The Music Left Behind

It is not a good idea to go on an extended RV trip and discover that the only songs left on one’s dying laptop are 1) Close Up the Honkeytonks, 2) Yesterday’s Wine, 3) Whiskey Lullaby, and 4)Angels We Have Heard On High. (You know what else is aggravating? Having Word 2003 tell you that honkeytonk is two words! Gimme a break!)

Given the limited repertoire it means that we have listened to Whiskey Lullaby about 17 times in 36 hours. That plus the heavy rain and cold is contributing to a group wrist-slashing atmosphere. Dang—but that is one of the most depressing songs to ever come out of Mama, God and Country music. If we had internet access we could download a few more upbeat songs—like “Murder’s Been Committed Down on Music Row.”

At the next big city—which will be Quartzsite, Arizona—we might need to score some band width and download a little more varied selection of songs.

Quartzsite is the Mecca for RVers. You can't believe it--you have to experience it. Last week as it concluded the annual RV Fair and Gathering, the estimate was that about one million RVers passed through a town that has 2 stop lights and one real house.
 

We woke up this morning to sunlight and the sparkling blue water of Lake Havasu. We were suffering from the "No Room at The Inn" Syndrome when we pulled into Cat Tail Cove in the dark and pouring rain. The RV was so cozy and we had enough solar to run our lights. But other than that, we were dry camping in a parking lot.
 
 
 

As we cruised down Highway 95 in Arizona along the Colorado River we were once again reminded how thirsty California is. It's not as much fun being a Californian as it used to be. We've pretty much blown all our street cred and seem to be looking for more ways to self-destruct ASAP. We saw many self-haul trucks towing small cars and they were all heading just one way--out of California.
 

Now, as I peel yet one more orange from the RV park in Bakersfield I can't seem to get those words out of my head--She put him out, like the burnin' end of a midnight cigarette......We have got to get another song!!!

Who Wrote the Book of Love?

Hey! I’ve got a great idea—let’s get out of this Sonoma County damp cold fog and go to Tucson and play some golf and catch some rays in the desert! It sounded good—but so far we have had cold rain and even snow. Yesterday felt like a Country Western song—hunkered down in Bakersfield in the trailer park waitin’ for the roads to clear to get out over the pass. Called up the pizza man and had ourselves some beer. Picked oranges off the trees and let the dogs run in the mud. No matter how we called it, we were still eatin’ crud. Or words to that effect.

Tonight we’re in the overflow camping area outside of Lake Havasu City. It’s called dry camping but the rain is still banging on the RV. No internet. There has to be a blog story in here somewhere—I’ll let you know when I find it.

Prepare to enter free-fall blogging:  beginning RV trip, photos of weather and desert, and recounting the beginning of a Boomers group.

Meanwhile, back in SeniorLand the organization of Baby Boomers continues. While it has felt much like moving back home with the parents when we moved to a 55+ community, I suspect that to the “more seasoned” residents it has felt much too much like the kids moving back in with them! That being said it appears that Boomers have not outgrown  liking to drink, eat munchies and listen to Rock and Roll.

Our first meeting had 84 Boomers show up—I was stunned. I was also glad I'd decided against holding the gathering in our living room. It felt like returning to college after summer vacation—the gang’s all here so let’s get down, be groovey—have a Happening! How nice it was to slip into the lingo of the 60ies and not have to see if you’ve embarrassed your kids by your lapse. When “The Book of Love” came over the sound system there was a discernable pause in the room when it reached that historical stomp—“Oh I wonder, wonder,(booboop bahbooboo boo----STOMP! Who wrote the Book of Love?” It’s been a long time since there’s been someone other than Mr. T to help with that stomp.

Continuing with the stream-of-consciousness ramblings I will just barely mention golf. Enough said. I’m still terrible enough that I can’t take it seriously or agonize over all the bad shots—after all, they’re almost all bad shots. It will sometimes strike me as hilarious that I’m trying to knock a little white ball that I gathered from my backyard into a ridiculously small hole on a patch of closely-mown grass and that this somehow constitutes an accomplishment.

I will not mention being mocked by a golfer I didn’t even know for wearing a pink outfit, pink hat, pink windbreaker and playing with a neon pink golf ball. Some people just don’t appreciate a sense of style, of flair. I suppose I should invest in those awful spandex black pants with stripes down the side and a black stretchy top. Can we say BOR—ING???? I will continue to wear bright colors, push my “crime scene tape” yellow golf cart carrying my shiny blue golf clubs and bag and wear my rosy pink hat with the bling. They should be thankful it’s not tie-dyed.

News from SeniorLand

I am remiss in blogging. Despite 2 manuals and a mentor I remain a slow learner with the new camera. Few photos, fewer words. To compound matters, I got the Photoshop CS5 upgrade--again 2 manuals weighing more than a large sack of potatoes and me with a learning curve that is a straight line--no curve. So the few photos that are even worth posting I manage to botch up in the "digital darkroom"--which is cool talk for messing up your photos on your computer rather than just taking a bad picture to start with. However, I got a very cool photographer's vest for Christmas so I look much more competent than I actually am.

There has been another factor--I lost my sense of humor. That's never really happened before. Not losing it just for a day or two--it's been lost for months. Only those who have gone through a lengthy period of dealing with a much-loved mother as she has slipped into a different personality know the pain of the loss. After a year of declining mental abilities and increasing risk to herself, we had to force her into an Assisted Living facility. Of course she didn't want to go--who would? But after she took a nasty fall on a curb and hit her head on a bus bench we knew the living alone jig was up. Until you've been publicly interrogated in a bank lobby by firemen who ask you if you're the one who hit your mother and cut her forehead, asked if you've lost your temper and physically abused her and then hear them asking her the same questions, I'm not sure you really know embarrassment.

In any event, it seems the drama has decreased and adjustments are made all around and perhaps the sense of humor will return. In fact, I know it has. How can one not laugh when in ONE WEEK I met a golf coach named Sparrow and an antique dealer named Winterhawk??? Oh yes, I am still in California! Sparrow seems very nice and actually had some  useful hints about hitting the golf ball. I'm envious of his ponytail but then, I was the one who chose to cut my hair.

The golf course is holding my interest more these days. We are thinking of going on a golf outting with some other residents here in SeniorLand and I've got to do better. I've added a hybrid club to my bag--I now have a driver(still forbidden by the doc but he is such a killjoy), an 8 iron, 9 iron, putter and now the hybrid. I'm not sure what the hybrid is but the ball goes further with it than with the 8 iron. I've also learned the hybrid is not for using on any kind of hill or rough or too close to the green. I've played with just the 8 iron for a year now and I'm ready to branch out. With Johnny the Grip, Coach Sparrow, and watching the golf channel I ought to be improving soon. I mean--if Rush can improve I'm sure I can catch on to this game. But then I remember the new camera and software--uh, maybe not.

The 19th Hole