TOC HEADS TO THE LINKS

I have a confession to make: I have taken up GOLF. Now that I have risen from my sick bed and have started to feel restless, I began looking for an activity commensurate with my new status in life. (That new status has a dual nature—it’s called being ALIVE and realizing I’m living in SeniorLand.)

I had played golf ‘way, ‘way back when I was a teenager and in my twenties. I remember that the golf course was absolutely the best place ever devised to find teenage boys. It’s the same now but the teenagers are retirees—I’ve already had at least 4 free golf lessons by men who “want to help.” I also am offered rides in golf carts, help carrying my bucket of balls—but wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.

I rummaged around in the basement and found my old set of clubs. I dusted them off and drove to the golf course. (SeniorLand has two golf courses) At the pro shop I asked for a bucket of balls. “And do you want large or small balls, ma’am?” And innocent moi replied, “I thought golf balls only came in one size—I’ll take the regular-sized balls.” Well! Several of the pro shop patrons just hooted right out loud. And that, dear readers, was only the beginning. (He had been referring to the SIZE of the BUCKET of balls)

They spotted the clubs I was carrying. These clubs had been custom-made around 1970. The woods are WOOD. The irons are numerous. The head covers are hand-knitted with cute little pompoms on them. I was the object of derision. I was not amused. Without going into detail I will also mention that the spikes on my golf shoes were not even allowed in the club house! These golf shoes were practically new—well, they were new in 1970 and only worn a few times. One would have thought I had appeared at the links via a time machine.

Before I could cause anymore astonishment I fled the clubhouse. I have more to relate but it will have to wait for the next posting.

Death Valley Postscript

We couldn't resist a return to two favorite desert haunts--Darwin Falls and Randsburg ghost town. The last time I was at Darwin Falls was in February, 1971. We had gone to Darwin on the happy occasion of ELECTRICITY finally coming to the small desert town. Darwin Falls was quite a ways from Darwin but still a beautiful oasis of 9 waterfalls in the middle of the desert. When Death Valley was made into a National Park it was also expanded to include Darwin Falls. And now there's a difference--PEOPLE!!! But the beauty and surprise of the falls and pools of cold water are not diminished.

This was a new sign in the rough town of Johanesburg on the way to Randsburg. These are old mining towns and they are not for wimps.

Randsberg had been a fun place in the 70ies. The same woman who tended bar back then still owns the place but she is now in her 90ies and doesn't work the hours she once did. I also remember a refugee from Los Angeles who built harpsichords in the solitude of the desert. He is gone now.

I found the town historian named Charlie in his shop-of-all-trades, aptly named CHARLIE'S. He was very friendly and filled us in on what life in Randsburg had been like since he moved there 26 years ago. By his reckoning, there are about 43 regular residents. There is more cafe and less store these days but a pretty good milkshake can still be had.

What a creative use of an old iron bedstead as a frame for an ocatillo!

A sadder state of affairs was the historic Catholic church. Poor old St. Barbara's has fallen--almost literally--into terrible disrepair. Check out the "flying buttresses" on one wall. Old telephone poles are holding up on side of the church. How much would it take to do the repairs and maintenance of such a simple, historical building? Yet 5 billion dollars can be paid out in sexual abuse lawsuits. One weeps.

We the People.......

http://constitutionus.com/



It's time to take a few minutes and re-read this important document. Then evaluate the direction this country is going in light of what the Constitution intended.

Spoiled brats with no respect for the First Amendment guarantee of free speech break windows at UNC because they disagree with the views of former Colorado Congressman Tancredo;



Citizens who oppose killing unborn children;



Nation-destroying government spending and even returning vets are labeled as 'extremists' in need of watching;



Local police are warned to take notice of bumper stickers on cars.



Dear Readers--we are in big trouble. I can only think of little things that little people can do. The fewer things we use or do that involves a tax sends a message. It seems that Washington will never stop seizing more and more of our money. But we can choose to shop online and avoid state taxes. We can buy at garage sales and bypass state taxes. We can drive less--the states lose far more money when less gas is used than the oil companies do. And as difficult as it is to do, we can make every effort to buy American. And we can put whatever bumper stickers we want on our cars!

Where's That Checkbook?

It's always sad to leave the desert but the beauty of Sonoma County softens the transition. It seems we wracked up a higher than usual number of repairs to both the Jeep and the Minnie. Our first problem was the large windshield crack that appeared in the Minnie almost overnight. The ad on the radio says to get it taken care of before it reaches the size of a dollar bill. Now what does that mean? This crack is just a long line going from the bottom up the middle--it looks nothing like a dollar bill.

Mr. T jacked up the stabilizers so high during the Big Winds that the first step was too high off the ground. Being the enterprizing sort of fellow he is, he put his tool box on the dirt to serve as a "pre-step." Bad idea--going down the steps, the tool box skidded right out from under his dainty boots and KAPOW! he rolled out of the Minnie. Unfortunately, he took the door handle aparatus with him--snapped it right off the door! (Mr. T is tuff and he is fine) A new part has been ordered but right now the RV has no access from the coach section.

Now--faced with a wide dirt road, nay, a very BOULEVARD!--out in the desert what is the natural instinct of one driving a trail-rated, hemi Jeep? FLOOR IT AND DRIVE LIKE A BAT OUT OF HELL!. It is simply what one does. Do you know at a high rate of speed one does not even feel the washboards? I think the dust kicked up might have been visible from space.

After the speedway the next maneuver was to do a few donuts--it's the proper order of things. And here is where I was the victim of some litterbug. Some scofflaw had left a crescent wrench on the desert floor where it got embedded in my poor Jeep's rear tire. All of a sudden, my cousin and I found ourselves a mile from our camp with the Jeep madly notifying me that the tire pressure was evaporating. The lights, the bells, the flashing message--the grim reality that we were dead in the water, uh, sand, with a very flat tire. Sigh and alas....

The Sandster(cousin) was not to be deterred. She FLAGGED DOWN the first pick up that came along. Oh my--pass me mah salts. These men--who were actually very helpful gentlemen--looked like recruits from the neighboring Manson Ranch. It really is amazing how many tattoos the human arms can accommodate. They offered to change our tire but the Sandster just jumped in the back of the pick up and asked them to give us a ride up to our campsite. I had no choice but to follow. I have never hitchhiked and was unfamiliar with the protocol. Not the Sandster! Oh no--we arrived back at the camp with her yelling "Oh boys! hello there!" I felt the husbands gave the strange pick up with woman waving and yelling from the back an entirely too enthusiastic greeting before they recognized their wives. However, we thanked our rescuers and paid them off with bottles of Rattlesnake beer--the typical currency of the desert.

While we recovered with well-deserved gin and tonics, the men headed across the desert to fix the Jeep and bring it back. All of us were amazed that the wrench was embedded so deeply in the tire.

And now we are back in SeniorLand. Easter is over although there are still the oddest decorations on the lawns. Has anyone yet figured out what bunnies have to do with the Feast of the Resurrection?

Back to the Valley of Death

The very high winds and pitting sand emptied the Valley of many of the campers that had begun to fill up the campgrounds for Spring Break. We had one magnificent day when we FINALLY got to return to Titus canyon. It had been ten years since our last trip through it and it was our 5th attempt to find it open.

Howling sand, cracked feet, fingers and lips, hunkering down in the faithful Minnie, coyotes howling and comforting campfires--it is mostly good. Poor Mr. T took a tumble down the RV steps and broke the door handle off--it will hold(we hope) until we get back to Bakersfield for repairs.

The amazing pup fish!

Now how did he do that? This was the brainchild of an inventive Canadian who was camping across from us at Mesquite.

Back on the Streets of Bakersfield

Yes--we're on the road again. In spite of swearing NEVER, EVER to go to Death Valley during a spring break again, we're going to try it once more. Just us and ten thousand college students communing with nature. Harumph!


But the healing lure of the desert is stronger than any aversion to crowds. The hills beckon.

With the Minnie leading and me following in the Jeep--and getting 20 mpg--we headed south. I'm in high spirits having turned on every light inside and outside the house last night at 8:30pm. If any house were visible from space, ours was! So much for leaving a big carbon footprint--I hope ours was a whopper. As they say, take your empty symbolic gesture and something about a severe absence of global warming and a horse.

The drive down the I-5 was typical if not slightly less crowded than usual. I heard about the 'Twitchiker' and couldn't help thinking what his new bride of 4 days thought when he headed out for the farthest point from his home. But he did it and one does sympathize with a fellow blogger.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/5055496/The-Twitchiker-reaches-New-Zealand.html

There was a certain irony to hear Ol' Buck twangin' away "You don't know me but you don't like me" as we gassed up in Bakersfield. It's much the same. I did notice that many of the beautiful rose fields in Wasco have been scrapped and are now planted with grapes. That was sad--it was one of the few beautiful sights in the Bako area.

So now we spend the night once again at the great Orange Grove RV park and tomorrow head for the hills. Snakes are out so the dogs will be kenneled. Mr. T is even now out stocking up with tonic water and a few RV supplies. I will try to blog from the small internet room at Stovepipe Wells. In the meantime, ponder what it means that the current president, according to World Net Daily, is recruiting Moslems for positions in his administration. Would one have been allowed to recruit Baptists? We are doomed.

http://www.worldnetdaily.com/index.php?fa=PAGE.view&pageId=93251

Jeep in a Ditch

Beautiful Sonoma County--what could be more natural than to pull off the road to take a photo of this picturesque barn? I thought it was shoulder next to the road--WRONG! It was a deep, muddy ditch that was camouflaged by wildflowers and high grass. Oops--the entire passenger side of the Jeep slid off the road and into the ditch. No problem, I thought. I'll just slip this puppy into the ol' reliable four-wheel drive and pull right out--WRONG! I only succeeded in sliding the Jeep deeper into the ditch and coming to rest against a fence at a 45o angle. The two driver side wheels lost contact with the ground.

My poor 86 year old mother was in a very uncomfortable position--the ground was up against her window. I was holding on to the shoulder harness to keep from rolling across the console into her lap.

Not to worry--trusty cell phone to the rescue. I called AAA and the first thing they wanted to know was if we had a "safety issue." Well, duh--we're about to roll over completely and no one dares move lest we shift the weight just enough to complete the roll! Question number 2: where are you?

Uh-oh. I didn't know. And guess what? When the cell phone is on and one is talking to the mirror(Blue tooth) one can't call up the map from the navigation system. If I can't see the map, I don't know where I am!

Fortunately, some bikers came by and they extracted a map from their cute little bike packs and they were able to tell the AAA person where we all were. Help was promised within 20 minutes and the tow truck arrived even sooner than that!

With the snap of a wench, the Jeep was slurped out of the muddy ditch. What a mess!!

By the time we got back home and cracked open the adult food group, the mud had hardened to the consistency of cement. Oops--brakes all messed up. Mr. T came to the rescue and after removing a field's worth of mud and weeds, he was able to take off the wheel and clean out the brakes. I owe him big time!

Not that it was any consolation but the tow truck driver said there wasn't any Jeep with enough four-wheel drive to have gotten out of our predicament. But in the back of my mind is that nagging doubt about the Faithful Jeep.