Day Six: Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Introduction:  I recently passed a milestone birthday, one of those numbers that as a child seems so impossibly large that you never expect to get there.  It came at the end of two years of personal disaster (see this post for an explanation, if you haven't already read it), and at a time when I desperately needed something good in my life.  I tossed around a lot of ideas of how to celebrate surviving the last year (lots of hospital time was involved) and making it to my birthday.  Finally, my husband and I decided to go see the Redwoods.  We had driven through several times, but always on the way to somewhere else.  This time, we would just head south and see what we could see.  We did some searching, settled on a few (very few!) priorities, and started making plans.  Somewhere along the way, we discovered a cool resort south and east of the big trees, where every "room" was a converted caboose, and decided that would be fun and unusual, exactly what we were looking for.  

These posts are my daily reports of our trip: the things we saw, the places we went, and the people we met as we drove approximately 1,500 miles in the course of six days, and had an adventure.  I tried to write down my impressions each night before bed, or over my first cup of coffee in the morning.  I wanted the memories to be fresh, undiluted by another day or days of travel and experiences.  I can only hope you enjoy reading them a fraction as much as I enjoyed living them.  (If you haven't read the first part of this series, the posts are here: Day One, Day Two: Part One, Day Two: Part Two, Day Three, Day Four, and Day Five.)

This morning we had to say goodbye to Featherbed Railroad.  It was HARD!

We dragged out of bed, procrastinating for a last few minutes, then finished packing and loading the van before we pulled around to the lobby building to top the cooler with ice, pick up our receipt, and have breakfast.  Tony outdid himself for our last day: chicken/fontina sausage, spinach and ricotta crepes, coffee and juice, finished with whipped cream-topped Nutella crepes for dessert.  I had to make them take my plate before I started scraping up the crumbs because I was already stuffed!  Tony and Peggy have been wonderful hosts, and we lingered over coffee, talking and laughing, far longer than we planned.

Saying good-bye.  Never an easy thing!

Sunny and beautiful  made it VERY hard to leave!

Eventually, though, we had to leave for the long drive home.  We started around the lake on Highway 20, taking a quick detour - just a couple blocks - to ogle an historic hotel in Lucerne.  We drove up and got a good look at the Lucerne Hotel.  Construction started on the hotel in 1927, but the 1929 stock market crash doomed the venture, and the property was foreclosed and sold.  It is now owned by Lake County, and is leased to Marymount College for use as a local campus, according to the information in the Hotel Lucerne News.

A beautiful building with a checkered past.

Hard to get a picture that gives you a good
idea of the size.  This place is massive!

For a different view of the hotel, take a look at this video, shot by a couple local teens while the hotel was closed.  I am guessing they were trespassing (not a great move to film that, guys), which contributes to the "Blair Witch" feel of the video.  And for a peek inside, this video from the Lake County Model A Ford club has some cool footage (Another thing for the "to do" list when we come back) And this one from the Marymount College lease signing ceremony is mostly speeches, but you do get the view of one room at the end.

(I got sucked into many videos of Lake County on YouTube.  You Have Been Warned!)

From there we headed back to the highway and east for I-5 and home.  We hit the freeway at Williams, an easy 40 miles east of Clear Lake.  No route 175-like surprises on this leg of the trip!

Turning north on 5, we had several hundred miles ahead of us.  We spent the day trading off driving, the passenger sometimes reading aloud from a book we'd found at a shop in Petaluma.  America Eats, on the Road With the WPA is a collection of works created by the Federal Writers Project in the early- to mid-1930s, compiled, annotated and expanded upon a few years ago by Pat Willard.  It's an interesting read, and just the kind of thing Steve and I often share on road trips.  A few years back we read a book about a miniature spy sub program, finishing the last few chapters by the light from a hand-held flashlight.

Somewhere along the road I realized I was relaxed and happy, grinning like a fool without a care in the world.  By some strange magic, our trip has worked exactly the way we wanted.  We unwound from the stress and intensity of the last 22 months, pushed aside all the care and worry and demands of our daily life.  I felt good, for the first time in a long, long time.  It was a nice feeling.

Temptation by the
side of the road.

About 55 miles north of Williams we made a stop at Olive Pit in Corning.  This is one of my all-time favorite roadside stops; a shop bursting with the local olives is an array of flavors, combinations and preparations.  Steve tasted - and then had to have - anchovy-stuffed queen olives.  I bought olive oils as gifts for friends back home, as well as some olives for me and pickled okra for another friend.  Yeah, it was an expensive stop!!

The original In-n-Out Burger.  Yes,
I have been there.  Many times!

Back on the road, we headed for Redding, another fifty miles up the highway, and our traditional lunch stop at In-n-Out.

I was born the same year as In-n-Out, grew up only a few miles from original location, and lived within walking distance of that same store for several years after I got married. The burger chain and their excellent food were a big part of my childhood, my teen years, and my early adulthood.

Once, many years after I left Southern California - and long before they had expanded outside the LA basin - my son asked if there was anything he could bring when he came to visit.  I jokingly said, "A double-double."  It arrived in his carry-on luggage, wrapped in protective layers of foil and insulating newspapers, a little worse for the wear.  Tasted heavenly!

Like this -
only more crowded!

We pulled into the Redding location about 2 pm, and found the parking lot, and the store, jammed.  At 2 pm on a Friday afternoon!  Service was still speedy, and the food as good as I remembered.  Sometimes you just have to keep with tradition.



And just like in Southern California, where everybody goes to In-n-Out, we spotted a celebrity: Amy Roloff from Little People Big World fame.  A woman at the table next to us saw her and said something to her companions; when they didn't immediately understand she turned to me and asked "That is her, isn't it?"  I nodded and she turned back to her friends, satisfied that she had, indeed, had a celebrity sighting.

We stopped for gas in Medford at about 5; finally someone else pumped our gas!  Oregon is unusual in that by law you cannot pump your own gas.  It's a great deal for us, but it does make for some awkward moments on road trips when we forget that we have to do-it-yourself in other parts of the country.

The entire trip had gone smoothly up to this point, and although we did run into a little rush-hour traffic in Medford, we never really encountered any awful traffic.  Occasionally there was someone in too much of a hurry, and there was one guy with a bicycle tied to the top of the pile of luggage that was strapped atop his car - the bike didn't look any too stable, and we were nervous the whole time he was in front of us.  Wish we had a picture of that - you'd understand instantly!  Steve just didn't like the idea of a bicycle coming through the windshield.  Or the radiator.  Frankly, neither did I.

Close to home!

Finally, about a quarter of nine, we pulled into Eugene.  We lived there for many years, and still have some very good friends in the city.  We met one of our favorite couples for dinner (us) and dessert (them).  We sat in a coffee shop and caught up in a way we hadn't been able to do for nearly a year.  It was wonderful to see them, and we could have easily spent several more hours talking and getting the latest news, but we still had a long drive home.

About 60 miles up I-5, we took the turnoff in Salem, and were finally on the last stretch to home.  The 50+-mile drive over the coastal mountains is very, very familiar; we have made it every few weeks (at least) for nearly 15 years - and last year, while my mother was ill, I was making the round-trip every weekend.

Kinda like this.
Only dark!

But somehow, no matter how familiar the road, no matter how far you have already driven, the last 20 miles feels like a thousand.  We pulled up in front of our house about 1 a.m. - tired, happy, relieved that we would be able to sleep in our own bed.  We gathered the necessities (medications, electronic goodies, etc) that we didn't want to leave in the car, or that we needed immediately, and left the rest of the unloading for morning.  There wasn't anything in the suitcases we couldn't live without for the next few hours.

We petted the kitties, and listened to their complaints about our absence, made a quick check of email for any immediate crisis (none), and tumbled into bed.  Sleeping late was on the agenda, since there wouldn't be one of those amazing breakfasts to make it worth getting up!

This has been one of the greatest vacations I have ever had, thanks in large part to Tony and Peggy at Featherbed Railroad, and especially thanks to my companion of 30 years, my husband Steve.  It was a great trip, a wonderful birthday present, and I made memories that I will treasure for the rest of my life.

My thanks also to each of you who has taken the time to read my reports, look at our pictures, and enjoy our vacation along with us.  And if you stop at Featherbed Railroad, be sure and tell Tony we sent you.

Now go out there and make some memories of your own!!

Some Really Great People, and One Nasty Woman

A typical crowd of tourists, and mounted police

During our time in DC we were, admittedly, tourists.  My impression was that DC is a city used to being full of tourists; a city that has learned to adapt to the constant invasion of the species tourists horribilius, and the sub-species school trippius busloadius.  Believe me, there were plenty of both. 

For the most part, the school groups were reasonably well-behaved, though they exhibited all the faults of junior high and high school children in large groups: boisterous, high energy, clueless, and inclined to have at least one clown for every three or four students.  They talked loudly, they giggled, and they often didn't realize - as the very young so often don't - that they blocked the sidewalk, hogged the path, or disturbed their fellow travellers. 

Viet Nam Nurses Memorial

Some groups were better than others, though only one bunch were truly disrespectful - a group of younger boys who reacted inappropriately to a statue of Viet Nam combat nurses with a wounded soldier - and to be fair, several of the boys were chiding the misbehavers.  I suspect it was something they didn't know how to handle, so they acted out.  It's what kids do. 

They were children who hadn't yet learned they were not the center of the universe, small bodies packed with enough energy to power a small city, at an age where hormone floods make everyday life intense.  And they were on a grand adventure, a trip away from home, in a strange city.  Their behavior was to be expected.

What was unexpected, and delightful, was the Washingtonians themselves.  We were strangers, tourists who sometimes had no clue where we were supposed to be going.  With a single exception, people were friendly, helpful, and polite.  I'll tell you about the exception first, because bad behavior makes a good story.

We got good at spotting the signs

There was a woman we now refer to as the Elevator Nazi.  We encountered her once, and that was once too often. 

The underground train system in DC is excellent, but accessing it (Remember that scary escalator picture on the first DC post?) can be difficult for an older woman who occasionally has trouble with escalators.  After the first trip down the Scariest Escalator I Have Ever Seen, we discovered the stations had elevators, if you just seek them out. 

Mom, though she doesn't consider herself handicapped, does admit to being elderly at 81, and on the longer stretches she much preferred the elevators.  Coming back to our hotel one night, we got in line for the elevator back to street level.  We waited as one car filled, and the elevator made its slow round-trip to the street and back.  In front of us was a couple, middle-aged, well-dressed, top-dollar haircuts.  She wore good jewelry, and he spent the entire time in our presence with his attention riveted on his iPad.  They did not appear to have any handicap, they weren't toting heavy luggage, or small children, and they were likely younger than I am.  In short, then didn't appear to need the elevator, but they chose to take it, which was their right.

I wouldn't want to drag this up the escalator, either!

Behind us was a young woman with two small kids, one in a stroller.  When the elevator doors opened, the woman in front reached to hold the door open.  Mom and the woman with the stroller both stepped forward.  The younger woman waved Mom ahead of her, and Mom stepped in and to the back corner of the car.  As the rest of us waited for the young woman and her kids to get on, the older woman started yelling at my mom for crowding ahead!  She said she was holding the door "for the children," and kept it up while everyone else got on, even though the poor gal with the stroller looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.  Then another man got on, and his backpack was apparently in the plane of the door.  Miss Elevator Nazi proceeded to chew him out, repeating several times that he needed to move back, he was blocking the door, even while he was trying to do just that.

When we reached the street level, the woman and her silent companion rushed off, while the rest of us made our way out of the car, smiling apologetically at each other.  When the three of us (Mom, my sister, and me) were finally alone, Mom turned to us and said, "Well, I didn't know there were elevator police, but apparently there are."  We cracked up, and had several laughs over the rest of our stay, at her expense.

The other side of this, though, were the people who volunteered directions, offered Mom a seat when we got on the train, and helped us out whenever we asked.  Not living in big cities, we had forgotten about the traffic congestion that comes with quitting time, and the first night we found ourselves trying to catch a train at rush hour.  People were hurrying, and we were out of place.  No one was actively rude or inconsiderate, they were just in their normal routine and they wanted to get home.

Metro at rush hour.  Busy place!

Mom, feeling tired and a little unsteady, didn't want to push into the car with the crowd, and held back.  As a result, two or three trains departed with us still standing on the platform.  Worried about how long we might be stuck, I looked around and noticed a group of nice-looking, well-dressed (the DC uniform of good suits and ties) younger men a couple feet away.  Bolder than I usually am, I stepped over and asked one of them if they could do me a favor.  I explained that Mom had waited for several trains, and asked if they would help me see that she got on the next one.

Not only did they agree, the four of them formed a semi-circle behind Mom, and protected her from the crowd as she stepped onto the train.  It was a little thing, and it delayed them only a few seconds, but it made all the difference for us.

Another day, feeling like we finally had the trains figured out, we waited for an incoming train on the platform at another station.  A tall man approached and told us we needed to move down the platform because the next arrival was a "short train."   He explained that meant there were fewer cars and thus the end of the train would be ahead of where we were waiting.  As we moved to the point he indicated, he also explained how to read the arrival board to know the next time we were waiting for a "short train."

Mom in the Congressional cafe

It wasn't just the men, either.  At one point Mom and I were waiting in the Congressional cafeteria while Jeri retrieved a jacket she'd left in an office across the street.  Coming out of the office, she realized she didn't know where the above-ground entrance to the Capitol was, and it wasn't easy to find.  Frustrated, she called and told us to finish lunch, she'd just go to the trolley stop and wait for us.  Overhearing her problem, a woman approached and offered directions to the public entrance.  A few minutes later Jeri joined us and claimed her share of our lunch.

Jeri finally got her lunch!

Incidents like these happened every day, sometimes several times in a day. 
They lead me to believe that the people of Washington are among the friendliest, most gracious hosts I have ever met, proud to share their beautiful city with a flood of visitors every day. 
Washington is full of really great people.  That one nasty woman?  I figure she just doesn't belong.  Even if her address is Washington, she doesn't have the real Washingtonian spirit in her heart.

Beautiful Washington, DC!

I'm home, but I'm still thinking about my trip to Malice Domestic.  The conference was wonderful, and I'll have more to say about that as time goes on. but for now I want to write a love letter to the city of Washington, DC.  I had an amazing visit to your city, and I can't wait to come back.
The last year has been tough; probably tougher on my mother than any of the rest of us.  So when I knew I was going to visit Washington, I invited her to join me.  She'd never traveled east of Chicago, and she had talked about wanting to see our nation's capital.

As luck would have it, my sister was able to go with us.  And here we are, our first day in Washington, getting ready to leave our hotel and explore the city.  If you can't guess, that's Mom on the right, and my sister Jeri on the left in the picture below.

My mom was pretty cool the whole time we were there.  We went all over the city, took the Metro to lots of places, and walked miles and miles.  There were times we moved a little slower, or stopped more often, but it was worth every pause and every stop.

Jeri tried to get us a tour of the White House, which we didn't get, but she did get us a Capitol tour through her Congresscritter.  There was so much to see, we could have spent several more hours - or days - just on the Capitol, and not have seen it all. 

What did we see?  First, we arranged a two-day pass on the Old Town Trolley, a great way to get an overview of the city.

 We started by taking Metro from our hotel is Bethesda (the site of Malice Domestic), to downtown Washington.  That first day we hadn't figured out the elevator system on Metro, and we took the scariest escalator I have ever seen.  The ride went on forever, and Jeri said she wondered if some guy in red was going to show up with a pitchfork at the bottom.





Think I'm kidding?  Here's what it looked like from the bottom.  The picture's a little shaky, probably because I was having trouble getting the whole thing in the viewfinder!  According to Wikipedia, the escalator is 475 feet long, the second longest in the Western Hemisphere.  The longest? 508 feet, near the other end of the Metro Red Line.

 Metro took us into downtown, where we walked a few blocks and found the Trolley station.  We hopped on their Green Line (apparently color-coding is big in DC) and saw the northern loop, through Georgetown, past Embassy Row, past the National Zoo, and the National Cathedral, under Dupont Circle, and back to our starting point.

The Fall of a Hero

I've been missing from this blog for several months, and from much of the rest of my world.  I apoligize to my fans for disappearing, and I feel as though I owe you an explanation.  This may take more than one post, but I find myself wanting to talk about what happened over the last year.

You see, I lost my hero, the man I have looked up to and admired for more than 60 years.  My dad.  I want to talk about him, about who he was and what he meant to me.

Over the last couple years I have watched dementia slowly steal the man I knew.  It was heart-breaking to watch this vital, larger-than-life man reduced to a confused and debilitated man battling with his private demons.

In the end he slipped away in his sleep on the 17th of August.  It was both a tragedy and a blessing, and brought grief, relief, and guilt for feeling relieved, in equal measures.  I will always miss him, but the man I grew up with would not have chosen those last months of dependency and loss of control.

Dad wasn't a conventional hero.  He didn't fly planes, or charge into burning buildings, or chase bad guys.  But he was my hero.  There are many things I want to say about him, to tell you why he was important.

I thought I was ready.  I had the words in my head to tell you what I want you to know.  But I still can't.  Sometime soon, I hope.

In the meantime, I hold onto one thing: Just a few days before he died, I got a revised cover image for the first book in the new series (it's getting a couple tweaks, and I hope to have it to post later in the week). 

This is the first book under the Fifield name.  My dad's name. 

I was able to email a copy to my mother, and she took it to show Dad - the first time the name he passed down to me appeared on the cover of a book.

I like to think he approved.