My dad and I headed back to Nebraska for his oldest brother's funeral last week. It was good to see family, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road trip. Show all posts
Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
That's right, I'm not from Texas (but I've been there)
Facebook really is a pretty amazing thing. I think I found a guy who was an intern at the same time I was back in the late 1980s at the Corvallis Gazette-Times. He was from Texas and at the end of the internship, he invited me to drive back to Texas with him.
Perhaps it was because I had passed up any opportunity to visit Texas a couple of years earlier. I had dated a woman who was from Texas and she used to talk about taking me there. I really wasn't interested in going someplace I had never been before and where I didn't know anyone. It was outside my comfort zone. I came to regret that lack of interest and adventure.
So when the opportunity presented itself that summer, I think it was 1987, I decided to go and had a great time. It was a trip full of firsts.
Tom and I went out of our way to drive through Las Vegas, just because we could. It was the first time I had been to Vegas. It's ironic that in later years I came to love that city so much, because on that road trip, seeing Vegas in the middle of the day in late summer, it didn't impress. It was hotter than hell. The middle-age people roaming the streets in their polyester garb looked tacky as did the shiny, glittery facades of the city. I don't even know what part of the city Tom and I saw. It seemed so hellish and surreal. We didn't linger long and got the hell out of town and down the road.
We stopped at tacky souvenir shops. I wonder whatever happened to the Texas flag and set of steer horns I picked up on that trip? For years I had the University of Texas tank top I picked up in Austin. I was not a Longhorns fan, but it always reminded me of that trip and I loved that shirt.
Many of the memories of that trip have grown fuzzy with time. But some impressions of that trip have stuck with me. I remember seeing the El Paso city limit sign long before seeing El Paso, and then not seeing much of anything for hours and hours after passing the west Texas border town.
I would have loved to spend more time in San Antonio or San Marcos or Austin, but was only there a few days. The people there were amazing and made me feel so welcome. Maybe it was the soft Southern drawl so many spoke with, particularly the young women Tom introduced me to on the trip. They would say y'all and I would melt. I even started to say y'all too. I remember Tom chastising me for that. I think he thought I was making fun of his friends and the way they spoke. Far from it. I was fascinated, hypnotized by it. I wanted to be a Texan too.
Years later, I would think of that whenever I would hear Lyle Lovett's song "That's Right (Your Not From Texas)." I think if I had stayed there any longer, I may never have left. But all too soon I flew out of Austin and returned to Oregon. I left Texas, but I still carry parts of that trip with me.
I have a soft spot for Texas, or perhaps more accurately, Texans. Other than those few days, I've only been back in Texas to change planes at Dallas-Fort Worth. But Texans have been pivotal figures in my life. One is a friend who stood by me at my lowest point and helped me climb out of that pit. One is a friend who has shared his home, his cooking and his martinis and conversation and is willing to call me on my careless grammar (thanks Gene). And one was a former gymnast who introduced me to seafood and taught me to look beyond the outer image a woman presents to see the person inside.
And then there was Tom, who disliked country music except for a guy named George Strait, who's music I had never heard. Tom talked me in to traveling to Texas. And now, thanks to Facebook, I may be able to connect with someone I haven't talked to in decades. And, if nothing else, it got me thinking about some great times, great places and great people.
Perhaps it was because I had passed up any opportunity to visit Texas a couple of years earlier. I had dated a woman who was from Texas and she used to talk about taking me there. I really wasn't interested in going someplace I had never been before and where I didn't know anyone. It was outside my comfort zone. I came to regret that lack of interest and adventure.
So when the opportunity presented itself that summer, I think it was 1987, I decided to go and had a great time. It was a trip full of firsts.
Tom and I went out of our way to drive through Las Vegas, just because we could. It was the first time I had been to Vegas. It's ironic that in later years I came to love that city so much, because on that road trip, seeing Vegas in the middle of the day in late summer, it didn't impress. It was hotter than hell. The middle-age people roaming the streets in their polyester garb looked tacky as did the shiny, glittery facades of the city. I don't even know what part of the city Tom and I saw. It seemed so hellish and surreal. We didn't linger long and got the hell out of town and down the road.
We stopped at tacky souvenir shops. I wonder whatever happened to the Texas flag and set of steer horns I picked up on that trip? For years I had the University of Texas tank top I picked up in Austin. I was not a Longhorns fan, but it always reminded me of that trip and I loved that shirt.
Many of the memories of that trip have grown fuzzy with time. But some impressions of that trip have stuck with me. I remember seeing the El Paso city limit sign long before seeing El Paso, and then not seeing much of anything for hours and hours after passing the west Texas border town.
I would have loved to spend more time in San Antonio or San Marcos or Austin, but was only there a few days. The people there were amazing and made me feel so welcome. Maybe it was the soft Southern drawl so many spoke with, particularly the young women Tom introduced me to on the trip. They would say y'all and I would melt. I even started to say y'all too. I remember Tom chastising me for that. I think he thought I was making fun of his friends and the way they spoke. Far from it. I was fascinated, hypnotized by it. I wanted to be a Texan too.
Years later, I would think of that whenever I would hear Lyle Lovett's song "That's Right (Your Not From Texas)." I think if I had stayed there any longer, I may never have left. But all too soon I flew out of Austin and returned to Oregon. I left Texas, but I still carry parts of that trip with me.
I have a soft spot for Texas, or perhaps more accurately, Texans. Other than those few days, I've only been back in Texas to change planes at Dallas-Fort Worth. But Texans have been pivotal figures in my life. One is a friend who stood by me at my lowest point and helped me climb out of that pit. One is a friend who has shared his home, his cooking and his martinis and conversation and is willing to call me on my careless grammar (thanks Gene). And one was a former gymnast who introduced me to seafood and taught me to look beyond the outer image a woman presents to see the person inside.
And then there was Tom, who disliked country music except for a guy named George Strait, who's music I had never heard. Tom talked me in to traveling to Texas. And now, thanks to Facebook, I may be able to connect with someone I haven't talked to in decades. And, if nothing else, it got me thinking about some great times, great places and great people.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Reliving the gory, glory days
This upcoming weekend, the Fourth of July weekend, is one I've been looking forward to for a long time. Now, for some unexplained reason, I find myself having mixed emotions about it.
I've been looking forward to it for months now because there is a reunion in my old hometown and I'm hoping to see a lot of old friends from school, many of whom I probably haven't seen in 20 years or more.
Our school was quite small, so we can't really have traditional high school reunions, where a particular class gathers at those various milestone years -- 5, 10, 20, 25 years, etc. If we did that for my class, there would only be 17 of us there, and spouses perhaps, and that's if everyone showed up, and if I'm rightly remembering the number of people in my class. Obviously, everyone would not show up. So, every so often a school/community reunion is scheduled where everyone from any year, or who has ever just lived in the community can show up. So, that might improve the odds that more than 17 people will be there, but it also means that people far younger, or older, than I and whom I don't even know will be there. It's not just classmates, or even immediate year schoolmates.
I already know at least one of my classmates, and the guy who was my best friend from second grade through college, won't be there. He has a family event to attend for the holiday weekend.
Maybe part of the reason I'm having mixed feelings is because I'm skipping out on a family event myself to attend this school/community reunion. But this is only the second school reunion like this I've heard about since I graduated. The only other one I knew about occurred when I was living in California and the time off just wasn't in the cards, or something. I don't really remember when it was or why I didn't go, but I didn't.
I am excited to see at least one person who I know is expected to attend. One of my old running buddies who now lives in Germany is bringing his wife and kids home to visit his family and they scheduled their visit to coincide with the reunion.
The friend in question was a few years ahead of me in school, and had a bit of a wild boy reputation. Why he ever let me hang out with him, I'll never know. But we had a good time pursuing, if never quite capturing the elusive females of the species on warm summer days and nights in a beat up Chevy Vega, or whatever vehicle I could manage to borrow from my folks.
In fact I even served as best man at his first wedding, a casual backyard affair. I had no clue what a best man was supposed to do, and in hindsight I was a lousy one, but I stood up with my friend and witnesses the momentous occasion, all the while fawning over his then-new bride's younger sister.
My ol' buddy and I got reacquainted not so long ago over the Internet. In fact he was the one who told me about the reunion. Obviously he's got better connections around the old homestead than I do. Given the time difference, we often catch up with each other just as he is starting his work day and I'm thinking I should head off to bed.
Getting a chance to get caught up should be worth the trip. And who knows, maybe there will be some still single, or single again, women there too. And I can get absolutely nowhere again with the girls-turned-women of my old hometown.
Sometimes I get quite nostalgic for home, that home of my youth, and the people I spent it with. But I don't miss the boy I was, perpetually shy and terrified of members of the opposite sex. The boy who was unsure of himself and his place in the world. That boy is, for the most part, gone. But his ghosts haunts the present day from time to time, like when I'm confronted with a new situation, or meeting new people in a purely social context. It's those times I wish I had my old running buddy or my old best friend to lead the way with their outgoing, seemingly unflappable natures. Their confidence, bordering on arrogance, was something I've never perfected, except sometimes in the working world. Sometimes, when I know I need to take a leap, not like the one at the swimming hole along the Umatilla River of my teens, I need someone to leap first to show me the water is deep enough. And sometimes I need someone to give me a little nudge to leave the relative security of solid ground to step out into thin air and feel the rush.
I've been looking forward to it for months now because there is a reunion in my old hometown and I'm hoping to see a lot of old friends from school, many of whom I probably haven't seen in 20 years or more.
Our school was quite small, so we can't really have traditional high school reunions, where a particular class gathers at those various milestone years -- 5, 10, 20, 25 years, etc. If we did that for my class, there would only be 17 of us there, and spouses perhaps, and that's if everyone showed up, and if I'm rightly remembering the number of people in my class. Obviously, everyone would not show up. So, every so often a school/community reunion is scheduled where everyone from any year, or who has ever just lived in the community can show up. So, that might improve the odds that more than 17 people will be there, but it also means that people far younger, or older, than I and whom I don't even know will be there. It's not just classmates, or even immediate year schoolmates.
I already know at least one of my classmates, and the guy who was my best friend from second grade through college, won't be there. He has a family event to attend for the holiday weekend.
Maybe part of the reason I'm having mixed feelings is because I'm skipping out on a family event myself to attend this school/community reunion. But this is only the second school reunion like this I've heard about since I graduated. The only other one I knew about occurred when I was living in California and the time off just wasn't in the cards, or something. I don't really remember when it was or why I didn't go, but I didn't.
I am excited to see at least one person who I know is expected to attend. One of my old running buddies who now lives in Germany is bringing his wife and kids home to visit his family and they scheduled their visit to coincide with the reunion.
The friend in question was a few years ahead of me in school, and had a bit of a wild boy reputation. Why he ever let me hang out with him, I'll never know. But we had a good time pursuing, if never quite capturing the elusive females of the species on warm summer days and nights in a beat up Chevy Vega, or whatever vehicle I could manage to borrow from my folks.
In fact I even served as best man at his first wedding, a casual backyard affair. I had no clue what a best man was supposed to do, and in hindsight I was a lousy one, but I stood up with my friend and witnesses the momentous occasion, all the while fawning over his then-new bride's younger sister.
My ol' buddy and I got reacquainted not so long ago over the Internet. In fact he was the one who told me about the reunion. Obviously he's got better connections around the old homestead than I do. Given the time difference, we often catch up with each other just as he is starting his work day and I'm thinking I should head off to bed.
Getting a chance to get caught up should be worth the trip. And who knows, maybe there will be some still single, or single again, women there too. And I can get absolutely nowhere again with the girls-turned-women of my old hometown.
Sometimes I get quite nostalgic for home, that home of my youth, and the people I spent it with. But I don't miss the boy I was, perpetually shy and terrified of members of the opposite sex. The boy who was unsure of himself and his place in the world. That boy is, for the most part, gone. But his ghosts haunts the present day from time to time, like when I'm confronted with a new situation, or meeting new people in a purely social context. It's those times I wish I had my old running buddy or my old best friend to lead the way with their outgoing, seemingly unflappable natures. Their confidence, bordering on arrogance, was something I've never perfected, except sometimes in the working world. Sometimes, when I know I need to take a leap, not like the one at the swimming hole along the Umatilla River of my teens, I need someone to leap first to show me the water is deep enough. And sometimes I need someone to give me a little nudge to leave the relative security of solid ground to step out into thin air and feel the rush.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Death takes a road trip
There is a story out on the Associated Press wire about a woman who died while on a cross-country journey with her family. They were traveling in an RV and the woman died while crossing Wyoming. I've only felt like I might die while crossing Wyoming, but she actually went and did it. But the family didn't stop. They continues on their journey to Oregon before reporting the death.
The story reminds me of a story that a newspaper I worked for several years ago reported about a family that drove the patriarch of their family across the country in the back of his car, post mortem. The guy's final wish was to make one last road trip in his car, and he got his wish. Of course he got embalmed before his trip.
I wish I could find the story that was published in the Daily Press back then by then-reporter Don Holland. It was a story that could have been creepy, or morbid, but Don handled it well and it was actually a humorous story. If memory serves, my friend Mike Sweeney (the photojournalist, not the baseball player, whom I don't know) took the photo that accompanied the story, which was also tastefully done and fit the tone of the story.
I wish I had a copy of that story.
By boss back then used to say that every weird story either began or ended in the desert. In that case, he was referring to the Mojave Desert. Well, not every weird story starts or ends in the desert (although even this one started in California). Some weird stories lead right here to the Willamette Valley.
The story reminds me of a story that a newspaper I worked for several years ago reported about a family that drove the patriarch of their family across the country in the back of his car, post mortem. The guy's final wish was to make one last road trip in his car, and he got his wish. Of course he got embalmed before his trip.
I wish I could find the story that was published in the Daily Press back then by then-reporter Don Holland. It was a story that could have been creepy, or morbid, but Don handled it well and it was actually a humorous story. If memory serves, my friend Mike Sweeney (the photojournalist, not the baseball player, whom I don't know) took the photo that accompanied the story, which was also tastefully done and fit the tone of the story.
I wish I had a copy of that story.
By boss back then used to say that every weird story either began or ended in the desert. In that case, he was referring to the Mojave Desert. Well, not every weird story starts or ends in the desert (although even this one started in California). Some weird stories lead right here to the Willamette Valley.
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