock. “Three guys…limited in an hour an a half…sixteen to eighteen feet depth…slow troll…knocked ‘em dead…can’t wait to get back up there!” One can’t hear a report like that without getting excited himself!

You can’t imagine how difficult it is, now, to have to tell you that we were nearly skunked! Once again, Jerry got the first fish. It was a &*^#%$ squawfish (Northern Pikeminnow)! I probably don’t even have to tell you that squawfish (and other such junk fish) don’t count in the standard fishermens’ bet. I’ll tell you anyhow: They don’t. Count, that is. But Jerry persevered, and before we knew it, he had landed a beautiful 16-inch, spanking bright Kokanee. (I’ve mentioned it before, I’m sure, but just in case, I’ll tell you again. Kokanee are land-locked Sockeye Salmon. As such, they have a two-year life cycle. And since they cannot make a normal salmon’s migration to the ocean, they cannot find enough to eat to grow to salmon size in two years. In fact, depending upon which “expert” you read, the greatest length any Kokanee is likely to achieve is something between 17 and 19 inches. But despite their comparatively diminutive size, they are salmon. And I mean, tight-bodied, red-meated, furious-fighting salmon! Jerry’s fish was jumping and trying to spit the hook right up until I finally got the net under him. George and I are both still convinced he stayed on only because of a miracle. The all-time champion of anticlimactic endings is this: Jerry caught two more squawfish before we called it a day, and that was all. Geo and I? Both skunked! Badly! (We did each have a few “taps,” but I’ll give you one guess what taps are worth.)

At the launch, while retrieving my boat in what we now recognized as the regular afternoon thunderstorm, we talked to a couple fellows who were finishing at the same time. There were downriggers on the boat. They limited with 11 nice Kokanee and one Rainbow, trolling at a depth of 40 feet. Not only were we not fishing that depth, we weren’t even trying to fish that deep, all because of the report we had been given in Albertson’s parking lot. I’ll tell you the truth…had I not gone back to bed when the boys left this morning, I might actually have pulled the boat back up to Arrowrock again, and tried fishing at a deeper level. (The attraction of good kokanee fishing is that strong! Yes, it is!)

Sooo, that’s the short of it! A great three days of fishing! Oh, sure, we’ve had better catching at times over the years, but catching is not the make-or-break of a good time. The fun is in the getting together, yet again…talking about the old days, talking about the days to come, and simply reaffirming friendships that go back a lifetime. Friendships that stay solid, despite sometimes completely opposite opinions on the political and cultural questions of the day. (As always, we’ll just pick up those political “discussions” again, next time we get together, guys.)

On the second of our three fishing days, a squirrel stopped by “Chateau Larson” during the day. When we returned and had the fish cleaned, George petitioned the court, pleading amnesty for the hapless visitor. A political prisoner, George claimed. The court agreed, and the squirrel launched himself from the cage in a mighty jump to the ground, followed by an even mightier scramble to the top of the cedar fence, and then off to parts unknown.

All the while, the court knew, secretly, that once having found a spot where peanuts are free for the taking (nevermind one has to wait a few hours before being able to leave) a young, red-blooded Red Fox Squirrel will never forget. Janet reported he was back the next day, hanging around the cage I had neglected to reset. And…he was back today.

He – now I can correct the gender misidentification of the previous two days and say, “She” – had been able, even, to enter the cage and grab a peanut without tripping the door. I’m not sure how that could happen, since I actually observed her place her front feet on the tripping plate for a second, but it did. Still…she had become emboldened by her several escapes and the eventual result was, more or less, a foregone conclusion. She now swims with the fishes, over the rainbow. Hoo Boy…talk about a mixed metophor. Time to call it a blather.

I hope it was a good day for you. Have a great weekend!

Bud

PS: Credit – and many thanks – to Jerry for the pictures in today’s blog. I had my own camera along, of course. (Well, except for the first day, when I forgot it at home.) But I simply didn’t do very well about remembering to get it out at the appropriate time. Like, for instance, when Jer had that Kokanee in the boat. It was a beautiful fish, and would have made a beautiful picture.

Bud

From: Meridian, Idaho

FRIDAY:

The morning Janet and I left on our trip to Branson and points east I weighed 259.1 pounds. I knew there was no way I would make any effort to exercise daily while we were gone, and I knew just as positively I was not going to give any thought to what I ate on the trip…calories, fats, and carbohydrates be damned. In other words, I was pretty much reconciled to gaining back the ten pounds (and more?) that I had painstakingly gotten rid of since the first of the year. I was absolutely dreading the “moment of truth” when I stepped on to the bathroom scale Wednesday morning.

Imagine, then, my relief to read the dial indicating I had gained but 1.5 pounds. It was difficult to believe, especially considering that I can gain a pound and a half just by dreaming of pizza.

Better yet, after 3 days, now, of hitting the gym in the mornings I weigh 1 pound less than I did when we hit the road. I’m no cheechako in the weight loss wars…I know too well that when someone weighs as much as I do, a one-pound loss (or gain, for that matter) means almost nothing. Still, when it comes on the heels of nearly a month of ignoring one’s diet and getting almost no exercise, it feels like a triumph of major proportions. So I will continue to feel good about it all day, thank you very much!

SATURDAY:

With the warmer weather and the greening of the trees, Janet has been getting more and more anxious to get our Desert Ash tree (bought last fall) in the ground. After a morning trip to Costco – always a thrill – we decided to take an hour or two and “gitterdone.” I knew, of course, that it meant digging a fairly good-sized hole…the pot the tree has been in for these past several months is nearly as big as a bushel basket. But, I thought to myself, how much trouble could that be. The hole would be in the middle of the back yard, a good 20 – 25 feet from the nearest Chinese Elm along the back property line. Way too long a distance for any of the Elm root systems to be a factor, no? Well, “No” turns out to be the correct answer! There was a nearly solid stratum of root tendrils. Many were quite thin, about the thickness of your earbud cords, I’d guess. But more than a few of them were approaching the diameter of a twenty-five cent piece. And after we worked our way through that layer, we encountered rock-hard clay. It was incredibly tough going. So…my credo has always been: “When the going gets tough, the not-so-tough take more (and longer) breaks.” I’m pretty sure the hole is half completed.

SUNDAY:

We did no more work on “The HOLE,” yesterday. Instead, we went on an outing with nephew Brad. He had noticed in The Idaho Statesman,” last weekend that there was to be an informative talk and walking tour of old Fort Boise on May 4^th, and emailed us to learn if we were interested in going. Of course we were, so the plan was made.

We arrived at the address the newspaper had given, and with time to spare. Unfortunately, we soon discovered that said address was incorrect…the talk was to be given in a different building, and it turned out that place was nearly impossible to get to from where we – and a couple of dozen other folks – were at.

Nevertheless, we were all still anxious for the talk, so some of the party walked to the new place; others of us drove. I had not been paying attention to the directions that were given us by the young lady who had been surprised by the onslaught of unexpected visitors, so I followed a fellow in a pickup who looked like he had been listening. It turned out he hadn’t been…at least not that closely. But after a couple of wrong turns and stopping to ask directions of pedestrians, he found the place…and we were right behind him.

The talk and slide show were quite interesting. For one thing, the speaker cleared up my own confusion for these past almost 18 years when he explained that, “Yes, there was another Fort Boise to the west of the city, closer to the Snake River. In fact, there had been two in that area…both operated by the Hudson Bay Company; not the U.S. government.” (Similar to Fort Vancouver in that regard.)

The U.S. Fort Boise was opened in June, 1863, after being under construction for approximately a year and a half. The city of Boise was established just days following, and as a result, both the Fort (now a Veterans Administration Medical Center) and the City are celebrating their sesquicentennials this year. The primary purpose of the army personnel stationed at the fort was to protect the wagon trains that were still using the Oregon Trail every year. Generally, though, the Indian wars wound down in the mid 1870s (Custer’s defeat in South Dakota came in 1876) and Fort Boise was probably pretty quiet duty during the remainder of its existence. The army gave it up in 1912, when the Department of Veterans Affairs (or whatever it was called back then) took it over.

It seems typical of these old western army posts – the few I’ve seen, at any rate – that the officers were provided some pretty nice quarters. Fort Vancouver, for example, had a very nice “officers’ row,” highlighted by General U.S. Grant’s house. Fort Boise, too, had a very nice commander’s residence, built with sandstone blocks quarried no more distant from the site than a mile and a half. A second building on this “officers’ row” was a very large brick duplex, where two lieutenants (and their families) lived. Pretty fancy digs for lieutenants, it seemed to me. But perhaps it was the army’s way of compensating for the hardships inherent in such remote and isolated duty.

After the tour, and before returning home, we stopped at the Table Rock Brew Pub for lunch. When I first came to Boise in 1995, my temporary housing was located not too far distant from the Table Rock facility, and I ate there several times during my forced bachelorhood. I suppose it had been at least 10 years since either Janet or I had been there, but I’m happy to report that they still serve good stuff, both food and beer.

It has been quite a full day for me. I skipped the morning visit to the gym so that I could work with the boat for a time. I wanted to make sure the engine would run, mainly. (You’ll recall that I had charged up both batteries last week.) Obviously, in order to run the engine, I had to be able to wheel the thing out of the garage…and to do that, I had to move all kinds of miscellaneous stuff. Move it from inside the boat and from underneath the boat. I’ll be leaving my pickup parked outside on the driveway while George and Jerry are here, which will enable me to get the boat out and in easily each day we use it.

Much of the remainder of the day was devoted to “the hole.” I’ve very happy to say that we completed it and had the Desert Ash planted by noon or shortly thereafter. Then we spent another couple of hours removing the winter covers from the patio furniture and sweeping up a couple of bales of leaves windblown into the corners. If my fishing partners arrive before the sun sets (as I expect they will) the patio is now respectable enough that we can sit out there with a cold one (or two) and do some planning.

I also managed to squeeze in a quickie trip for some errands. I bought myself a pair of black suspenders! Janet is aghast and appalled. I must agree that the “look” I now have is not what you would call stylish. But…my jeans are too small to wear around my stomach, and too large to stay in place on my hips. As I said, suspenders (plus a belt) are NOT stylish, but I prefer them to the alternative, which would mean buying jeans two or three sizes bigger in order to wear them above my pot belly. So, I guess I can mark this day – May 5, 2013 – as the day I became OLD, eh? And NO, I’m not including a picture of me modeling my new sartorial accessory.

Fishing starts tomorrow. Hoo Ha! I hope your day will be just as good as mine!

Bud

From: Meridian, Idaho

Before leaving Michigan last Saturday, and leaving after mid-day at that, I had roughly figured we would get home this evening…Wednesday. I knew we would be doing some more cemetery visits in Iowa, and I knew, too, that we are more comfortable driving not much more than 400 miles per day.

Nevertheless, we got a nice “jump” by getting through Chicago on that first day, staying overnight in western Illinois, rather than someplace in Indiana or even Ohio. Sunday was devoted primarily to grave prowling, beginning with a cemetery just north of Waterloo, Iowa.

To get there from Interstate 80, we left I-80 and drove north on I-380, through Cedar Rapids, Iowa. A brown sign along the highway proclaimed our proximity to the Czech Museum and Village, so we left the isolation of the Interstate and drove through a couple miles of older residential neighborhoods. (Another brown sign told us the area was also home to the African American Museum, but we skipped that one.) The Czech “village” was about a block long, with stores on both sides of the street. We were a bit disappointed in it, and with the museum, as well, since the latter wasn’t even open on Sundays. Still, we visited a couple of the antique stores that were open, and found a bakery/pastry store with several customers. The young ladies working in the shop were friendly and the pastry was definitely plentiful. We had not yet eaten lunch, so it was, perhaps, a poor time to think about pastry. But then we both realized that there is no law prohibiting pastry for lunch…at least not yet. Janet had a sweet bun with poppy-seed filling. Regarding the more than generous amount of poppy-seed, one of the girls explained that “once upon a time,” the store served those buns with a “normal” amount of the filling, but customers were prone to complaining that their individual grandmothers always put in more of it. The owner gradually added more filling over the months (years?) but the number of complaints did not seem to decrease accordingly. Finally, in a combination of desperation and humor, he/she made up a batch of the sweet buns with a huge dollop of poppy-seed on each…easily ten times more than the norm. The idea being that even the old folks and the traditionalists would have to cry “uncle.” “No, no, no…that is too much poppy-seed to use on these small buns!” Of course you can guess what happened: Not one complained about the over-abundance of the sweet, black filling; in fact, more than a few congratulated the owner on finally getting the recipe correctly. The buns sold out in a heartbeat…and the same recipe has been used ever since.

Janet also had a kolache, which can take many forms, but in this instance resembled a small-ish Danish, with cream cheese filling. She reported it was not as good as the poppy-seed bun. I chose an apple strudel. It might have been better if it had been straight from the oven and still warm, but it was delicious even directly from the display case.

Since we had decided before leaving home to not sign up for cellular Internet capability on either Jan’s iPad or my Mac Book, none of the handy-dandy map sites or Google Earth were available to us. (Yes, yes, we could have found “hot spots,” but we chose not to do that except when one happened to be included at a Rest Area.) Thus, with the Waterloo/Cedar Falls urban area being somewhat more than a one-horse wide spot, we had some difficulty in just finding the cemetery we were looking for: The

Garden of Memories. When we finally did, we were dismayed to see how large it was…a great many acres. When we spotted the few headstones waaayyy at the far end of the area we could see from the gate, our outlook brightened because we thought most of what we could see was a lawn empty of graves. Then as we entered the place we realized that virtually ALL of the markers were plaques on the ground, rather than headstones. Our consternation stemmed from the fact that while we knew the names we were looking for, we had no idea at all where “our people” could be found in the cemetery.

When I called a number we found posted on the Office door (closed on Sunday), I was told that someone would come out to assist us, even on a Sunday…IF an appointment were made ahead of time. The fact we didn’t know about that policy, nor the fact we lived 1,500 miles distant, made no difference. Blast!

I’m proud to say that we gave it the old college try, even so. Truth is, we both imagined what a great story it would make if we just picked a spot to walk out amongst the thousands of plaques and randomly stopped directly on the very marker we were seeking. And it would have, for sure. Make a good story, I mean. It didn’t happen, though. After an hour or so, we finally had to admit it was time to give it up.

Our next stop was the Buckingham Cemetery, near Traer, Iowa. (Say, fifty miles from Waterloo.) It was a picturesque spot on a gently sloping hill northwest of town. More importantly, since there was no office or telephone number or full-time caretaker, it was a small cemetery…I’m guessing no more than 500 graves. Maybe even as few as 300. And, best of all (from a searcher’s viewpoint), mostly headstones. We found the stone we were looking for in 15 minutes.

Our last stop was near an even smaller town, called Beaman. Beaman’s Oakland Cemetery was even smaller than Buckingham, but it did us no good…we were never able to find the name we wanted. As it happened, Beaman boasted another cemetery nearby. It, too, was quite small so we stopped to search it, as well, but, unfortunately, with the same result.

We didn’t return to I-80 that day, electing to head west on U.S. Highway 30. We stayed overnight in Ames, Iowa, which we both knew (from decades of working crossword puzzles) as the home of Iowa State University.

Monday brought us into Nebraska and back to the Interstate, where we remained, albeit with some number changes, until reaching home. Once again, we drove much longer into the evening than I had thought we would. We drove all the way across Nebraska and into Wyoming, past Cheyenne, over the “Highest Spot on Interstate 80” (at 8,640 ft. elevation) and into Laramie for the night. I’m pretty sure we would not have driven so far, had it not been for the thought that if we did, we could almost certainly make it home the next day (Tuesday). And, as I told you at the beginning, that’s exactly what we did.

It was a great trip! Branson was fun, as we had expected it would be. It was good to see Janet’s brother and sisters. And working as grave-search monkeys for my sister, Nancy, was fun, too, despite the disappointment when we couldn’t find a name on the list she sent us.

The weather on the return trip through Wyoming wasn’t as bad as it had been three weeks prior…but nearly so. Cold, gray skies and – surprise, surprise – the ever-present wind. And again we were surprised to see so few antelope in Wyoming. Most times they are thick as fleas on a junkyard dog, but not so on these last two transits. We didn’t see more than a couple dozen going either direction. Strange.

In many respects, the best part of any trip is the part when we first catch sight of our home and driveway after being gone so long. Yay! It didn’t burn down! Yay! The yard looks nice and green! Yay! The windows and doors are still locked! Yay! All our stuff is present and accounted for! We hit our own bed last night, filled with pleasant memories from the road, and very thankful to be in our most favorite place of all. (“Oooh, Toto.”)

As it happens, Janet has only a week here at home before hitting the road (figuratively) again next week. She will be flying back to Michigan to attend a “Celebration of Life” clan gathering for her brother-in-law, Hal C., who passed away on March 22^nd last. She’ll leave on Thursday and return on Monday. I don’t know what I’ll do while she’s gone. Well…maybe go fishing?

I hope you are smack in the middle of a terrific day!

Bud

From: Ottowa, Illinois

It’s time to move again. We’ve been staying with sister Barb since Monday afternoon, and later today we’re going to set up housekeeping with sister Ellie for a couple of days. We haven’t yet seen her and are looking forward to it. The four siblings – Ellie, Barb, Janet, and Steve – and I are meeting for lunch today in the small town of Chelsea, MI, after which we out-of-staters will go home with Ellie. I was hoping to locate a Walgreens store in Chelsea so I could pick up a prescription refill after lunch, but wouldn’t you know…it seems Chelsea is the only town in America where Walgreens doesn’t have at least one store. Ah, well, I have four or five of those pills left…that will get me part of the way back to Idaho.

Yesterday, Barb, Janet and I went to see the movie, “42,” the story of Jackie Robinson breaking in to major league baseball. I’m sure you’ve seen it advertised. Harrison Ford played Branch Rickey, the Brooklyn Dodgers owner who broke the color barrier “code” by hiring the black Robinson. We three strongly agreed that it was a very good flick!

The day before (Tuesday), we visited Barb’s granddaughter Amy’s house (and her husband Charlie). Of course it was fun to see Amy and Charlie, last seen when Jan and I came back to Michigan for their wedding, but the highlight of the ladies’ afternoon was getting to meet the young couple’s two kids, Logan and Brooklyn. (Correction: It was not Barb’s first meeting with the kids; they are, after all, her great grandchildren.) Logan is a rambunctious two years old, while Brooklyn is still a baby. The generations keep coming along, don’t they. Who knows what wonders Logan and Brooklyn will grow accustomed to over their lifetimes, their years stretching out to the future and seeming endless. For the record, the years ahead of me no longer appear to be endless, but I’ve managed to come to grips with that fact.

I had intended to include in the last Blather a picture taken on Monday morning, after we had spent the night in southern Illinois. The previous day, Jan and I both remembered seeing a sign posted at the beginning of a highway construction zone, commemorating the deaths (or was it injuries?) of 8 construction workers. Over what time period, I don’t know. A year? So far this year? Over the past ten years? Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know. Anyhow, the picture was representing, we assume, those eight workers. The poles were planted in the median of the Interstate, one set at either end of the construction zone. Obviously, I get the idea. Slow down! Be careful! Don’t make us have to keep adding more poles, vests and helmets! And I can appreciate the importance of the warnings. Even so, this group of ghostly workers seems a bit macabre, don’t you think?

Yesterday morning dawned cold (about 33 degrees), drizzly, and subsequently snowy. It didn’t “stick,” although during some short periods it came down pretty thick. The sky is brighter this morning, but it’s still dang chilly. The car windows were frosted over quite hard, and once I got behind the wheel the thermometer informed me that it was 33 degrees again. Sheesh! We’re nearly half-way through springtime, according to the calendar! Ah, well…it’s going to start warming up sometime.

Why am I getting up and around so early then, you might ask. Well, sister Barb does not use computers and thus sees no purpose in having a connection to the Internet. While I am too cheap to pay for modem access that I would use only two or three times a year. So if I want to connect, I have to find a “hotspot.” Luckily, espresso coffee shops usually have wireless for their customers, so I can accomplish two things with the same “stone.” I get my morning mocha fix and my Internet connection at the same place. In this case, that coffeeshop is about 9 miles away in the little burg of Napoleon. Since my hometown Lucky Perk coffeeshop opens at 6:00 AM, I thought perhaps that the “Coffee House” in Napoleon kept the same hours. Arriving this morning at about 6:40 AM, I learned it doesn’t open until 7:00, but the owner, Connie O., saw me at the door, recognized me from the day before, and let me in, anyway. A nice lady. Good coffee, too.

I should explain that there is no real good reason that I like to check my email and such every day. I don’t need to do it, as was the case when I was running my online advertising business. It is more a habit than a necessity. Moreover, the manager of the Community Center in Barb’s neighborhood has even provided me a key to the building. Which means I can walk a hundred yards down the street and get my Internet “fix” anytime I want. So there is truly no need to drive nearly twenty miles (round trip) to the coffee shop and back. Except for the fact the Community Center has no mochas waiting for me. Like I said…strong habits.

I believe Ellie does have wireless Internet in her home. At least that’s how I remember it. But in case she doesn’t, I also remember a coffee shop a few miles up the road from her house. One of her grandsons, Scott (I believe) used to work there, but I’m not aware if he still does.

NEXT DAY — Friday

Want another weather report? Thirty degrees this morning! Hoo Ha! Otherwise, it looks like a clear and sunny day on the way.

Janet and I have “moved in” with sister Ellie. After a nice sibling lunch (plus one…me) at a favorite Chinese restaurant in Chelsea, the five of us went back to Barb’s house and whiled the afternoon away with shared memories. Before dark, Jan rode with Ellie to her house as I followed in our Honda…about 40 miles through the Michigan countryside. There was a stretch of 10 miles or so – maybe more – where we did NOT drive through a small town or village. That may well be a record in this part of the country. One of the most striking differences between here and our part of Idaho is the shorter distances between towns here in Michigan, as compared to the distances between towns in the high desert. Of course that is far from a hard and fast rule: Meridian, for example, is only 6 or 7 miles from Boise; Nampa is only 10 miles from Meridian; and so on. But going the other way it’s 40 miles plus from Boise to Mountain Home, the next town down the Interstate. And Jan and I routinely drive through southeast Oregon and Nevada, where it is not that uncommon to find up to 100 miles between towns. I’m guessing pizza delivery is not a regular service in those parts, eh?

Jan and I will be visiting a couple of Michigan villages on our way out of the state. My little Sis, Nancy, is “big time” into family genealogy, including the website, “Find A Grave,” and has asked us to get some pictures of headstones of that may be on our route. Two of the cemeteries on her list are in counties just north of the Ohio/Michigan line and shouldn’t be hard to find. Another one is somewhere in Toledo, OH. There are even a couple in Iowa that showed up on Nancy’s list.

We have learned, however, that even if one knows the cemetery where a relative is buried, unless one also knows the location of the grave, or the cemetery has a map available, it can be difficult to find a specific stone. We had that experience in Meridian recently when Jan had volunteered to take a picture that a visitor on Find A Grave had requested. We never did find the stone. But of course we’ll do what we can on Nancy’s list.

NEXT DAY — Saturday

I just returned from my morning mocha trip, having discovered that the coffee shop I visited yesterday never opens any earlier than 7:00 AM. (Yesterday I waited in the parking lot for ten minutes.) Today I was much smarter, timing my arrival for 7:01. Today I learned that the weekday opening time – already much too late in the day in my opinion – changed to 8:00 AM. I did not wait this time.

The community center/sales office for Ellie’s housing area has wireless Internet capability. Well…normally it does. It was on the fritz yesterday when I checked, and, like the coffee shop down the road, it is still closed at this time of the morning. It is obviously not in the cards for me to get online today. Maybe this evening at the motel?

Turning to a more pleasant subject, I can tell you about our cemetery explorations yesterday. We got a fairly early start in the day…it was before noon, for sure. Just minutes after we drove to the Marble Gardens Cemetery in Milan I had already taken several photos of family headstones. But we couldn’t find the stone of a couple sister Nancy had specifically requested. Marble Gardens is not a huge cemetery, but you might be surprised at how much times can be consumed if one has to search the entire thing. Finally, Janet found a sign with a phone number on it. Naturally, we called. The fellow who answered said we should come on in to the office. “You’re open?” I asked. (Somehow we had been given to understand that it was not.) “Sure,” he responded. As soon as we asked who we were looking for he was able to steer us right to the proper spot within the “park.”

From Milan we drove southward to an even smaller town called Petersburg. After checking with the patrons of “Papa’s Café” we were directed to the Saint Alphonsus Cemetery, about 3 miles out of town. It was a much smaller cemetery and Ellie was able to direct me to the proper “neighborhood” of stones right away. Soon we were on our way to our third destination, the cemetery near Montgomery, Michigan.

We could see Montgomery on our Michigan map, but I had folded the dang thing so that the map scale was not readily visible. Which means that the place appeared to be closer than it really was. Well, in fact, it appeared to be only three inches from Petersburg. Truth is, the distance was more like 70 miles! And I’m talking 70 miles on gray roads! We went through towns Ellie had never heard of, through country she had never seen. (Keep in mind she has lived in southern Michigan all her life!)

Janet did a great job of navigating from the back seat, but as we reached the village of Frontier (which appeared to be the nearest neighbor town to Montgomery) I spotted a Post Office. Tah Dah! Who better to ask for directions than the postman, huh?

The young man behind the desk was not the postman; he was a temporary fill-in for Ed. He confessed he had no idea where the California Corners cemetery was located…but he did opine that it could be as far as 60 or 70 miles away. “Best you ask Donna down the street,” he suggested. “Her’s is the white house with the four posts holding up the roof of her front porch. If her silver car is there, just knock on her door. If her car ain’t there, you could check with Tom at the Quickie Mart on t’other side of the road.”

Donna’s car was absent, sure enough, so we headed on over to Tom’s Quickie Mart. It wasn’t all that easy to spot, since the actual “mart” was located in a workshed of some sort behind Tom’s house. Tom was sitting outside the door of the little store, whittling and smoking. Kind of a slow day, obviously. There were signs on the dilapidated walls advertising a wide range of products within, including grilled hamburgers and other sandwiches. For some reason, although having previously confessed to being a bit hungry, the ladies firmly stated they wanted nothing to eat that had to be cooked and/or created from “raw material” on the premises…a bag of chips – a sealed bag of chips – would do just fine. Tom was a nice fellow, and pleased to be able to help us find the cemetery. He knew right where it was: Past Montgomery (which was ten miles west of his store) and then 6 or 7 miles northwest. So even if he probably couldn’t spell “Health Inspector,” he drew a map on a post-it note for me.

On the other side of Montgomery, excited because we were then so close to our destination, we began seeing Amish people, driving their horse and buggy on the roads. Mostly men, on their way to somewhere. But also, occasionally, a wife and children along for the ride. I gave each one the “farmers’ wave” – a short raising of the fingers of one hand from the steering wheel – and they all returned it. Several used a version of the motorcycle riders’ wave, i.e., a downward movement of the left arm. They did not, however, extend the two fingers that the bikers do. I used the term, Amish, above, but they may have been Mennonites, I suppose.

I thought about stopping to take pictures of a buggy or two, but in the end I decided against it. We were definitely NOT in a tourist area. (Our Idaho license plate was probably as foreign to them as their old fashioned transportation was to us.)

The cemetery was the smallest we had visited, but not that much smaller than Saint Alphonsus. It was next door to a church, and thinking we might find some help there, I tried the door. Locked up. We were on our own. Thankfully, the “park” was as small as it was…we were able to locate a couple of the stones on Nancy’s list fairly quickly. Still, we finally had to give up on one that we couldn’t find, even after two “passes” walking front to back through the entire grounds. Blast! It was especially hard to give up, knowing that the odds of us ever being at that cemetery again in our lifetimes are truly next to nil!

But it was, by then, rather late in the day, and we knew we had a lot of miles to travel back. Again, Jan rose to the occasion and soon had us on a relatively straight and smooth highway. We were still 70 miles from Ellie’s place, but without the jigging and jogging of the dreaded “gray roads,” I knew we would be home soon enough.

We did make one last side trip as we neared Milan…we elected to drive past the ladies’ childhood home in the village of Cone, Michigan. It was not an easy decision for them because they had heard the old house had become a terrible eyesore…a broken down hulk that would be blown down in the next strong wind. Neither wanted to see it in that kind of condition.

Instead, we found that someone was obviously making an effort to make the house livable again. New construction was evident, although there was no one there at the time. We were all glad we had made the detour.

The last thing I had figured when we had left Ellie’s place in the morning was that I would need to fill up with gas, but with all our wandering, I stopped in Milan for that very purpose. I suppose we had covered a couple of hundred miles during the day. Oh, the car probably would have made it, but why take the chance. The gas station was right there, and the price was 20 cents a gallon cheaper than when I had last filled up near Barb’s house.

We going to stop for a quickie visit at Tammy’s (Ellie’s daughter/Janet’s niece) house on the way to the highway south, and then we’ll be officially on our way home. That has a nice ring to it.

I hope your day has gone well, and that tomorrow might be even better.

Bud

 

From: Branson, Missouri

Packing to leave our WorldMark digs in Branson didn’t take quite as long as I had anticipated it would. In fact, I’ve always considered packing for the “leaving home” part of any trip to be the more difficult part. That’s because during that phase, one is still deciding – often on the fly – what items go along and which ones stay. When packing for the return trip – or simply another leg from Destination “A” to Destination “B” – there is very little thinking involved, since it is a case of “everything goes.” Granted, there may be a lot more of everything, depending on how much shopping has taken place at Destination “A,” but even so, the “everything goes” guideline eliminates the stress of decision-making. The challenge of making sure nothing gets left behind can generate a bit of stress on its own, I suppose, but that has never worried me as much as the task of selecting from a entire house full of stuff: (1) the things that must go along; (2) the things that would be nice to have along; and (3) the things that should stay at home.

We dropped off the keys at the WorldMark office before 9:00 AM, and within just a few minutes more we were northbound on U.S. 65.

Since crossing the Kansas/Missouri state line eastbound 8 days earlier, we have seen many billboards and other ads for various cave exploration trips. Evidently, Missouri is noted for the sheer numbers of underground caverns found within its borders. In fact there was one at the Silver Dollar City attraction we had visited on Wednesday. (We hadn’t had time to do the trip in that one.) One we had seen advertised quite heavily is Fantastic Caverns, located near Springfield, MO. Our route of travel took us through Springfield, so we decided to check it out, despite discovering the cave site was a few miles out of our way.

My recently discovered navigation shortcomings added more time to the side trip than did those “few miles,” however. (I truly hope whatever damage my “inner compass” sustained on this trip will heal soon!) Still, we managed to find the cavern, tucked away in the mixture of small farms and patches of forest. Along the country roads between the Interstate and the cavern we saw several wild turkeys and a couple of white tail doe. I don’t know if turkeys have always been plentiful in this area of the country. Perhaps that’s the case, or perhaps Missouri has benefitted along with others from what has been a nationwide effort to re-introduce them over the last several decades. Whatever the reason, they appear to be quite plentiful.

The cavern building (including a gift shop, of course) was open. (There had been a question in our minds about that, being Sunday morning and all.) And we were told the wait for the next scheduled tour was only 15 minutes. Have I mentioned this was to be a riding tour? Yes, indeed. Not in our own car, mind you. We were in a group of 18 people, seated in a long and narrow trailer, being pulled by a Jeep. A cool way to go “spelunking,” if you ask me.

I was surprised to learn the Fantastic Cavern enterprise is not a government-owned park, but privately owned and operated since its discovery back in 1862. The owner then kept its existence secret during the years of the Civil War and beyond, announcing the discovery in 1867. He actually advertised in the local newspaper for individuals who were interested in exploring his “hole in the ground.” (I’m sure I would have done the same thing. If I found a deep, dark, dank hole in the ground, I can tell with certainty that my first inclination would NOT be to climb into it!) A group of 12 ladies happened to be first through the tight entrance. Some of them did have husbands who had come along on the outing, but the men were evidently not as anxious to get started as were the ladies. They all “signed in” on the wall of the first large “room” they encountered. Our tour guide, Jo-etta, seemed especially tickled when telling the story about the twelve women being the first to explore the cave.

We learned that the constant, year-round temperature within the cave is 60 degrees (F.). Doesn’t that seem warm to you? It does to me. Jan and I have visited a few caves – Janet more than me – and our experience has been that caves are cold places. Sometimes very cold, as indicated by the ice formations and pools we recall from the last cavern we visited…wherever that was. Of course we asked Jo-etta about it, but her answer sounded hazy, at best. I think it was a question she needs to research a bit more.

The bats that frequent this particular hidey-hole are very small…much smaller than any I have ever seen, for sure. And on our trip through the place we only saw one. Jo-etta said the “lonesome George (or Georgina)” she pointed out had been clinging to the same spot on the ceiling for more than two days. She assured us the little creature was still alive because “if they die, they drop to the floor.” And I suppose it’s possible the bat leaves the cave at night to feed, although I’m dubious that after any such excursion to the outside world it would find its way back to exactly the same spot on the ceiling. Another guide, back in the main building, told us that this breed of bat had never exhibited the kind of close crowding I think of when picturing a bat colony. He said these mini-bats rarely “hang out” closer than 2 or 3 feet from each other.

It was a fun and interesting side trip. If you ever find yourself in the area, I would certainly recommend a visit.

My Facebook friends already know about my “lost cell phone adventure,” but I’ll fill in the rest of you here. An hour up the road from the Fantastic Cavern, we pulled into the parking lot of the World’s Largest Gift Store, which also served as the parking lot for the World’s Largest Candy Store. (Mandatory stops for any serious tourist!) As I prepared to get out of the car, I intended to grab my cell phone and put it in my pocket. But it was not there. On the console between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. That uneasy feeling – the one that begins the moment when we first entertain the possibility that something near and dear has been lost – slowly filled my thoughts. “It’s got to be in the car someplace,” I told Jan, trying to keep a positive tone, even after we made the first “look through.” After the second frantic search of the car, we began to entertain the idea that I had taken it on our cavern excursion and left it there, either somewhere in the main building or, possibly, the tour trailer, or – worse luck – it had fallen out of my pocket, out of the trailer, and was then lying in the dust 100 feet under the ground.

I didn’t want to believe the cavern theory, but I am, after all, a senior citizen…and I have those “senior moments.” Thirty years ago the fact that I could not remember doing something probably would have been proof positive I truly had not done that thing; nowadays, something more concrete is necessary to reach that same level of confidence.

There happened to be a “tourist information” station nearby, so we pulled in there, hoping to find a pay telephone I could use to call the cavern building. Of course there was a telephone. Unfortunately, the system would not allow long-distance calls, other than the toll-free kind. And if the Fantastic Cavern folks have a toll-free number, it is not one that they admit to having. At least not in their advertisements or in the Yellow Pages. Then came one of those moments when the innate goodness of our fellow humans has an opportunity to shine through. Rhonda, one of the two ladies working at the info center, solved the problem by allowing me the use of her own cell phone. In fact, before we were done at the center, I believe she felt as badly about our lost phone as we did.

I’m not sure what I would have done if the good folks at the cavern had found the phone. Remember that we were already more than an hour away, via the Interstate. Would I have gone back for the dang thing? I suppose so…but it would have nearly killed me! (I just hate to backtrack…it feels like wasted, lost forever.) At any rate, I didn’t have to make that decision…the phone could not be found anywhere at the Fantastic Cavern. “We’ll keep looking,” the lady assured me. “There is still one tour trailer in the cave, so we haven’t been able to look in that one.”

I used Rhonda’s phone once more, to call Verizon and suspend all service to my cellular number. And we pressed on down the road.

I had initially planned to drive as far as Terre Haute, Indiana the first day out of Branson, but what with the stop at the cavern and, later, the stop at the tourist info center, we didn’t make it that far. We chose the Powhatan Motel, one of several located at a “wide spot” a few miles west of Green River, Illinois. It was definitely not fancy. Worse luck, we discovered there were no phones in the rooms. But, wireless Internet was available, and the ceiling seemed watertight. (It didn’t rain overnight, anyhow, so I guess watertight-ness wasn’t that important.)

After some time on the road the next morning, Janet looked again in the space between the console and the front passenger seat, and there – you guessed it – she could see the cell phone on the floor. Hallelujah! At the next rest stop I called Verizon to reactivate my service. (And, yes, you can still reach Verizon on a phone for which service has been suspended. Thankfully!) So the phone is still old. It’s battery has gotten so bad that it requires charging every day…sometimes after every call. But for all its antiquity, it is still communication. I must tell you that over the past couple of years, I have seriously begun to wonder whether I actually need a cell phone, seeing as I get so few calls on it. Now I can tell you without a doubt that I do.

We had a beautiful day yesterday, and another one is a-dawning as I write. I’m not sure when I’ll get this posted. We’re staying with Janet’s sister, Barbara, and seeing as she does not believe in computers, there is no wireless in the house. Last night, both Jan and I were able to use a neighbor’s dlink system for a short time, but it eventually got turned off, I imagine. It was pretty slow, anyhow. It would take me until the middle of next week were I to attempt to upload pictures along with the Blather. I’ll probably go out to find a mocha later this morning…perhaps the coffee shop will have wireless, eh? (If you’re reading this, I guess you can assume it did.)

I hope you all have a great day.

Bud

 

From: Branson, Missouri
You would think (and I would, as well) that by now I would feel quite comfortable navigating about the town of Branson. It is, after all, a relatively small town. (We’re told the year-round population is about 10,000 souls.) And the fact is, I do feel more comfortable with my ability to get from our lodgings to most anyplace in town. One might even say that I had gotten a bit prideful about how quickly I adapted to the screwy layout of the streets…and the strange magnetic waves emanating (from the caverns in the area, I believe) that are designed to disrupt a person’s inner compass. Well, now I can tell you (again) that pride really does go before a “fall.” Two falls, as a matter of fact.
On Wednesday evening, as I mentioned in the previous Blather, the four of us had dinner at Montana Mike’s Steak House, prior to attending a show called “SIX.” Leaving Mike’s parking lot, I automatically turned east on Route 76 (also called “Country Road,” and also called, “The Green Route” on some local maps). We had overstayed at the restaurant slightly, but knowing that I was going to be able to drive directly to the Mickey Gilley Theater, I knew we had plenty of time.
You probably know how it goes as one drives in the wrong direction. First, one thinks, “Hmmm…it must be farther than I thought. It seems we should have gotten there by now.” And once that shade of doubt has been introduced aloud, other people are quick to join in. “Yeah…I think maybe the theater was the other way from the restaurant.” Before long, I knew, definitely, that I was headed in the wrong direction…no question. Aaarrrggghhh! I turned the car around, knowing that the several minutes we had been going in the wrong direction were now going to make us late to the theater. Would they even let us in if the show was already underway? It suddenly had gotten very quiet within the confines of our Honda. (As it turned out, we were a couple of minutes late, but, thankfully, the show had not yet started. We were seated without further incident.)
Fast forward to Friday. The flight taking cousin Larry and Gael home would depart at 1:45 PM. In order for them to check in an hour early (as recommended), we had to leave for the airport by 12:15 PM. No problem. In fact, we were ready to leave quite a bit earlier than that, so we did.
Of course I had only been TO the airport once since Jan and I rolled into town…when we went there to pick up our guests. But I had driven by the Airport Exit (from the highway) at least one additional time: That was when we first arrived last Saturday, driving into town from the south. Nevertheless, I was full of confidence as we left the confines of our WorldMark Resort. My first decision, making a right turn onto Fall Creek Road, was correct. Unfortunately, my second decision was not. Just as when when leaving Montana Mike’s place, I had the option of right or left, and I chose incorrectly, even while being confident of my internal compass.
Finally, after driving several miles to the southwest…and passing the Silver Dollar City attraction we had previously visited, the concerned murmuring of uncertain passengers in the car began to be heard. In no time at all, it was clear to all four of us that we were NOT headed for the airport. Au contrare, with every passing moment we were getting farther and farther away from it. Very quickly, the half-dozen or so maps we had accumulated in the car jumped into all my passengers’ hands. Happily, they were able to get me on a route that would eliminate the necessity of backtracking the entire distance we had already traveled.
Because we had left the resort so early, there really was never any likelihood we would be late for the flight. But of course that didn’t soothe my shattered pride. And this second instance of taking the wrong direction, falling so quickly on the heels of the first, has most certainly done irreparable damage. Never again will Janet, cousin Larry, or his wife, Gael, ever look upon me as The Pathfinder. I am ruined!
On Thursday, we managed to cram in several different tourist activities: In order, we visited (1) the Butterfly Palace; (2) the House of Wax; (3) the IMAX theater (for a one-hour movie set in the Ozarks); and in the evening, (4) the Clay Cooper show. (None of us had ever heard of him, either, but it was a fun production.)
The butterflies were very interesting. One surprising fact: The specimens held captive there do not breed. All the butterflies present in the large butterfly-orium were ordered from somewhere else, and were shipped in the chrysalis stage of the insects’ life cycle. We were also surprised when we spotted several small birds flitting here and there in the room.

An employee informed us there were two or three species of Honeycreepers amongst the butterflies, small birds originating mostly in South America. We assumed they were not insect-eaters, and we were correct…they sip nectar from flowers.

The façade of the House of Wax building was, in my opinion, the most impressive thing about the attraction. I do appreciate the skill involved in creating the wax celebrities, but they have never seemed all that life-like to me. And here in this one, just as has been the case in the one or two other such wax “museums” I’ve visited, there are many recreated celebrities that just don’t look much like the person the wax figure is supposed to be. One of the worst in this “museum” was John Wayne, of all people. Of course a few of them did resemble the star they were supposed to be. I thought one of the best was Johnny Depp, dressed as Captain Jack Sparrow, the Pirate of the Caribbean. On the façade, King Kong was good. But take a look at the four faces in the rock (a la Mount Rushmore). I’m not sure I would recognize any of the four if seen in a different setting. Larry was the only one who correctly identified the face farthest to the right.

We had a small misunderstanding concerning the movie we booked to see at the IMAX theater. That is, all of us thought it was more of a historical documentary of the area. And it was that…sorta. It’s just that in telling that local history, the movie was primarily telling the story of a family (real? I don’t know.) that traced its local roots back to the early 1800s. It was interesting, and since it has been quite a long time since we’ve seen an IMAX film, we enjoyed it just for that reason, too.
The evening show – The Clay Cooper Show in the Clay Cooper Theater – was a lot of fun. Clay is a pretty good singer…country, mainly, but music of many different kinds was included throughout the show. One of the primary singers was also a comedian, and I’m telling you, I don’t honestly remember when I’ve laughed so hard. I won’t even attempt to describe the two skits that tickled me the most, but even if the rest of the production would have been a bummer, those two skits alone would have made the price of admission worthwhile. I wish now I had bought a DVD. (As you might expect, all kinds of gifts, tee-shirts, and mementos are marketed at every show house, during intermissions, and at the end of the shows.)
Last night, on our own again after cousin Larry and Gael left for home, Jan and I booked dinner and a show at the Showboat Branson Belle. Southeast of town – towards the airport, I can now tell you with some assurance – the showboat ties up on Table Rock Lake. The wind had blown all day, and we were concerned that if any part of the onboard doings took place on deck it was going to be dang chilly. But there was no problem in that regard. Except for a few minutes between dinner and the show, plus a later intermission during the show, we never went on deck. (And, just as we had figured, it was cold.) The cast consisted of a combination emcee, comedian, and magician; a singer/violinist/pianist/trapeze artist; and a group of five guys calling themselves the Showmen. Oh, and there was a five-piece band, as well. The band was nothing really special (in my opinion) but the rest of the troop was very, very good. Janice Martin, the violinist, was terrific, and with an unusual story. Born in Wisconsin, the petite young lady later attended the Juilliard School of Music in New York. Immediately after graduation she traveled to Missouri for the first time, but not to begin her music career. Rather, it was to go to Fort Leonard Wood for basic training in the U.S. Army. During the show she quipped, “Most of the soldiers called me Private Benjamin.” She spent three years in uniform.
We’re planning one last shopping outing today, followed by a “tribute” show to the Swedish singing group, ABBA, this evening. The show is called, appropriately enough, “Dancing Queen.” I’m sure it will be good…all the shows we’ve seen so far have been fun.
Tomorrow we’ll be heading for a family visit (Janet’s) in Michigan.
Bud

From: Branson, Missouri

Mid-week. This evening marks the point when our stay in Branson will be something more than half “used up,” and we still have some major attractions on our “to do” list. That’s okay, though. I knew going in that we would not be able to see or do everything that would strike our fancy…certainly not in only one week. Such an endeavor would take a LOT more time. The main thing is that we’re having a great time. And I’m pleased to report that I can now navigate around the area with a minimum of difficulty. In fact, when the four of us spent some time at Branson Landing (on Lake Taneycomo) the other day, I was able to make it “home” without having to follow the roundabout directions given to me on Saturday afternoon when Janet and I arrived. (See, now I know the suggested route was “roundabout.” I didn’t know it at the time.) One thing that helped me a lot: Nephew Brad mentioned looking at this area on Google Earth. Sounded like a good idea…and it definitely was. Looking at the streets and buildings as they actually are has helped quite a bit. (In the view, our WorldMark complex is tagged as The Stonebridge Village and Resort, south of town but north of Taneycomo Lake.)

Jan and I have been to three evening shows, now. I already mentioned our Sunday night out to Legends of Music. It was a fun show, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it. Tuesday night, after Larry and Gael arrived safely (and right on time) Monday afternoon, we four ventured out to the oldest show venue in town, The Baldknobbers.

Now I feel compelled to explain that term. Back in the late 1800s, there still wasn’t much “official” law in southern Missouri/northern Arkansas. And bitterness from the Civil War still ran high. A group of otherwise law-abiding citizens in the area formed a kind of posse, or vigilante group, to impose law (and, I suspect, to punish law breakers). They were a clandestine group, not anxious to have their membership be common knowledge. Thus, their meetings were rather secretive. The story is that they held their occasional meetings  in the woods, and usually on the treeless top of one of the nearby hills…a “bald knob.” As time went by, people began referring to the group as the “baldknobbers.” I’ll grant you it sounds kind of far fetched, but what else you got? True or not, 54 years ago one of the primary families of Branson decided to cash in on the name and start a music/comedy revue. (On the 50^th anniversary of that inauspicious beginning, the name and some of the early artifacts of the venture were inducted into the Smithsonian Institute.) The enterprise has been going strong ever since.

It was a pretty good show, although if pressed I would have to admit that much of the humor was pretty corny. Let me just say that if you loved the humor on the old TV show, Hee Haw, you’re going to love The Baldknobbers. The music was pure country, and well done.

Wednesday evening we went to a show called, SIX. Six musical brothers (from a family of 10 brothers…no sisters) sing a wide variety of styles, from rock and roll to gospel. Their harmony is really tight, but the amazing thing is that there are no instruments backing them up…all such instrumentation – drums, brass, sound effects…everything – comes from their own vocal chords!

Our daytime activity consisted of several hours at Silver Dollar City amusement and music them park. Now the Silver City attraction may not be in the same league with Disney World, Six Flags, and such, but it is, nevertheless quite a large operation. I have absolutely no estimate of what sort of “peak” number of visitors it could accommodate, but even yesterday, with only parts of 3 different parking lots (out of 5 or 6) being utilized, there were a lot of people in the park. Afterwards, we decided amongst ourselves that most other “theme parks” — especially the nationally famous ones — may have more rides. But Silver Dollar did have a few: They advertise the “Outlaw Run” roller coaster as the second fastest in the world, reaching a speed of 68 mph, and having 4 loops (or barrel rolls) that take the cars upside down. There is another, slightly smaller, roller coaster, as well. We rode neither of them. I would liked to have, but since the coaster architects began adding the upside down features, the rides all make me sick. Kind of takes away a bit of the fun, know what I mean?

Anyhow, a large part of what you might call Silver Dollar City’s “mission,” is to provide a showcase for local music, customs, and crafts…and I have to say it does all that quite well.

My favorite “attraction” was one of the first we saw after entering the park: a trio of musicians making mountain music and telling funny stories. I could have listened to them all day…and my legs wouldn’t have been near as worn out as they were at the end. I’m not sure if the group had a name; I suppose they did, but I never caught it. Neither did I learn the names of any of the three musicians. The banjo player seemed to be the leader…at least he did most of the talking. Of course one could by CDs of their music right there on the spot, but, as is usually the case in such venues, they were kind of spendy. Even so, I’m sort of kicking myself, now, for not picking up at least one.

I spent a good 30 minutes or so talking with a fellow working in a knife shop. The knife maker, himself, was not there at the time, but the guy I spoke with seemed pretty knowledgeable. It was interesting. I don’t know if you’ve checked prices on high-quality, hand-made blades, recently, but I’m here to tell you they don’t come cheaply. One I glanced at in the shop was tagged at $4,000 bucks! Uff Dah! (As my great, great, great granddaddy would say.) If I were ever to pay that much for a knife, I would definitely expect it to gut and skin a deer with no assistance from me!)

We were all four nearly whupped by the time we got back “home,” but after an hour off our feet (and with a couple of cold brews down), we were ready for dinner and the “SIX” show. We ate at a steak house called Montana Mike’s. I would definitely recommend it!

I think we all would, and we all had different entrees.

As I’m getting ready to punch the “post” button here, I can tell you that the long forecasted bad weather finally arrived last night, and is still going on this morning. The thunderstorm part seems to have moved on, but the rain is still coming down hard, hard, hard! We were lucky to get Silver Dollar City done yesterday, because we certainly wouldn’t think about going out there today! I don’t know what is being forecast for tomorrow; hopefully, we’ll see the sun again. Heck, today may yet become a lovely day.

I skipped over an attraction we took in prior to the waterfront on Tuesday. We visited the Titanic museum. It is one of several others around the country and even around the world, and it was very interesting, indeed. It seems a story that will never fail to attract interest, despite the fact there are very few people still living who were alive when the great ship plunged to the bottom of the North Atlantic back in 1912. Photos inside the museum were prohibited, so the best I’ve got is this one taken at water level near the right-side bow of the ship. (Where the iceberg sliced through the hull below the water line.)

The sky appears to be getting lighter in the west. I’ll take that as a good omen. In the meantime, I hope your day is starting out well, rain or no. Have a great day!

Bud

 

From: Branson, Missouri

Against all odds, I believe I’m growing accustomed to the screwy street plan – more accurately, the apparent absence of an original street plan – here in Branson. I still can’t unhesitatingly point to north, but I definitely feel better about driving downtown and back to our lodging. Like they say, a person can eventually get used to almost anything.

We started the day, yesterday, with a visit from our resort “host,” a nice young man who came over bearing some gifts, suggestions for activities in Branson, questions about any problems in our unit, and hinting (strongly) that we would want to upgrade our WorldMark membership to become Wyndham members. (Wyndham Hotels purchased the WorldMark company sometime in recent years.) Of course he made it sound as if only a fool could pass up the opportunity. (He doesn’t yet know that I possess that qualification.) Nevertheless, we agreed to meet with him in the office later this morning to learn more of the details. Depending on just how much money is involved, we might even think about it…he made it sound that good.

After Jeremy left, we finished unloading the car of the “stuff” that one accumulates after a few days on the road. We had to do it so that Larry and Gael will have a place to sit when we pick them up at the airport this afternoon. Then, since the inside of the vehicle was looking more presentable, we decided to go out and find a carwash in town. (Jeremy had given us directions to a couple of them.) That mission was accomplished, and we stayed out to investigate a couple of “craft marts.” (Flea markets, to you.) It kind of reminded me of shopping in Mexico. Still, we saw quite a lot of neat doodads and other stuff. Jan will probably go back to one of them for a shirt she liked a lot. (I liked it, too.) I bought a couple of what I thought were kids’ puzzles. When I first tried the one available for customers to monkey with, I quickly discovered the things are not “kids’ puzzles!” Better they should be called scientists’ puzzles, or mathematicians’ puzzles, or, perhaps, genius’ puzzles. The one with pictures of whales is destined for Amber and Brody in Washington State; the one with pictures of hot rod cars will go to Alec and Evan in California.

After the “shopping,” we had lunch in a nice little Mexican restaurant…Pancho Villa’s. Jan and I shared an order of supreme nachos, and we each had a margarita. The nachos were very good, but for some reason they made me very sleepy. J For desert we walked across the parking lot to a 50s diner for desert. The parking lot was situated on a very steep incline. Walking in my “sleepy” condition was quite difficult, I must say. I made it, though. I ordered a funnelcake alamode, with strawberries, following the suggestion of our waitress in Pancho Villa’s. Jan chose a funnelcake with powdered sugar, only. (She is a traditionalist when it comes to funnelcakes, evidently.) My serving would have easily satisfied four field hands, and probably some left over even then. I’m ashamed to tell you that I ate half of it…my biggest anti-diet binge since leaving home and the bathroom scale silently awaiting my return to reality. Jan didn’t finish hers, either, but with no ice cream involved, she was at least able to get a doggie box and bring it “home.”

Quite a few of the show houses in town go “dark” on Sunday nights, but after we got home (I’m going to call our WorldMark unit “home” until we check out. Okay?) we discovered that among those available was one called “Legends in Concert.” It is another of what are called “tribute” shows…modern day performers doing the music and character of music icons of the past. There are quite a few such shows available in Branson…and in Las Vegas…and on vacation cruises…and so forth. In fact, another one here in town I’d like to see is a tribute to The Eagles. (My favorite group of ALL TIME!)

Our WorldMark office has discounts available for many Branson theaters, with “Legends” being one of them. So I called the office, Cheryl made the reservations, and off we went. (Really getting daring, now, what with driving ourselves around in the dark, eh?)

The icons we saw were, in order: Jerry Lee Lewis, Diana Ross, The Blues Brothers, Brooks and Dunn, and Elvis. My personal favorites were Jake and Elwood, The Blues Brother, but all the performers did a very good job, I though. The music was good, and it seemed to me each of the tribute artists also captured the essence of the character of the stars of yesterday they were portraying. The showroom was only about half full, at most, but those of us who were there all seemed to have a great time! There was lots of singing along; lots of applause, whoops, and whistles. The performers seemed to be enjoying themselves, too. Jan and I would both recommend “Legends in Concert.” The company changes its shows with the seasons. We saw the springtime lineup.

While still in southeastern Kansas, we began seeing a great many pink-flowering trees, both growing wild in the scrub forests alongside the road, and also in landscape plans, such as on the grounds of the Downstream Casino/Hotel I mentioned previously. Our WorldMark grounds have quite a few of them, as well. We’ve been told that they are “Redbud Trees.” (The state tree of Oklahoma.) They are quite pretty, although would have been more appropriately named “Pinkbud Trees.” Wikipedia tells me they are in bloom from early spring to early summer, and are classed as a large shrub or small tree. The Wikipedia article also says they bear a pod-like “fruit,” so perhaps they become messy when that begins dropping to the ground.

There is a goose building a nest on our front porch. Oh…well…it actually looks like a robin. I have chosen to call her a goose – and a sillyone, at that – because of her choice of a nest site, which is on top of a gutter drain, under the eave of the porch roof. On the horizontal section (which is actually angled a bit downward from the horizontal) that comes from outside the eave to the wall of the building. As I sit here at the dining room table, I see her through the window, making one trip after another, bringing twigs, grass, and miscellaneous junk she thinks can be used. She even brought up a sheet of plastic once, a remnant, I think, of a plastic grocery bag. The problem, as I see it, is that she can’t seem to get anything to stay in place.

There is nothing to anchor her construction material, so as soon as she leaves on another trip, the load she just brought up blows away. Sometimes, it doesn’t even last until she leaves, because she knocks it off the drain herself as she hops back and forth. If she insists on continuing in this location she needs to concentrate on stuffing her twigs and such in the crevice formed where the drain meets the wall. But she just…won’t…listen, know what I mean? Ah, well, I guess it’s safe to say it isn’t my problem. Perhaps she will even make it work…by all the evidence she is quite a stubborn bird.

We haven’t used the swimming pool, yet, despite the fact the weather has been quite nice. Rest assured, as soon as the rains come we will start bemoaning the fact we can’t go swimming. We haven’t used the hot tub on our balcony, either. Maybe we’ll be more inclined to that when Larry and Gael get moved in.

Judging by the number of cars in the parking area when we came home from the show last night, quite a number of guests must have arrived in the evening. Stands to reason, I guess. Our own reservation was initially made to begin on Sunday, it’s likely that many others did the same. (Except they didn’t show up a day early.)

Aside from the trip to the airport and back, we have nothing planned for the day and evening. I’m sure that will change when the four of us get to talk about it, but for now it’s an “open day.” I’m optimistic it will be a good one…and I hope it turns out that way for you, too.

Bud