Travels With Our Prius (part 2), AND our iPhones

Upon arriving at my friend Carol's house in West Lafayette, Indiana, Doug went out to the car to bring in a few things. I stopped my conversation with Carol to call out, "Remember to be careful! Don't forget the hummingbird!" Carol had a puzzled expression on her face. I told her that our aging Prius had a new problem. When you pull up on the back hatch, part if it wants to come off in your hand, only being held on by the wires. I have put a sticker of a hummingbird to remind us to press the button and lift gently when we see the hummingbird, and then lift the hatch from the bottom. The sticker was to remind us to not do any more harm to our poor car.
When we left on our trip after retiring from our "jobs" on April 22nd, 2013, it was to be a two week trip. We packed for 2 or 3 weeks: for our pills, (since we're over 60), and for warm weather since we were just heading south, in California.
In order to take this trip, the first thing to do was to get a new air conditioner. It stopped working last winter, and it was an expensive job. We put it off till now, when it was really needed. It had come down to: take this trip by flying to a destination and then renting a car, or buying a NEW Prius, or fixing the air conditioner. In the interest of being frugal with our limited retirement income, the latter was chosen. Our Prius had transported us through several trips, some camping and some not. We voted to extend its life. It turns out that the air conditioner hadn't died of natural causes, but with an injury (probably from a rock), and it had a huge hole..... so it wasn't it's fault.
We had our sleeping bags cleaned at a drycleaner, and bought a new 39" wide futon that fit perfectly as our bed, tossed out expired camp supplies and refurbished them.
From the beginning, my husband Doug loved the new car because it had the potential of being a camper. The year before, the '03, which I had promoted to him, didn't have that feature. But, what do you know! The 2004 had a larger capacity, to have a 6' 5" sleeping area. Since Doug is 6'3", it works out. One  just has to get over the enclosed coffin-like feeling. (Only kidding.)
My joke about us, is that in the morning, our fellow campers, seeing us stick our legs out the side and slither out of our Prius "RV", think that the Prius is giving birth!

The first leg of our journey was to Morro Bay and the big Morro Rock, a place that Doug has been attracted to for the last few years. It seemed like a good start to our retirement trip. We camped near the shore of Morro Bay, and were entertained by a lovely great blue heron that posed for us in our campsite. Excited about a new journey, we planned our two week vacation to Palm Springs, Vegas and maybe the Grand Canyon. We took a tour of Hoover Dam, but couldn't go to the Grand Canyon via the north rim since it was closed, so we continued on to Zion National Park, where we camped for only $11.00 a night on the senior pass, for four nights. We saw the sights, but were invaded by sneaky caterpillars in our campsite. They showed up in the strangest places!
Then we went on to Monument and Arches Park

This time, instead of using paper maps as in the past, we relied on our iPhones for directions. We brought an atlas that we got for free from AAA for the bigger picture, but we've found that if we want to find the directions to our next destination, we just go to the map icon on our phone. All we have to do is, put in the desired destination.... say we'd like to know the route from our current address, and we see the little blue ball that is our car on one of three possible routes that we can choose from. We usually choose number one, and then press "start" and it gives us directions in green signs like you see on the freeway.

Another thing we check on the iPhone is the weather. We found an app on the iPhone called "My Radar", that makes Doug, our "navigator extraordinaire", a meteorologist..... even MORE extraordinary! He plans our trip according to altitude, length, and climate. Thus, instead of visiting the northern rim of the Grand Canyon, which we found was closed, he had the idea to extend our trip to visit his old friend from high school, Phil, who lives in Colorado. We found that Phil and Karen were home, so we did.

That's why our two week trip was extended. We had to navigate the altitude though. Doug started to feel altitude sickness part way up the mountains, and told me we should turn around because he thought he was "blacking out". Startled, I backtracked, while he looked some things up on Google, about altitude sickness. It was said that a person suffering from altitude sickness should drink plenty of water, not alcohol, and that for a man, Viagra would help with symptoms. Doug called his friend, a medical doctor to confirm this, who said that he had prescribed that pill to many people who were climbing in the Himalayas! It was true.
Doug had one pill left, and measured out each mountain peak's altitude at it's pass via iPhone. We cautiously went forward, avoiding any high pass, with much joking going on....  Finally arriving at our friend's home in Boulder, all intact, we both had a good sleep.
We stayed with our friends, visiting, cooking and eating together, and taking the time to do laundry. I got a pedicure, Doug got to golf with his friend, and we pampered the Prius by getting it new tires.
It seems it was time to leave, but it didn't seem like it was time to go home. Doug said "I wonder if your friend Carol from high school is home in Indiana?"  She was. .....and furthermore she and her husband were happy to have us stay with them even though we had been there only six months before.

Soon after we left Colorado, the back hatch of the Prius started having it's problems. The other remedy was a piece of blue duct tape, to hold the piece on to the car. This also reminded me of my husband's daughter speaking derogatorily about his remedy of the new wooden bumper he had put on a family car....  The crowning touch, is that Doug had an idea at our campground in New Jersey and ended up drilling a hole through the car part, screwing the part on, and deleting the use of tape. It actually works pretty well, and we don't have to buy a new, expensive part. It's not quite as bad as a wooden bumper.

So far the car has gotten us over 6000 miles. We've meandered around, from Indiana, to Flint, Michigan to see Doug's family home once more, camping in Canada, and then to Niagara Falls, ..... to New Hampshire, to eat lobsters with Doug's brother-in-law, Steve, to Brooklyn to visit my kids, Jennie and Lucas, (the car got it's first ticket in Brooklyn for parking)....  to Boston to see an old friend, to Maryland to stay with other relatives....  All along, we were led by the maps on our phone, and also the Yelp app, that told us where to find a restaurant, a pedicure, or an oil change.... the Hotels.com app that found us an hotel for when it was either too hot or raining,  Reservations America app that found us a campsite, while we paid all our bills on Bank of America's online site, We even found a Catholic church to go to every Sunday on Masstimes.org!

Each time we need to find an hotel, we find a reasonably priced one on the Hotels.com mobile site. We read all the reviews of the less expensive ones, and if they say "Horrible!" or " smelly" or "noisy and dirty", we go on to the next one. Not too picky generally, (I'm usually pleased if the maid has folded the washcloths into a fan, and made the end of the toilet paper into a point). We do have some standards. It turns out that if you make your reservations from the phone app, there are many discounts. Tonight we're staying in Middletown, R.I., near Newport for $69., including breakfast and internet! We will have to camp soon, though, to keep on budget!

 All the way while driving, we've used a little contraption that my daughter gave us that plugs into the "cigarette lighter". and plays iTunes or Pandora Radio from our phones on the car's speakers. Between Indiana and New Hampshire, we listened to Beatles and Creedence Clearwater, and between New York and Connecticut we figured out there was a comedy channel on Pandora. Amazing what you can get for free!

What a different world it is...  even since we first got our Prius in 2004!  We still sleep in it. That's the good thing! We still camp in our car.... and people are still surprised....but we love it, and it's still cozy. Today it got an oil change in Connecticut. Much deserved.

The thing is, we get around in it by satellite gps now. .... not so much by the maps. They always know where we are. We could be out in the boonies, and want to know where the nearest gas station is, and we can see on the map on our phone.... our little blue dot will travel on the route and guide us to that station! The only thing is.....our GPS system doesn't have an English woman's accent. Doug is our GPS, along with the phone. Every so often, though, he has to say "recalculating".

Smithville, New Jersey Revisited, more Travels With Our Prius

I can't believe it's been 37 years since I worked in an "olde" village called Smithville in New Jersey, just West of Atlantic City.
We're on the big retirement trip.... kind of a grand tour of the U.S. My husband Doug has visited old haunts, and we stayed with a high school friend of mine in Indiana. After we left New York, I suggested that we check out Smithville, where I have fond memories.
Excited to see that the place still existed on Google, I grew eager to see the place that I have told so many people about.
It was on a different "big trip" during the Bi-centennial year, 1976, with my former husband, Walt. He had secured a fancy waiter job at the Seaview Country Club, and I had been making patchwork denim vests and halters from old jeans and old flowery draperies. I went to Smithville, and was told I could set up my wares at a table on the entry road.
I had no sooner set up my display, and it rained! I grabbed everything, and ran into an old building that had been abandoned. I remember thinking that I wasn't doing very well at contributing a portion of our income. I prayed that something would come along. Suddenly I had the feeling that I shouldn't worry, and also I shouldn't speak. (Being alone, I didn't think that would be a challenge.)
At that moment, a man ran in from the downpour. He was surprised to see me there. I just said "Hi" and we commented about the storm briefly. Usually I'll talk to strangers more, but I felt I shouldn't speak. The man told me he was the manager of the old village down the road. It had houses that had been moved from different areas of South Jersey and there were craftspeople in each house.
Suddenly I found myself saying, "Do you have a quilter?"  Hearing myself say that, I almost jumped.
He looked at me, and said, "No, we don't... And you're a quilter, right? If you're interested, I think there's an old quilting frame in the attic at the potter's house. If you can find it, you can have a job, if you like."
So that was it. I was given a long cotton blue and white dress, and an Amish-style white hat, and informed about the house I would be in. It had been owned by Noah Newcomb, a basket weaver for the oyster trade. He made them out of cedar and oak hardwood. The quilting frame was up in the attic, like he thought, and already had a quilt on it, partially done. That was handy, since I had never quilted on a frame before, only doing something called "quilt as you go", square by square! I ran to the nearest library and got a book about it. Thank you God! I had a job!

So now, here I am in 2013, age 63, with grown children, and grandchildren coming to revisit a place I had loved in another lifetime.
When I looked at the Historic Village of Smithville's website once more, I was shocked to see that my old Smithville had been turned into 60 specialty shops, that there was a little train ride, a merry-go-round, several restaurants, a B&B, and even condos! I was appalled at the thought of this, but we decided to visit it anyway, to see if I could recognize anything.
First though, to make my trip down memory lane complete, we looked up Blueberry Hill Campground in Port Republic, NJ. That was where Walt and I had stayed with our van, a small trailer and our dog, Lillian (on the Romer big trip).
I guess the old saying that "you can't go back" is true. the woodsy forest of deciduous and pine trees is still there, but 1/2 filled with huge RV's and mobiles that have surely been here for awhile. There seems to be a competition as to who has the most decorations around their campsite. Flags, lights, gnomes, carved signs, lit up lighthouses and assorted colorful chairs and gazebos with Tiki bars abound. All the campsites look foreign to me, and I couldn't imagine which one I had stayed in so long ago for three whole months. Doug and I finally agreed on one near the restrooms with showers.
We sat for awhile in our camp chairs and then decided to find Smithville, so I could stop wondering about it.
Times have changed so much that we used our iPhone map to guide us, rather than a paper one. My memory wasn't recognizing any of the surroundings, since everything had changed.
Then we rounded a bend and I could see the familiar small lake just past an unfamiliar parking lot and shops. We parked and ventured over to where the water wheel had been. Only a rusty hub remained and the mill house was roped off with yellow security tape. Then I spotted the bridge that had led in to the village I knew. Before, black swans had glided majestically under that bridge, but they were gone and plumes of algae were forming instead. Still, I was full of anticipation as we walked toward some shops that had been installed in some of the old houses. I tried to recall the shape of Noah Newcomb's house, but then realized that all the houses had been moved into a different configuration. There used to be a huge village green, about as big as two football fields, but it was made much smaller and all the houses were squished closer together, in order to have the little train ride circle around the edge.
In the pottery shop, there was a woman, who was actually trimming a bowl on an electric wheel. (Back in the day it would have been a kick wheel). She was interested in my story of how things had been, but she hadn't been there long, and didn't know about the house she was in. I told her it would have been nice if a potter was in "my" house, since I do some pottery myself.
As we went out of her door, I noticed there was a little sign on her house that identified whose house it had been--just like in the past. There was hope!
When I looked at the sign on the very next house, I was pleased to see that it said "Noah Newcomb, 1820". I stood out in front to try to recognize it, but it had been stuck right in between two other houses, so that they all shared walls. Walking in, I told the sales person, that I was kind of a special case...that I used to work in this house, and I just wanted to get my bearings. My eyes went directly to a small door on the right. I said, if this is the right house, inside this closet is the underside of some stairs. I bumped my head on the stairs one time when I bent to get a broom. I opened it, and there they were, the stairs that had sent me to the emergency room 37 years ago to make sure I hadn't fractured my skull!!

Back in the day, I was hired as the village quilter, since that's what I told the manager I could do. Now that is a ridiculous idea, since most of the women would have been quilters, but he told me about that quilting frame in the potter's attic.

He led me over to meet the "village potter", a nice young woman with her brown hair pulled back with a ribbon. She wiped her hands on a towel and we ventured up a ladder to look for the frame. There it was, complete with a navy blue and white quilt half done, sewn on to it.
The next day, (after cramming about quilting at the library), I used the information I had gleaned to figure out how to set up the quilting frame in Noah Newcomb's house. We had to look authentic, as if it was the 1700's, so when I walked around the grounds with my little Amish-style white hat on, I carried a basket as a purse. I already had a leather thimble, but the pincushion that I had on my wrist was frowned upon since the plastic band on it hadn't been invented yet! I bought a leather bracelet and replaced the plastic. I learned to make nice, neat stitches, and noticed that experienced quilters walked in my door and bent right down to examine my stitches on the back of the quilt! The house was next door to a barn and corral, so if I left the windows open on a hot day, horse flies would fly in and pester me, landing on the quilt and leaving "fly specks".
The funny thing is, many folks who visited assumed that all of us "actors" in the houses actually lived in them, and here we were working a 9 to 5 job just like them! I'd try to act the part, some days more than others. I'd talk about my "brother" Noah, who was the basket maker (there were actually stacks of baskets outside my front door presumably for sale), and how "I don't know where he could have gone off to". Noah was known for going on drunken binges. It was fun pretending and to have people appreciate my little act.

But now, everything in the two rooms was foreign, and it was even being used as a jewelry shop. I recounted to the shopkeeper how a man who impersonated Mark Twain used to come in to visit me on a slow day. We would heat water for tea or Lipton Cup-A-Soup with a little plug in element that I had, and sit at a table and visit. Whenever a family came in, he'd revert to his Mark Twain persona. Also, I told her about the Towne Crier, who rode horseback on a dappled grey horse, would come to visit by letting his horse poke his head in the door and whinny.
Revolutionary war re-enactments were performed a few times out on the Village Green, and every time some entertainment was about to happen, the Town Crier, in his three cornered hat would call out, "Hear ye, Hear ye! Come to the Village Green at one o'clock, to see the troupe of actors perform a show!", or some such thing.
The girl in the house next door to mine, Marianne, made apple head dolls, and she came over to visit sometime and showed me how to peel and carve a head out of an apple and then watch it shrink, wrinkle and age over time and in the heat. She made beautiful, detailed clothes for her dolls and sold them for quite a lot. 
There was a guy dressed as a pirate, and he hung out down by the lake with a huge red plumed parrot, which he let me walk around with one time. Canadian geese were on the lake with the black swans, (whose honks sounded like bicycle horns). One day, the geese all left at once and never came back....time to go south.
I went to other houses, which had also been disappointingly made into stores, and we rode the little train, but no one remembered how it used to be. It was, I think, worth being remembered, so that's why I'm recording my memories of it.
Time goes on. They say that the Smithville of old, wasn't making money and was sold to a developer that has brought lots of jobs and money to the community. That's fine and good. I still wish I could go back in time.

Back at the campground, however..... We've decided we like it here. It's been refurbished, has a nice pool and spa, a new playground for the kids, and brand new washers and dryers in the laundry room that are super efficient. The café. now called Clark's Landing Café, is being given a new start with Joe, the excellent cook and owner. We're having dinner here tonight, and I even have my eye on a string of flamingo lights for our campsite.  I think we should "join 'em".

Dry in Utah, more Travels With Our Prius

Evidently, in Utah, because of the Mormon influence, liquor is sold in separate state-run liquor stores. We were staying for the night near the border in Kanab, UT, and thought we'd save a little money by not ordering wine in a restaurant. A merchant in town told us that the nearest "packaged" liquor store was just across the border, in Arizona. We entered "liquor store" into the maps app on our iPhone, and the directions popped up. We headed for the border of Utah, into Arizona.
Sure enough, a lone, weathered building stood in a gravel parking lot with a peeling sign that said  "Liq or". It had the look of a business that was either closed or was neglected. From the outside, empty cardboard boxes could be seen piled up against the window. Doug said, "The man said there were two stores, maybe we should try the other one..."
There were three cars in the parking lot, and I said, "SOME people shop here. I think this looks interesting. Let's both go in."
The screen door creaked as we walked in. Doug ventured ahead of me down a narrow aisle. I was greeted by a little black bulldog. When I bent to pet him, flakes of dandruff appeared on his dusty looking coat. There was a slight scent of a litter box. The dog followed behind as I turned to take in the scene.
Some of the nails were sticking up above the weathered floorboard. On either side of the aisle were big bags of cat food, dog food, and garden soil. Something for everyone. What was really encroaching on the aisle were stacks of old newspaper, and discarded packaging that never made it out to the garbage.
Behind the counter sat a rather tall old woman with waxy skin and and long gray hair. She made eye contact with me, and I noticed the bags under her eyes and the deep wrinkles from years of smoking.
"What's your dog's name?", I asked, trying to be social.
She looked me up and down and then shouted ,"He's Bull! B-U-L-L!" at the top of her voice, as if she was hard of hearing, or she thought I was.
Behind her was a another stack of newspapers and magazines, this time intermingled with three bottles of what I recognized as little plastic bottles of homeopathic remedies. I was going to be bold and ask her about them, since I've taken the different "cell salt" tablets before for different ailments, but I refrained. Maybe I felt that it made me more like her...
I walked back to where Doug was examining the different bottles of wine that were displayed amazingly neatly, but with no prices.
In the mean time, the lady smoked the last of a cigarette, flicking the ashes off her stained down vest, chatted with other customers, asking about their families; how she hadn't seen them for a couple of days, etc. A young man with a bowl haircut and missing a couple of front teeth, emerged from a big refrigerated room with a 24 pack of cold beer. She asked him when he was leaving for his new job. "Tomorrow", he said.
We made our selection, a Turning Leaf Merlot, but wondered about the price. "Seven ninety-five." she called out. She called out "See ya!", to some other customers, and then asked if we would pay by cash or credit.
"Visa if that's okay", said my husband.
"BOBBY!!", she hollered. "Seven ninety-five!!"
Turns out Bobby is her grandson, who arranges the bottles and runs the credit machine.
As he was ringing us up, Doug asked the lady if the road to the North Rim of the Canyon was open yet. The boy from the beer refrigerator said, " It won't open till May 15th, I'm going up to work there. We have to get it ready in the next coupla weeks." He smiled and shrugged his shoulders proudly.
"So I guess we'll head on up to Bryce or Arches", Doug said.
Trying to make a little more conversation, I said,"I bet you do a pretty good business here right on the border!"
She looked at me oddly with her rheumy eyes, and in a moment said, "Yeah, some tourists come through here."
The young man with the beer offered, "Well, ya got a lotta regulars!!", grinning from ear to ear.
"Well, tomorrow I think I'll just close for the day", she said, "I've got a lot of errands to do." She moved an overflowing ashtray to a neater place directly in the middle of an old Oprah magazine.
Her grandson had Doug sign his receipt, and then went back to straightening the liquor bottles.
We said our good byes, and headed for the door, once again followed by Bull. Near the door I saw a big white ice machine and opened it thinking we might need some ice for our ice chest. I closed it quickly and made for the door.
Doug said, "You don't want to get ice?"
I shook my head and said, "There wasn't any ice in there, only old pizza boxes..."
We walked to our car thinking that perhaps we should wipe down the wine bottle before we opened it. I guess you can see that we aren't fine wine connoisseurs....

The Velocity of a Cough

"You should gargle with salt water". I can still hear my mother's voice in my head after all these years. I've been reminded more recently, since after hearing me cough off and on through the night, I heard my husband's sleepy voice giving the remedy high praise. "I really think it's helped me dodge the flu that you have darling. I swear by it."

I don't know why I fight gargling. Finally giving in, I added the salt to some warm water, and gargled. First, I tried to gargle making it sound like the "Star-Spangled Banner", since that was my way of encouraging my kids to get the salty solution all around the uvula and throat. (Either that, or they'd laugh trying).

It didn't work for me, though. Once the water hit the back of my throat, it set me off with such a cough that a Blast of water came flying out of my mouth that covered the 3 by 4 foot mirror over the sink with salty drops. I was shocked at the force of a cough!

The next morning, while brushing my teeth, another creeper cough surprised me while I was brushing my teeth, (perhaps my gentle readers don't want to hear this), with "shock and awe", toothpaste and water were sprayed all over the aforementioned mirror and on my arms. Upon closer investigation a snotty, green, "luggie" had been "hacked" out and projected by the cough onto my arm! It was disgusting! (Hence the warning) 

The next day, my doctor prescribed an inhaler for me. The pharmacist instructed me to exhale as much as I could, and then inhale while squirting the mist into my mouth and try to then hold my breath. .... Now this was difficult, since inhaling instigates a tickle in the back of my throat lately, and as hard as I tried, the cough would burst out like I was a stoner trying to hold in smoke from a hash pipe. (as seen in movies, of course)
Again I wondered at the velocity of this cough that was expelled  from my body with such power!

So of course, I went to Google.
Evidently I'm not the first person to wonder about this. The explanation that was easiest for me to understand was written by Richard S. Irwin, MD, FCCP. He said "during vigorous coughing, expiratory velocities of up to 500 miles per hour may be generated."
Well, I'm just saying...... Cover your mouth when you cough! Do it the new approved way, by coughing into your elbow. Even our grandkids know how to do that.
Gesundheit

Sickroom Supplies

It's been so long since I've been sick with a cold and cough I kind of forgot how far down you can be dragged. Certain things have been known to either take me out of a funk or make me feel better when I'm ill. Last night when I couldn't sleep because of coughing, I found myself wandering around the house at 3:00 a.m., looking for remedies of any sort. Mostly found were daytime cold medicines, expired, and threatening side effects of nervousness and irritability. What I really wanted to find, was an old bottle of spray Chloraseptic that I used when my kids were still living at home. Maybe I never sorted it out and tossed it. Maybe it still had a bit left in it, enough to numb my throat so it wouldn't want to cough and wake me as I finally dozed. No such luck.
In the morning, I would gather together all the supplies I needed to get better.

When this began, a few days ago, I thought all I needed to knock this thing out was to gargle with salt water, and have some tea. Left at home alone in the morning, my husband went off to work by himself and I ventured down to the kitchen for that cup of tea. Peach Ginger tea sounded perfect, and I waited for the teapot to whistle. There came a tapping noise from the living room, and I peered around the corner for signs of life, but none. I went over to the various electronic devices that were humming away, unused. No tapping. Standing in the middle of the room, waiting..... a tapping to my left on the window. The culprit was right there! It was a  bushtittie! Well, a Bushtit, a small round ball of feathers that travels in flocks that have been known a couple of times a year to come to our yard, cover our lemon bush, making cute little noises like a bunch of squeeze toys outside the window. I've always announced with an English accent, "The Bushtitties are here!" to extract a bashful grin from my kids. Never, have I seen one fly right up to a window and peck at it. As I was watching that one, another one did the same at another window, taking a rest on a vine and then throwing itself at the window to peck again! I tried to take a picture, but it doesn't do it justice. This was still going on even after I drank my tea and came down 2 hours later. My sister says it must be mating season, and they are trying to get together with their reflections!

This experience reminded me that one of my favorite things in our room (whether sick or well) is to watch the birds at the bird feeder hanging outside the window. Today is a beautiful, springlike day. The finches, sparrows, and chickadees are all making delightful entertainment for me. I see them take turns sitting on the branches of the plum tree (with new blossoms), to fly over to the feeder to peck at the seeds and throw even more on the ground below. Occasionally I'll get a visit from a local Scrub Jay, that I call Blue Boy. He makes a huge "thump" on the metal hook that holds the feeder, helping us to greet the new day with him. His favorite munchie is the dripless suet made from peanuts and other seeds that you put in a little cage to hang. (If you don't get the dripless variety, the hot sun will melt the suet, or grease, all over the ground underneath.) Blue Boy goes into all sorts of contortions to get at the good stuff and to entertain us.

One thing about this cough, is that if I talk, it makes me cough. My husband might be enjoying this just a little bit too much. Many times I started telling a story that something reminded me of on tv, started coughing and then, waving my hand, said, "Never mind!" since it wasn't worth the telling. We went out to have a nutritious lunch of Shrimp Hot and Sour Soup at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Nong Thon, in El Cerrito. Since I was about to cough, I didn't blurt out our order to our server, I more politely waited for Doug to do it. This "condition" of mine has also brought to mind that I have been known to "talk over" someone. Not sure if it was ever worked in to a character on Seinfeld, but in an excited state, without realizing it, I've tried to get out my information about a subject before, or at least louder, than a friend. If I've ever done that to you, I'm sorry, and evidently I'm getting some time to think about it, with laryngitis. We'll see if the lesson sticks. I think it's a darned good Lenten practice.

Anyway, we went to the store for the supplies, the Chloroseptic, (the original disgusting flavor), some daytime and nighttime cold medicine, new menthol cough drops, more birdseed, and some carrots, apples and ginger to make myself some juice in my new Jack Lalanne Power Juicer. The latter is to keep me on the track I've been on to try to detox my body! Could this cold be all the toxins trying to fight their way out? (I've heard people say things like that before : p)
No..... but the words seem to be fighting their way out, and not through my mouth, through my fingers!
So , have some tea. Bottoms up!.....and good health to you all!

Moon Over My Waistline

Today I thought of a silver haired lady that we used to see gardening outside her apartment house in El Cerrito. The corner was a busy one, and most times she'd be there taking really good care of her hedges with an old-fashioned hedge clipper. Unfortunately, more often than not, when she bent over, her loosely banded sweatpants revealed her butt crack. I thought, "She must know that she is flashing everyone who is  sitting, waiting for the  light", but year after year she kept putting in her time on her corner lot, mooning everyone who passed.

Unfortunately, the reason I thought of the lady, (she, I'm sure is no longer with us), was because when I was gardening today, I think I resembled her. We had just dug all the weeds out of our raised bed, and chucked them into a couple of piles. I wheeled the green bin the city gives us on to the sidewalk, and started bending over repeatedly to pick up the weeds and chuck them over the rock wall into the bin. My pants have had a harder and harder time remaining on my so-called waist of late. It was the end of the day, and this was the last thing I had to do. I was tired of hitching up my pants, and I'm sure I may have flashed someone! (Well, there wasn't anyone around, but if they had been there, they would have been flashed.)

This whole observation may seem silly, but I found out the other day, why my pants don't stay on my waist..... I  took my measurements. Without confessing the actual data, suffice it to say that my chest measurement was only ONE INCH MORE than my waist OR my hips! This was an eye opener. Something to be dealt with.

We HAVE just come back from a vacation, but this isn't anything new. Sitting with a laptop on the bed and watching TV, and being less active has an effect on our bellies. Our bellies are also important for our back health, as I've been told by my physical therapist, and I have known, but not paid attention.

So, with instructions that I have been given for exercises, a regime that has been suggested to me for cleansing toxins, I'm on a mission to be healthier in my retirement. My mission is to not have to hitch up my pants every 5 minutes while gardening.

In the meantime however, I'm going to drag out my old pair of overalls...

Connected To Our Phones

So, it's come to this: On a three hour layover in LAX, I've tweeted and texted and e-mailed so much that my iphone is almost out of battery. Most airports now have big towers of plugs next to the seats at each gate. American Airlines at the Los Angeles Airport doesn't . There are only two stands with the four plugs up high with no appropriate seats next to them. When those eight plugs are taken, folks resort to sitting on the cold marble floor next to a couple of pillars with two outlets each. After those are all used, the rest of us are screwed.
After sitting and reading an entire 1998 Martha Stewart (pre-prison) magazine I had found and finishing a crossword with my husband, a wonderful sound was heard. It was an overhead page announcing a flight that was now boarding for New York. People were starting to gather their things together and unplug their wires, cutting their lifelines.
By the time I had gathered my things together, one set of charging stations was already overtaken! Turning and walking briskly toward the other station, I noticed that there was a vacant outlet near the bottom of one of the pillars, but I shunned the cold floor. At the other station I saw a man answering the call to NY, but before I could make it over, another passenger whipped out his cord and plugged it in.
Turning around, I resigned myself to the hard floor. Oh, but just ahead of me I spy an older man wearing a cowboy hat, holding a cell phone in one hand and its cord in the other. He was glancing in the direction of the vacant plug,but didn't seem to see it.  Deciding not to push by him, I gave him half a chance, and when he looked the other way, I swooped in for the save. I slid my back down the pillar and quickly stuck in the plug...but it wouldn't insert! After turning it and shoving, and checking the size of the prongs, I looked beseechingly at the young woman using the other plug for her laptop. She saw my frustration, and said, "You must have to push harder. A man was just using it." She gave it a shove and I was in business!
I only felt a little guilty as I looked up to see the man in the cowboy hat wandering, searching, to no avail.

The Participant

The tire business was in San Pablo, about 10 miles from my home, but I decided to treat it as if it was far away. I needed to get two new tires for my eight year old '90 Isuzu Trooper, and I wanted to wait the four hours for them to be installed so I could have some time to myself.
I left the car at the tire place, and ventured out into the.......what I hadn't planned for......
The mall around the area was tired, worn out, and most of the businesses were closed.
Walking around the few businesses that were hanging on, I noticed a travel agent's shop, and stopped to peer at the dreams portrayed on the faded posters in the window.
Surprisingly, in that lonely place, a cable car pulled up, a conductor jumped off,  tipped his cap at me, and walked in the door to talk to a man inside. He talked for a few moments, and then both of them came out so he could show his friend his mode of transportation, his new job. I joined the travel agent in marveling over the shiny maroon and wood San Francisco cable car on wheels. Darrin the driver was to drive the cable car in a parade that day. We all ended up talking and once they found out I had time on my hands, it was suggested that I hop on the front of the car and accompany him. Perhaps I hadn't had much excitement in my life, and this seemed like such an unusual adventure, I said, "Why not?!
Leaving the travel agent to his business, we clanged our way out of the empty parking lot, and drove on to Hiway 80 freeway. The wind whipped through my hair, and I was having second thoughts about taking off with this stranger, when we got off at the next exit, at San Pablo Dam Road. Darrin said, "We're supposed to turn right here and go in to the shopping center." I held on to the brass pole, as the big cable car lumbered on it's soft tires into the driveway, rocking me as if I were riding an elephant. Instead of parking, we headed around the back of the Payless Drug Store, where I found that we were supposed to take our place in line.
Darrin jumped off, saying he'd be right back, while I took in the spectacle.
Stretched along the back of the shopping mall, were cheer leaders, flag girls, caballeros on horseback, a marching band tuning up, a spiffy pink convertible, some clowns and a man on stilts, to name a few. Darrin came running back, saying,"We're kinda late, we'll pull up a little and get our people." He handed me a red ribbon to pin on my sweater that said "Participant", saying, "If anyone asks what you're doing here, just say you're with me."
 He slowly pulled forward alongside each group, calling out to the scouts, "On your right!", and being careful not to clang his bell and spook the horses. He pulled us into place behind the marching band, and waved some folks over, brightly dressed in traditional Mexican clothing: the men with big sombreros and women with colorful peasant tops and skirts, all with banners across their chests. Some said "San Pablo, Our Sister City", and others had the name of their city, "San Manzanillo, Mexico" emblazoned across their front. They climbed aboard, shyly nodding and smiling to me, I suppose wondering what this gringo was doing on their cable car! I smiled back, saying "Hola" or "Buenos dias", the best I could do at the time.
This group including the mayor, had been brought in from San Pablo's sister city in Mexico to ride in the parade. Everyone filed in and sat down and we started to slowly move forward as the bass drum and snare drums started to give us a beat. We moved along the back side of the mall, band in front of us, horses behind, and the man on stilts coming along side.
I couldn't believe this was happening. As we came out on to San Pablo Ave, there were people, whole families, sitting at the edge of the sidewalk. They were waving flags and clapping to the beat of the marching band. I found myself getting a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat as I heard the bass drum beating right in front of us. (For some reason that happens when I see a parade.)  It was as if it was the 4th of July, only it wasn't. It was the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the birth of the city of San Pablo. ....and I was suddenly part of it. Serapes and all.

All of us on the cable car waved at the folks at the curb. Sure, I looked a little bit out of place, but I smiled and did a little side-to-side wave as if I were the Queen of England. And, remember, I DID have a "Participant" ribbon.

Golden Gate Bridge Walkers ....1987

Can't believe it's been 25 years since May 1987. That was the year the Golden Gate Bridge turned fifty and my family joined in the famous Bridge Walk.

Since my husband was working in San Francisco's Hilton as a maitre'd, he belonged to Local 2. The union offered a bus to carry anyone who wanted to the front of the line to walk across the famous span.
We put the kids to sleep in their clothes the night before, and then woke them at about 3 AM to drive to the union hall. There was a festive atmosphere as they served us all hot chocolate, and then co-workers and their families piled into buses to ride along together. When we were let off near the entrance to the Golden Gate, we had to wait because, if I remember correctly, Mayor Feinstein and some council people were going to lead the way.
Once the parade began, we fell in with our group.In the early morning light the orange towers looked pretty magnificent. It took quite awhile to actually make it on to the actual span. Our kids were already getting a little tired of walking, at ages 4-1/2 and 9, and the farther we walked, the crowd seemed to get denser. It was becoming less parade-like all the time.
We were surprised when we had crossed the half-way point, heading toward Sausalito, that we were all instructed to turn around, and keeping to the right, go back the way we came. I don't remember there being any Port-a-Pottys, and we all wished we could pee. Some men and boys used their male privilege, and relieved themselves over the side.
In the morning sun we watched helicopters fly overhead, probably reporting on this big event that we were uncomfortably a part of. My husband, Walt, picked up our son and put him on his shoulders. I tried to carry our daughter, but couldn't for very long. I worried about her being the short one in the crush of humanity, and I tried to protect her from elbows and such.Even now, 25 years later, I remember thinking that it was getting so crowded, I bet I could have lifted both feet up at the same time, and been carried along. I looked down at my daughter, sometimes with tears in her eyes, no doubt wishing that she could ride on Dad's shoulders.
Remember also, that this was before cell phones. A few people had transistor radios, and were listening to the coverage on the news.
Word was going around that the bridge was sagging with the weight of people. That sounded like a crazy rumor, since this famous span has held so many cars and trucks at once over the years. Never the less, it was interesting to see that the reaction to this news wasn't outright panic, but silence.
Everyone moved eerily slowly. What were they thinking..... that if they were quiet, they wouldn't weigh as much? Just "Please God just get us off this bridge!"  I was thankful they weren't in a trampling mood, since so many would have been hurt.  No..... just silence.
Then a man started singing "Trailers For Sale or Rent", a lonely voice, at first. I was happy to hear the familiar song, and joined in with just a few others. Anything to let us take our minds off our situation.
None too soon, we finally came to the end of our adventure, found a public restroom and began our long trek back home across the Bay. Safe at home we watched the fireworks display from our deck while listening to a symphony playing the "1812 Overture" on television.
The kids had the mementos of the foam bridge hats we bought them, and we all probably came away with a little aversion to crowds.

Fighting Bumblebees!

Yesterday I got out of my car in Berkeley California, went over to the sidewalk, and noticed a fuzzy sort of ball rolling around on the ground. I realized right away that it was two bumblebees fighting!

As they fought, the big one was on top, and then the smaller one gained the upper hand. But the advantage switched again, and the big one tried to fly off, carrying the small one under him!

I was fascinated by the yellow and black blur, standing close by, watching the action.
The larger bee sank with his victim to the ground as if it was too heavy, but as soon as he dropped it, they rolled about on the sidewalk a couple more times and then he was on top again and grabbed the smaller one and attempted to take off once more! He faltered, dropping his victim, and I swear,....HE .LOOKED AT ME!!!!!

I realized that I was the focus now of this ferocious insect, and I fled in terror to run faster than I ever have,.all the while thinking that I have broken a hip before and should be careful!
All of that was included in the movement that carried me racing along that sidewalk into my husband's store.
After I opened the door I rushed to him, turned my back, and said,"Do you see any bees on my back?!!"
"I don't see anything", he said.

We found later on the Internet that I may have interrupted a couple of male bumblebees vying for the female.   Sorry.

Keesha Says To Wrap!

While sitting in a labor and delivery waiting room at a little after midnight, hoping for updates on the arrival of our grandbaby, I noticed a young woman crocheting an afghan. Her fingers were flying nimbly as she poked the crochet hook in and out and twirled the yarn here and there. The growing blanket was already so far along that it covered her legs.
My husband nudged me and said "She moves a little faster than you do, eh?"
I rolled my eyes and said, "That's for sure".
The girl looked up and smiled. "He's referring to the little patch I've been working on, trying to teach myself how to crochet," I said. "The yarn is probably for someone more advanced than me. It's fuzzy and has little ribbons hanging from it. The whole piece comes out too tight or too loose and the edges are unpredictable. They wave in and out. I keep trying to tell myself that it looks arty!"
She commiserated, saying,"Don't worry, I've been doing this since I was 12 and now I'm 30. You'll get better!"
Turns out, she, Keesha, had been waiting since 1 p.m. for her friend's baby to arrive and she had been crocheting and visiting with the family all that time. By 2 a.m., it didn't look like our baby was going to come any time soon, so we thought we should rest for a while. We wished everyone well, and went home
By morning, we decided to do errands, since phone calls and texts had told us that the baby situation had changed. Her water had broke, so labor wouldn't be induced, slowing the process.
I took time to grocery shop and then stopped at the local Joanne's Fabrics. I remembered how our daughter had marveled at what I considered to be my pathetic attempt at crochet. Since it was pink, I think she thought I was making something for the baby.
Inspired by the woman at the hospital, and the imminent grandchild, I ventured down the aisles displaying a vast array of colorful yarns. Some were too scratchy, or thin, or fuzzy. (I didn't want to repeat THAT mistake.) Then  I found a thick, baby-soft, yellow, aqua and pink ball of yarn that looked perfect, and a big fat crochet hook. I told myself that I could do better if I studied a little.
Since I didn't know exactly how to do certain stitches or how much yarn to get, I decided to look at a how-to book and st in a chair near the pattern-book table.
This used to be an old haunt of mine, since I was a teenager, at a different fabric store that is long-gone. I remember sitting for hours studying the Butterick, Simplicity and even Vogue patterns from which I actually fashioned many of my own clothes, and later some for my little girl. It was a de-ja vu moment. I felt "back in the club", as I sat studying the stitches. Could I really make a baby blanket? Would I actually finish it?
Back at the hospital waiting room, at about 5 p.m., I was pleasantly surprised to find Keesha, (kind of sorry for her), still waiting for her friend's baby to be born. I dared to ask her for a lesson, since the memory of the book's explanation was fading from my memory.
Keesha had me sit next to her as I showed her my new yarn and big fat hook. I showed her I could do a chain stitch to start out, and she was a little impressed that I at least new that. The Double Crochet Stitch is what I wanted to use, since it seems to make a more loose "fabric".
She showed me how to find the next link in the chain stitch, wrap the yarn around the tool, push it through with the hook, wrap it again, pull through 2 stitches, wrap it yet again, and pull through the next 2, then go to the next link and repeat.
Just as soon as she praised me for catching on quickly, she'd catch me  pushing through the loop without wrapping first, and say, "Wait! Don't forget to wrap!" I'd do okay again for a little while, and she'd just coax, saying "wrap", and I smiled, saying,"I'll have to have a mantra, saying 'Keesha says to wrap'".
As I write this, my project is about 36 inches long (from my nose to my out-stretched fingers), and about as wide as an ace bandage. The baby is about to be born, so I'd better get back to work and pick up my speed.

Brooklyn Accents

Recently we took a trip to Brooklyn to visit my son, and to go to NYC for a Broadway show. My birthday was on Monday, May 7th, and after we found a good cup of coffee, my husband and I spent a couple of hours walking around the neighborhood on Bedford Ave. 
It seems almost European to me. The shops are all so close together they share walls, mostly brick. It took me a couple of walks on each block to realize or really notice many of the stores. Either they weren't open before, or my mind just couldn't take in all the sights.
Also on the lookout for a pharmacy, I saw a Duane Reade's, which seems like the Walmart of the east coast. It was the usual small storefront, and had one checker and a few items like cigarettes locked up. I asked the checker if she had contact lens solution. She pointed to the escalator, which brought me down, down to a huge basement super drug store! A surprise to me, making me wonder what was behind all those other storefronts. I wondered how people who bought more than I did could bring their purchases to the checkstand. The kind lady pointed and said "on th' el-le-va-ta". (I was so happy to hear her Brooklyn speech, I smiled.)
Further down Bedford, near Metropolitan, is a Municipal Pool. The high vaulted ceiling of the pool can be seen from the street, and people were coming out the door carrying their towels. We have a renovated pool near us,  the Richmond Plunge, so I walked into the lobby to ask if I could take a look. The lady said it was members only. I asked if they ever took walk ins. She said, "Well, only on the first Monday of the month." "Then that would be today, right?", I countered. "Could I just take a peek inside?"
"Oh yeah", she said. "Go in through the ladies dressing room", waving me along.
It was another world in there. Lots of older ladies were in different states of undress, mostly with wraps around their wet hair. There was another group standing barefooted in wet suits holding towels waiting in line for the showers. I stepped through the puddles on the floor past them, explaining that I'm just gonna take a look at the pool.
One woman piped up, "It's not a good day De-ah. ... It's va-ry gar-een.", with an accent to remind me what city I was in. Even though I had packed my bathing suit, I decided to pass.

Phew! We Made It Through Another April 21st!

Most people don't think one way or another about April 21st, unless it happens to be their birthday, or as it is this year, the day before Earth Day. My husband and I usually find time to remember our dads, and as we get older, we try to have a "safe" day.

On one of our first dates, 10 years ago, we were sharing our histories. We talked as we looked out at the view of the Bay Area from a parking lot at Cal State Hayward, where I was taking a few classes. Doug asked me about my father, who I have very fond memories of, and I volunteered  that he died rather suddenly when I was 16 years old, leaving a large hole in all of our lives.

Doug said, "Oh, I know, my dad died when I was 16 too." I'm sure we both felt that was quite a thing to have in common. 

Keeping up the conversation, I volunteered that my dad had passed away on April 21st, and it was weird when it came time that my father-in-law should die it was ALSO on April 21st (of course several years later).

"Oh!", he exclaimed. "My dad died on April 21st too..... when I was 16!"

I was thinking to myself, "now what kind of a guy would make this up? This is creepy!" Then I looked at him, and he wasn't fooling! It was almost as if we could hear the theme from "Twilight Zone" in the background.

April 21st was yesterday, and as we're getting older, I've started thinking we should be a little careful. I don't want to be paranoid, but we did say a little prayer for our safety along with the one remembering all the dads. It didn't help that Doug had to climb a ladder outside to clean off a greenhouse window, and both of us had to re-install a heavy wooden door after he painted it, huffing and puffing the whole time. I kind of over-did and felt exhausted after a day of painting and working in the garden. The thought did cross my mind that we don't want any more "coincidences" to talk about in the coming years.

a good day for gardening

Tonight I feel the achiness in my bones of a couple of really good days of hard labor.
I worked alongside my husband on a project today, a new piece of property, and we were working on it together. He was sanding, priming and painting the front door a nice eggplant color, and fixing up the inside and I focused on the garden. Curb appeal seems to be our focus.
While I pulled the weeds from between the California Poppies and allysum, I had intermittent visitations from two little neighbor boys. They were brothers. I asked the oldest one how old he was, and he said "four and a half".
"So", I said, "Are you going to go to kindergarten next year?"
"No, I'm gonna go to judo." Did I mention he was really cute? (From now on I'm going to call them Seth and Micah).
Later on in my digging, I found a worm, so I held it up in my garden gloved hand to show the boys. Seth held out his hand and I gave it to him. I've seen his mom next door doing all kinds of vegetable gardening, so I figure these kids are used to insects and such. He looked at it writhing in his hand and I said," Just set him down next to that flower I planted over there so he doesn't get hurt while I'm digging." He did, and we watched the little worm squiggle down into the soft earth.
Next 3 year old Micah found a ladybug. He had picked it up, dropped it, it landed on it's back on the sidewalk, he at my urging tipped it right-side-up, and it walked on to a leaf. Whew!
They showed me their little bicycles and how they could race down the hill, and I kept digging. When they came back, I said, "Look! Roly-Polys!" Seth took one, crawling from my finger onto his palm and then showed his brother how, no, it didn't sting, it tickled his hand, and then it rolled up into a ball.
I flashed back on how much my daughter loved those little critters when she was little, and how cute she said "Roly-Poly".
The idyllic scene was broken when Micah spotted the ladybug again on the sidewalk and stomped on it and Seth, outraged, kicked him in the leg. We saw the tiny yellow guts splayed out on the concrete and I quickly calmed Micah's tears, swept the little red wings over to a hole in the dirt, said, "you know, it's ok, let's bury him."
The boys were called home, and I had time to listen to the sounds of the birds and the far away train, and the occasional siren or overhead plane. I pulled out weeds with roots that amazed me. On some of them the earth clung in such big clumps I had to shake and hit them with my spade to get it off.
That brought back a memory of when I was about eleven, my mom wanted me to pull weeds on the parking strip in front of our house. I thought I did a great job, even cleaning out the gutter, that had a bunch of mud that had also sprouted of weeds. When my mom took a look at the garbage can later, she was appalled, and called me back out to have me correct what I had done. Every weed in there was heavy with soil, and there were shovel fulls of "my dirt!", she called it, .... silt that had run down the gutter from other neighbors yards, and got caught in our weeds. She made me rescue all the soil from the bin, shaking each weed. She said this was wonderful soil that we should put back into the ground, not throw away. I'll never forget that. She thought of her property as her Tara, like Scarlet O'Hara, just how my husband always says I feel about my home.
Today, when we went back to work  on the house, I worked on the side, doing more weeding and planting. The boys weren't home today, so it was quiet. For a while I listened to Andrea Bocelli on my iPod, but I missed the sounds of nature. That's when I heard clucking. I had heard that the neighbors had chickens, but hadn't heard or seen them. There were about 4 hens peeking at me and softly murmuring through the fence. I love to cluck back at chickens, and I wanted to feed them something, but wasn't sure what they could eat. Suddenly spotting sour grass, I figured if I could suck on the stuff when I was little, it couldn't hurt a chicken. Besides, one of them was poking her head through the fence to get some anyway. We became fast friends when they found out I had a sourgrass connection. Five of their friends showed up. I think I'll be getting to know these chickens pretty well. I'm finding that they are pretty intense about finding food. There are partially dug holes along the adjoining fence. I think I know now why the chicken crosses the road.

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions...

....or Confessions of a lazy protester.

The quote in my title came to mind this morning when we arrived too late to get arrested at the Occupy Livermore protest at Lawrence Livermore Nuclear Weapons Lab. By the time we arrived at 9:15 the last row of Alameda County sheriffs had marched off in formation, leaving a still-imposing line of officers dressed in camoflage, their billy clubs across their chest. There were a few of the usual protesters still standing around and they thought  I supposed, it was comical when we walked right up to the barricade and said "Can we still be arrested?" One officer said "No, it's all over Ma'am." Chagrinned, we turned around to find one of the lifelong white-haired activists near us. She smiled and said softly, "Next time maybe you should leave a little earlier."

The Good Friday Protest has been happening faithfully for about 30 years at Lawrence Livermore Lab to make sure people don't forget that we are making weapons of mass distruction right here in the USA. Wondering why it's suddening affiliated with the Occupy movement, we know it's always been called an Ecumenical protest, attracting all sorts of peace-loving people from different faiths and walks of life. My husband Doug first heard about it from the late Father Bill O'Donnell, who is still there in spirit usually with his picture on a placard that says "Presente". He would have gotten arrested if he could.

The first time Doug introduced me to this group of folks was about 8 years ago, and we were about to be married. We came early, around 6:30 or 7:00 to the rally and to listen to the speeches. It was very cold, and we were glad when everyone started walking toward the gate on Vasco Rd to block it. There was singing of songs and people carried signs, following a big wooden  cross with an arty Jesus on it. We watched as the cops marched out to meet them and blocked the gate. The folks that agreed to make a statement and be arrested lined up  in rows in front of them, and we were among the others that cheered them on from the curb. Besides, we didn't know how long we would possibly be detained, and we didn't want to miss our honeymoon.

The next year we came a little later, enough time to catch the end of the speeches, march along with the others to the lab's gate, chant and sing, and cheer on the arrestees. Once again though, we couldn't stay.... we had a trip planned to Europe. Similar excuses presented themselves until about four years ago.

Another Good Friday we decided to get more involved, we got there just as folks were nearing the gate. We had decided to be arrested that day. We had been observers long enough. Stepping off the curb, we were the participants, staring back at the young men in their black uniforms,in fully regalia, looking back at the gathering through their dark sunglasses. (I wondered, "Are you listening to our songs? Did your mother teach you these songs of gentleness when you were small? Do you hear me? Do you see me?) We kept singing peace songs and spirituals and my favorite, "Dona Pacem" (grant us peace) as a "round". When it came our turn, the sheriff read those of us in the front row our rights, and said if we didn't leave we would be under arrest. We didn't, so each sheriff put our hands behind our backs, surrounded our wrists with handcuffs, and pulled up on our hands in the back to remind us of their control. People in the crowd rooted for us and called out "thank you" as we were led back toward the busses. I was handed over to a female officer, who frisked me and asked if I had anything in my pockets that could injure her before she plunged her hand in. All of our belongings were put into a bag for us, and we were taken, still handcuffed, to a bus. Sitting forward in the seat because of the cuffs, we chatted a little and shared with the other detainees. We told them that Father O'Donnell used to call this an "easy bust", and they agreed, having come here for so many years in a row. They hoped that each year more young people will come out and realize that nuclear weapons shouldn't be a choice for anyone.
When it came time to get off the bus, because of the closeness of the seat in front of me, I found out I couldn't stand up in close quarters without being able to hold on to something in front of me. The driver came back in to find out why I was lagging. He helped me up. Then we were all put into one of 3 cyclone fence cages to wait. We wondered about other prisoners that have been put in much worse places. There were a couple of nuns and priests and ministers and a number of activists, many who recognized each other from other years. ...... Within an hour and a half, all of us had been removed from the cages two at a time, brought to a staging area where we actually had a photo taken with an arresting officer, were fingerprinted, ID'd, and released to be driven to the street and let go. I guess we hadn't had to worry about missing our honeymoon because of jailtime.

The next year was about the same, but we arrived a little later, coming just as the folks were about to be arrested, and we were able to join in.
Next time, we realized we could park in the neighborhood across the street and we arrived just as a couple of lines of protesters had walked with the sheriffs and asked if we could be arrested. They let us. We were arrested, booked, and back at our car by 10:30 AM.
This year. This year.... We don't want to give an excuse. There was traffic, yes, but we didn't account for it. As we drove past the gate of the lab to park our car, the last protesters were being led away. We were late. We were lazy protesters, and we're sorry.

There really shouldn't be any nuclear bombs. They don't keep anyone safe.