ME ‘N’ GOD TALK PROSTATE

 

ME:            Hello God?

 

GOD:          H’yup.

 

ME:            I’m David.  Do you have a minute?

 

GOD:          I know who you are.

 

ME:            You do?

 

GOD:          Of course, David.  You’re the writer.

 

ME:            Wow!

 

GOD:          I particularly like that 23^rd Psalm of yours.

 

ME:            I didn’t write the 23^rd Psalm.

 

GOD:          But your name is David and you said you’re a writer.

 

ME:            You said I was a writer. And I am.  Sorta.

 

GOD:          Sorta?

 

ME:            Yes.  Sorta.  I write a blog.

 

GOD:          Oh Me! What’s a blog?

 

ME:            It’s a venue where you can make stuff up… you know… and share your ideas without having ‘em scrutinized by an editor. No agents or publishing houses to deal with… Hell, it doesn’t even… Oops…  Sorry…

 

GOD:          Go on.

 

ME:            …doesn’t even have to be factual.

 

GOD:          I’m familiar with the genre.  They’ve been around a lot longer than you have, David.  Some folks call ‘em scriptures.  

 

                  When did they start calling ‘em… What did you call ‘em?

 

ME:            Blogs.  I write a blog.

 

GOD:          Yes. A blog. On parchment?

 

ME:            No.  Electronically.  On the net… You know, the web…

 

GOD:          On the what?  How do you… Never mind. 

                  

                  [SUBVOCALIZED] Jesus! Kids these days..  

 

JESUS:       [OFF STAGE] D’you call me, Dad?

 

GOD:          No!  I’m talkin’ to David, here…

 

JESUS:       The 23^rd Psalm guy?  From Judea?

 

GOD:          I’m not sure where he’s from.  Now don’t interrupt, kid!  I’m havin’ a conversation here…

         

                  [TO ‘ME’] So, what do you write about?

 

ME:            Oh… Umm… Travel.  History of California… the West. And stuff I see or make up or think about while I’m riding my motorcycle. Although sometimes I just sing Sinatra tunes.

 

GOD:          Ah!  Sinatra. Wish he’da made it… [SINGS] Some day…

 

TOGETHER:        …when I’m awfully low, 

                  when the world is cold, 

                  I will feel a glow just thinking of you…

 

                  [PAUSE.  GOD AND ‘ME’ MAKE EYE CONTACT]

 

GOD:          Wait!  You ride a motorcycle?  They’re an abomination!

 

ME:            I’m sorry.  I didn’t know that.  They sure are exhilarating, though.  Breath-taking.

 

GOD:          Lots of exhilarating, breath-taking things are an abomination.  What kind of motorcycle is it?

 

ME:            A Ducati.  It’s Italian.

 

GOD:          Loquerisne mihi ex Italia?  Papa non es homo?

 

ME:            What?

 

GOD:          I’m sorry.  I slipped into Latin.  I figured it out. You’re from Italy…

 

ME:            No, I’m stateside.  

 

GOD:          Stateside?

 

ME:            The new world.

 

GOD:          There’s a new world?  Why wouldn’t I know this?

 

ME:            Other side of the planet from Italy.

 

GOD:          Oh.  Got it.  Anyway, I asked if you were the Pope.  A lot of folks think I have a hand in picking him.

 

ME:            Yeah, well, a lot of folks think it’s just politics.

 

GOD:          It must be something like that.  I sure as hell don’t pick winners and losers.  Not even for the Super Bowl.

 

ME:            Wait!  You just said, “Sure as hell.” So, hell is a sure thing?

 

GOD:          Have you seen Ukraine lately?  Aleppo, Syria?  North Korea?  Barstow…

 

ME:            Point taken.

 

GOD:          So, David.  What did you wake me up for?

 

ME:            Oh! I didn’t mean to wake you up.  I can call back later.

 

GOD:          No.  No.  I don’t get too many calls lately.  Most are just the self-righteous who dial me up and want me to condemn this or that. I tell ‘em they’re barkin’ up the wrong tree – tell ‘em maybe Billy Graham’s kid can do that for ‘em, or that Ted Cruz fella.  He’s pretty good at condemning things – and then I hang up.  

 

ME:            - - - 

 

GOD:          Saayyyy… You don’t want me to condemn anything or anybody, do you?

 

ME:            Not off the top of my head.  I’m sure I could come up with somebody or something if I thought about it.

 

GOD:          Don’t bother yourself.  No need.  If somebody or something needs condemning, I’ve already got it figured out.  I’ve got almost everything figured out.  Like I did with you and that 23^rdPsalm.

 

ME:            But I told you I didn’t write the 23^rd Psalm.

 

GOD:          Hey!  I’m fallible.

 

ME:            What?  Fallible?  You?

 

GOD:          Sure.  You know that part about people being made in My image?

 

ME:            Yeah.

 

GOD:          Well, are people fallible?

 

ME:            Umm… Yeah.

 

GOD:          Well then, wouldn’t it follow that I’m fallible, too?  Certainly, I’ve screwed up from time to time.  Earthquakes? Floods? Plagues? Locusts? Cable television? Those were just screw ups on my part.

 

ME:            But that’s not what the Good Book tells us.

 

GOD:          Do you think I had anything to do with your so-called Good Book?

 

ME:            Didn’t you?

 

GOD:          Look.  I’ve made stuff up.  The fish of the sea. The birds of the air.  The beasts of the field.  But the Good Book? Someone else made that up.

 

ME:            Someone else?

 

GOD:          Sure!  Why should I toot my own horn?  I leave that to Gabriel or, if he’s not available, Satchmo. 

 

ME:            Louis Armstrong made it?  I heard he smoked weed and sh… stuff.

 

GOD:          Louis Armstrong made it.

 

ME:            But Sinatra didn’t…

 

GOD:          What can I say?  I work in mysterious ways…

 

ME:            [AFTER A PAUSE] So, what do you do with your time?

 

GOD:          Time?  What’s that but an invention of mankind?

 

ME:            I never thought of it that way…

 

GOD:          Before you all invented time, as I recall, the sun came up and everybody did some things, then the sun went down, and everybody went to sleep. Simple. Perfection, I’d call it.  Then you all invent time and screw it up.

 

ME:            Now wait a minute, sir… I mean, your highness… I mean…

 

GOD:          Call me God.  It’s short.  It’s sorta sweet. It’s direct.

 

ME:            Okay, “God.”  Look, I didn’t invent time.  I didn’t invent much of anything other than those motorcycle stories and history tidbits I post on my blog.

 

GOD:          Do others like your work?  Some folks like my work.  

 

                  If someone likes your work, it kinda gives a reason for your… your… existence.

 

ME:            So, is there a reason for existence for everybody?

 

GOD:          That would have been a good plan.

 

ME:            So, you didn’t have a plan?

 

GOD:          Well, to be honest with you, not really.  What happened was short, sweet, and simple.  A bit like a Science Fair project for a fifth grader.  

 

ME:            Science Fair?

 

GOD:          Sure.  You see, hundreds of billions of what you folks call years ago, I created a couple of gas clouds and I had them floating around in space. Then, to see what might happen, I exhaled a puff on one and then the other and they sorta collided.  I’d figured that nothing would happen, or at worst, the combined clouds might turn green or turquoise, then just kinda dissipate.  But wow! Did I get that wrong!  Hell of an explosion!  You shoulda seen it!

 

ME:            So, the whole thing was more like an accident?

 

GOD:          Accident? Accident!  I’m not sure I could admit anything like that.  I have to think of my standing with… with… umm… the faithful.  I mean, I may bungle some things but…. 

 

ME:            [INTERUPTING] But what?

 

GOD:          Look!  Nobody’s perfect.  But, that said, David, I’d advise you to remember that you’re talking to God here.  And I’m the last entity you want hanging up on you.

 

ME:            Oh.  Y…y…yes. Sorry.

 

GOD:          Hey!  Not a problem!  I’m all about forgiveness.  All you gotta do is ask…

 

                  Anyway, as a result of the blast, a bunch of bits of stuff… matter… phlogiston…. started flying out all over the place.  Icy stuff.  Molten stuff.  The hot stuff spun around until it formed these beautiful, almost perfect balls.  Planets, like that one you’re on.  And ever since that happened, I just sit back and watch… monitor things.  Most of this is outside of my control.

 

ME:            How long ago was this?

 

GOD:          I don’t do time, remember.  [ASIDE] Although that Donald Trump character probably should.

 

ME:            So, you just sit back and watch.

 

GOD:          Yes.  I guess it’s like a giant… what do you call ‘em?.. video game.  Like your alternate reality, except it’s real reality.  So, yeah.  For me, I just sit back and watch my universe expand.

 

ME:            Your universe?  Are there others?

 

GOD:          Well, I think Zeus has one.  And several other guys.

 

ME:            Guys?

 

GOD:          You don’t think a bunch of old white men came up with male dominance on their own, do you?

 

ME:            - - -

 

GOD:          Another one of my screw ups.

 

ME:            Well, I’m afraid I’ve got another one to tell you about.

 

GOD:          Oh, yeah?

 

ME:            Yeah.  Let me ask you a question.

 

GOD:          Shoot.

 

ME:            How’s your prostate?

 

GOD:          My what?

 

ME:            Your prostate.  It’s a little gland in your lower belly that produces hormones and fluids and the stuff that helps men with their part in creating new life.

 

GOD:          You create new life?

 

ME:            Yep.  I suppose it’s part of that chain reaction you set off with your Big Bang Science Fair experiment.  Did you get a ribbon or anything for that?

 

GOD:          No. I do recall singing my whiskers pretty good.

 

ME:            Well, the prostate is about the size of a walnut, although, on you, it might be bigger.  For you, I’d bet an XXXL.

 

GOD:          I’m… well… fit for my age.

 

ME:            Well, the prostate, like damned near everything else you created, is made up of cells.

 

GOD:          Cells?  Like what Socrates or OJ was in?

 

ME:            No, silly… I mean sir… I mean… Oh, God.

 

GOD:          Yes?

 

ME:            A cell is a living unit.  A building block.  A membrane like a balloon filled with fluid and some sort of a nucleus that regiments and regulates how big it gets and how it fits in with others.

 

GOD:          Sounds governmental.

 

ME:            Actually, it’s biological.  Except…

 

GOD:          Except what? 

 

ME:            Except when for some reason unknown to us… maybe known to you… 

 

GOD:          Search me. I don’t even know what you’re talking about here…

 

ME:            …the cells mutate or change and no longer fit together correctly.  Then a man can’t pee, can’t develop a… well, can’t reproduce… and sometimes the crazy cells start to invade other parts of the body.  Usually happens once a guy is fifty to sixty years old.  Maybe older.

 

GOD:          I don’t do time, remember?

 

ME:            Yeah.  But you’re old.  So, how’s your prostate?  Can you pee?  Can you have kids?

 

GOD:          Well, David, if you’ll recall, the last time I fathered a child, the whole thing was a bit of a fiasco.

 

ME:            Don’t get me started on that!  But here’s my question.  I’ve lived a pretty clean life, didn’t do drugs, never smoked much other than the occasional cigar, attended church for a while…

 

GOD:          For a while?

 

ME:            Yeah.  Had to quit.  Evangelicals.  Money changers. Bastards hiding behind the skirts of believers and the gullible in order to do their evil.

 

GOD:          Of course.  Another of my great disappointments.

 

ME:            Drank a little scotch.  Maybe too much.

 

GOD:          What kind?

 

ME:            Lagavulin 16.

 

GOD:          Nice.  I prefer the Oban.  Nectar of the… well… Me.

 

ME:            Anyway, about a month ago, they did me a blood draw and, in checking things out, found there’s a bit of a carnival going on in my prostate.  Now they say they have to cut it out or zap it…

 

GOD:          I could zap it for you…

 

ME:            No thanks.  I’ve seen what happened with your last experiment.

 

GOD:          So, what’s your question?

 

ME:            Well, they say it’s pretty curable, but if they don’t catch it in time… and they may not have in my case… the mutant cells may spread throughout my body, and I may die.

 

GOD:          Really?  How soon?

 

ME:            You don’t do time, remember?

 

GOD:          Right.  Sorry.

 

ME:            So, here’s my question.  They say you see all and know all…

 

GOD:          David.  I’m not the Wizard of Oz.  I’m not even sure I’m the man behind the curtain anymore.

 

ME:            Okay.  Okay.  I’m just worried that things are gonna come to an end before I’m through with all I want to do.

 

GOD:          David, there’s not a thinking person alive that doesn’t have the same concern as they peer into that valley of the shadow you wrote about. 

 

ME:            I didn’t write the…

 

GOD:          Shush, now!  You want my advice?

 

ME:            Uh… Sure.

 

GOD:          Then listen:  Use your current… umm... circumstance as a motivator to make the best of the… what do you call it?... the time you have.  Live, love, write, dream.  Got any unfinished projects?

 

ME:            Yeah.

 

GOD:          Well, just finish ‘em and rejoice.  Then, what the hell, start another.  Okay?

 

ME:            - - -

 

GOD:          Oh, but keep this in mind: As long you insist on tearing around on that damned Ducati, it’s likely that it won’t be the prostate that does you in…

 

 

A MASSIVE BOOM RESONATES, ECHOING FOR SEVERAL SECONDS…

 

 

GOD:          Well crap!

 

ME:            What was that?

 

GOD:          [RISES, SIGHS AUDIBLY] Mother Nature.  Looks like somebody tried to pass off another cheap-assed stick of margarine as butter again.  Haven’t you people learned that it’s not nice to fool with her?

 

© 2022

Church of the Open Road Press

 

 

THE GREAT REDWOOD TRAIL: DREAMS AND CHALLENGES

 Part 3 (of 3):  Rails to Trails in Our Backyard

 

In my garage rests a beautiful Peugeot ten-speed that I purchased new in 1972.  Back then I used it to commute to class at Chico State and later, occasionally, to my teaching assignment eight miles south in Durham on a bike path that once was the route of the Sacramento Northern Railway. 

         So, the idea of a hiking/biking path from Cloverdale to Humboldt Bay sets my mind to dreaming of hopping on the Peugeot and pedaling the entire distance.  Imagine! Following the route of the old Northwestern Pacific through vineyards and foothills to Ukiah and Willits then though the rugged and remote Eel River canyon, tunneling beneath stands of redwoods and madrone, ultimately arriving at the coast with its sea gull calls and wisps of salt air.  [Understand that I get a bit tuckered out just cycling back from the coffee joint just a few blocks downtown, but that’s beside the point.]

 

In the early 1900s, the NWP appeared to be a good transportation idea, one that would link the Eureka area with the outside world, sending redwood south and agricultural goods, manufactured products, and tourists north.  But geology, geomorphology, and weather ~ essentially Mother Nature, herself ~ had other ideas.  So, railbanking the route (preserving the grade but no longer enabling rail traffic) and repurposing it as a recreational trail seems a good use of her remains.  

         A roadblock may be around the bend, however.  A group interested in transporting coal from Wyoming’s Powder River Basin (Hey!  That’s Walt Longmire’s neck of the woods!) to export markets in Asia has proposed revitalizing the old NWP as a critical link from the Union Pacific right-of-way near Suisun to a yet-to-be-built transshipment facility at Humboldt Bay.  Called the North Coast Railroad Company, the group has filed formal opposition to the proposal to railbank the old NWP route and convert it to trail.  The Company intends to acquire the line “and restore it to operating condition to support future, high-volume traffic flows.” The company claims that it has $1.2 billion in their pocket(s), but those in the know suggest it would cost twice that to restore the line.  

        Political leaders ranging from local city council members to area Congress-folk are lining up against the efforts to return freight traffic for a couple of reasons.  1) Globally, the growing belief that burning fossil fuel such as coal is harmful to the planet; and 2) locally, the persnickety nature of Mother Nature and her inclination to toss a trainload of subbituminous coal into the Eel in the event of a track failure or landslide.  

         It will be interesting to see if the coal train somehow derails the Great Redwood Trail.

 

Absent the above, it may be ten or more years before the Great Redwood Trail comes fully to fruition.  In those years, issues like the protection of neighboring property, accommodation of overnight campers, infrastructure maintenance and trail security will be addressed and resolved.  However, given that time frame, my dream of pedaling from here to Eureka on a then-60-year-old bicycle ~ at age 80-plus myself ~ may always be just a dream.  

         But that old Peugeot is a darned good bike and I have a strapping grandkid or two who’ll be about 25 at the time. 

 

Hmmmm…  Guess who might be getting an antique ten speed and, along with that, a mission…

 

Resources:

For more information on the history of the Northwestern Pacific Railroad, check out: http://www.nwprrhs.org/history.html

For progress and details on the Great Redwood Trail, see:  http://www.thegreatredwoodtrail.org

 

© 2022

Church of the Open Road Press

THE GREAT REDWOOD TRAIL: CONCEPT AND PROPOSAL

 Part 2 (of 3): Rails to Trails in our Backyard

 

The completion of the transcontinental railroad in 1869 linking east to west ushered in the golden age of railroads in the United States. Midwestern wheat easily shipped to east coast flour mills, Kansas feedlot cattle mooooved almost effortlessly to east coast markets, and folks could cross from east coast to west in days rather than months. The magic carpet made of steel sealed the early 19^th century doctrine that American expansion across the continent was inevitable.  And, until the 1950s, rail was most certainly king.

         In 1956, The Federal-Aid Highway Act authorized the construction of a 41,000-mile network of interstate highways that would span the nation, and rail transportation’s dominance began to fade.  Some opine that the last most profitable year for the freight rail industry was when trains transported the cement that was used to build the interstates.  That may or may not be true, but as trucking allowed more flexibility, rail lines became less feasible, and many were ultimately abandoned.

         The “Rails to Trails” movement sought to repurpose these rights-of-way.  Given that out of necessity, rail lines rarely exceeded a grade of 2% ~ that is two feet of rise for every 100 feet in distance ~ rail grades could and do offer easy walkin’ and ridin’ for hikers and bicyclists.  Many provide access to some of the most beautiful, rugged, and remote quarters of the west: The Bizz Johnson Trail on the old Pacific Fruit Express line skirts Fredonyer Pass in Lassen County; miles of the old Tonopah and Tidewater slip toward the edge of Death Valley at Rhyolite (my dad worked for the T&T); and the original route of the Central Pacific over Donner Pass invites hikers through tunnels chiseled and blasted back in the 1860s.  (Even today, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the echoing ping of the picks striking the granite.)

 

The Great Redwood Trail is envisioned as repurposing the old Northwestern Pacific line from Cloverdale, through the Eel River canyon to Rohnerville and Eureka.  The route will use existing bridges and tunnels ~ work around them where necessary ~ and split the third largest watershed in the entire state.  Travelers will hike through the ancestral homelands of the Yuki people, cross ranchlands that date back to the mid 1800s, and ultimately follow the edge of a languid Eel River as it meanders along the coastal plain en route to the sea.  Along the way, the adventuresome will observe flora and fauna in nearly pristine environs while stepping back some 200-plus years from the pressures of the 21^st century into the pleasantries of… well… not the 21^st century.

         Access points may serve to revitalize dot-on-the-map communities including Outlet, Dos Rios, Bell Springs, Island Mountain, Alder Point, and Fort Seward. Each of these places holds a unique history associated not only with the railroad, but with the First Peoples who resided in the region for over 10,000 years as well as the ranchers and lumbermen that followed.  Users may choose to day hike or bike out of each locale or engage in a point-to-point-to-point for all or part of the two-hundred-mile section north of Cloverdale.  Camping and sanitation will be available as well as security for local landowners.  (SMART is committed to construction of a bikeway along its tracks from Cloverdale south to the Bay.)

         Though currently only in the planning stages, if all goes well, within the decade a vast and wonderful experience will be open to us and our children. Many communities are already on-board with the project.  

Besides: What could possibly go wrong?  Could the Great Redwood Trail possibly get… dare I say it?... derailed?

 

Next: The Great Redwood Trail: Dreams and Challenges 

 

© 2022 

Church of the Open Road Press

THE GREAT REDWOOD TRAIL: A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE NORTHWESTERN PACIFIC RAILROAD

 Part 1 (of 3):  Rails to Trails in our Backyard

 

In Northwest California lie Humboldt and Mendocino Counties.  The region, with its steep terrain and large redwood forests, remained isolated from the rest of California until the completion of the Northwestern Pacific Railroad (NWP) in 1914.  After being settled by immigrants in the 1850s, the coastal regions of both counties were easily accessed by sea, but an overland route was slow and difficult to traverse.  Particularly vexing was the transport of redwood lumber ~ often referred to as “red gold” ~ from area mills to San Francisco markets.  In the 1850s, doghole schooners were the main vehicle for shipment, but mill owners were only paid once their timber arrived in port.  When a ship went down ~ as happened frequently ~ so went the profit.

         In 1884, two Humboldt mill owners, John Vance and William Carson (…recall Eureka’s elegant and gingerbready Carson mansion?  Same guy…) joined forces to begin a railroad that would connect Eureka with the outside world.  A rail line was constructed to link Eureka with Fortuna and Rohnerville.  Fifteen years later, the Pacific Lumber Company in Scotia began building lines south into the Eel River. Soon the area was webbed with tracks servicing mills and towns, but shortly after the turn of the century, none were yet connected to the economic hub of the San Francisco Bay Area. 

         Enter the owners of the Santa Fe and the Southern Pacific.  In 1906, they joined into an agreement that would link the north country lines with those owned by the S.P. which already extended from the Bay to Willits.  The trick would be to construct something through the rugged and remote Eel River Canyon.

         Over the next seven years, crews prepared grade, built bridges, bored tunnels and laid track along the river course finally driving a “golden spike” at Cain Rock in 1914.  At a cost of $14 million dollars the rail line was finished.

 

But the fun was just beginning.  California’s Coast Range is a complex mixture of geologic features.  Mother Nature’s favorite toys, tectonics, volcanism, and the weather, play havoc with the plans of mere humans.  Movement along faults and fissures like to nudge and sometimes shatter stuff we build in the coastal mountains.  Huge plugs of basalt speak to her volcanic past.  And, at cut banks we can see today, bent and tilted layers of unstable clay indicate that the NWP traverses an ancient, ever-uplifting ocean floor.  (So does US 101.)

         Heavy winter rains, working in concert with these elements caused bridges to wash out, tunnels to collapse and rails to give way under the weight of passing freights. Like dots on a timeline of misfortune, one washout or collapse was soon followed by another.  Among the more notable?  In a 1964 flood ~ one that some of us may remember ~ the entire rail route through the canyon was washed away. Remnants of fallen rail cars can still be found in the riverbed.  Tenaciously, the tracks were rebuilt.  Then in 1978, the tunnel at Island Mountain caught fire ~ arson is still suspected ~ and the redwood ties and tunnel support structure burned, collapsing the thing. That, too, was repaired.

         But the die was cast.  While shipping lumber by rail was cheaper and more efficient than by schooner, it wasn’t much more reliable.  Construction cost for the route proved to be a fraction of the cost of keeping things up and running.  Plus, with the advent of the state and federal highway systems, diesel trucks proved more reliable and more flexible in getting product to market.

         70 years battling the greater forces of Mother Nature proved to be enough ~ she always wins, doesn’t she?  The last NWP train ran on the northern line in 1984.  

     

What might become of an abandoned rail line through such a scenic ~ yet unstable ~ corridor?

 

Reference:   Northwestern Pacific Railroad: Eureka to Willits.  Susan O’Hara and Alex Service.  Arcadia Publishing.  2013. $22.  (Locally available, this is a delightful book with tons of information and lots of old photos.)

 

Next:             The Great Redwood Trail: Concept and Proposal

© 2022 

Church of the Open Road Press

2021: THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD’S YEAR IN REVIEW

  

In the beginning it was all black and white.

~ Maureen O’Hara

 

 

Click on any picture to expand 'em all.  (Some might be deemed worth the effort.)

Mid-winter ride on the beloved Enrico, the Yamaha, little knowing his days would be numbered.

 

Nothing like an old barn and a good cloudscape…

 

…even a cloudscape close to home, to capture some emotion.

 

Springtime and mustard cover crop in the vineyards of the Napa Valley.

 

This bell seemed a little Hitchcockian…

 

…as did this tilting silo.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps it's because this is near Bodega...

 

 

I read that prior to the advent of color TV, 

most people dreamed in black and white.

~ Damian Loeb

 

Revisited some long-ago haunts…

 

… and some places we’d like to haunt again.

 

Perfunctory derelict tractor image.

 

Perfunctory wildflower image.

 

Perfunctory love note from Dad to Mom circa 1948.

 

Edward visits the trestle…

 

…on one of our many coastal sojourns where we see…

 

…breakers…

 

…beach bums…

 

…light houses…

 

…and smoke-choked sunsets.

 

Enrico’s replacement is an Italian varietal I’ve named Mariolanza, the Moto Guzzi.

 

 

A melancholy trip to Simpson Camp…

 

…scorched by the year-ago’s Mendocino Complex…

 

…leaving little but memories.

 

I wanted to be Amish when I was a kid. 

You just wear black and white - what could be better? 

One less thing to worry about. 

~ Anderson Cooper

 

Autumn leaves…

 

…a tune from Tony Bennett…

 

…a watchful guardian…

 

…a perfunctory old truck picture…

 

…and snow dusts the nearby Mayacamas for Christmas.

 

 

Shots of the year (as judged by me):  Third runner up ~ steel bridge over Butte Creek.

 

Second runner up: Damn! That’s a beautiful bike!

 

First runner up: Reflections in a walking path puddle.

 

Shot of the Year:  Live steam!

 

If everything isn’t black and white, I say, “Why the hell not?”

~ John Wayne

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

 

THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD’S WINTER SOLSTICE WISH

1942

 

Consider this early encounter at Rick’s Café Americain…

 

Ilsa            I wasn’t sure you were the same. Let’s see, the last time we met…

Rick          It was “La Belle Aurore.”

Ilsa           How nice. You remembered. But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into town.

Rick          Not an easy day to forget.

Ilsa           No.

 

Rick          I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.

Ilsa           Yes. I put that dress away. When the Germans march out, I’ll wear it. again.

 

2021

 

A long-held view of the Church of the Open Road is simply this: Many things in life can be related to one scene or another from the film Casablanca.  

 

In keeping with this belief, the “church” not offering a misty-eyed holiday tale or recapitulation of the family year in review.  Rather, this year, we submit simply the hope that in our country, one day soon, the seeds of representative democracy will again be nourished to grow and bear their luscious fruit; that our great experiment in self-governance will revive itself and again flourish; and that Ilsa Lund will feel compelled, once again, to wear that blue dress. 

 

Only together can we ensure that this will indeed happen as time goes by…

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

MR. BUTTONS

The rule is this:  Never name a stray because once you give a stray a name, it’s no longer a stray.  It is yours.

 

It had been three days of rain, and, on this Sunday, a phenomenon known as an atmospheric river had aimed itself directly over Cloverdale.  Still, amid 72-hours in the house, we had to get Edward, the lab-mix – himself, years ago, a nameless stray puppy – out for a walk through our drenched neighborhood.  We’d make a short loop down the street, across a bridge and then up a paved path tracing the bank of a swollen creek.  Travelling that path, I’m not sure who noticed it first, Candi, or Edward.  But huddled next to a post on the split-rail fence lay a small cat – not a kitten – but not very big.  Cats, worldly ones, at least, flee whenever Edward crosses the horizon not knowing he’s on leash.  This cute little guy, white with tan and gray splotches, just lay under the fence, eyes following Edward’s moves.

         Something wasn’t right.

         Candi held Edward close while I approached.  At about six feet distant, the cat had had enough.  He leapt to his feet, and, after only two strides, fell on his side.  As I gingerly moved forward, he didn’t attempt to run.  He couldn’t.  Rather he hissed, bared his pin-like teeth and uttered guttural feline profanities at me.  I chose not to touch.

         A decision had to be made and Candi made it.  “Take Edward home, get a towel and a box and come back in the car.  I’ll stay here with the umbrella.”

         Upon my return Candi stood with the umbrella, but nowhere near the cat.  He’d probably exchanged words with her.  Unfolding the towel, I danced it in front of him, eliciting more kitty-cussing, then moved the terrycloth behind the split-rail where I felt I could safely sneak up on and enfold the feline without losing skin or blood.  Success.  Hissing and spitting and uttering his disdain, wrapped in the towel with pupils as big as ripe, black olives, he reposed in the box at Candi’s feet, teeth angrily clinching the towel, as we brought him home.

         

Now we had a cat, and we didn’t need a cat.  We posted his picture on local social media and searched for a vet or an animal rescue.  Animal rescue turned out to be animal control.  Given the rainfall, officers from this outfit were flush with rescues and orphans and injuries.  “It may be a couple of hours,” we were told.  We placed him in his box in the tiled shower stall and loosened the damp towel that encased him, figuring that if he warms up and calms down, he may want to wiggle out of the towel.  

         Social media response was almost instantaneous.  Respondent after respondent said, “Aren’t you wonderful…” or “I hope you find his Mom and Dad.”  One neighbor from a few blocks over knocked on the door having lost her kitty earlier in the morning.  This guy wasn’t hers.

         Cat cloistered in the bathroom, Candi and I kept watch. He never released his toothy grip on the towel and though his pupils diminished his eyes seemed pinned open.  Was he dead?  I blew gently across his face and his eyelids closed and reopened.  My fingers found the back of his head and rubbed his damp coat.  Tiptoeing them down to his shoulder I found the little guy had nothing between his skin and his skeleton.  His eyes looked at mine and he wasn’t cursing me anymore, so this, I thought, was progress.  I loosened the towel a bit more and fetched a tiny saucer of half-n-half, touching a droplet of it to his nose.

         Twenty minutes later, I came back to check.  He’d pushed himself a few inches further out of the box, but his mouth still clamped the terrycloth.  Rubbing down his spindly back a bit further, it was clear he didn’t like it, so I put another drop of milk on his nose and left.

         The little cat had been injured.  Perhaps he’d been hit by a car or fell out of a tree during a wind gust.  No signs of open wounds, but unable to ambulate, he was soaked and angry as… well… a wet cat.    Plus, it was clear he was both starving and not in the mood to eat – at least not what we were offering.

         Every fifteen to twenty minutes, one of us would peek into the bathroom to check on his welfare and offer the warm touch of another mammal.  On one visit, as I cracked open the door, I blurted out, “Hey there, Mr. Buttons.”  I don’t know what prompted me or where it came from.  But I was aware of the consequence.  That visit ended with the ringing of the doorbell.

 

 

The animal control officer was a big kind man dressed in a green uniform and girdled with a heavy service belt. He said he smelled “like about eleven different dogs,” as Edward sniffed his pantlegs.  We led the officer through the house to the bathroom.  Entering, I said, “Hey there, Mr. Buttons.  Help is here.”  I caught Candi’s quizzical, sideways glance.  Didn’t I know the rule?

         The big man bent down and lifted the little cat swaddled in the damp towel.  Mr. Buttons lay entirely limp.  “I think he may have passed,” the officer said, but then the cat responded somehow to something.  Now, with even more care, he cradled the kitty, checked for an ID chip – there would be none – and placed him in a carrier. 

         “What do you think?” we asked.

         “My job is just to take ‘em to the vet and they’ll decide.”  I watched from the window as he loaded Mr. Buttons into a compartment and sat in his truck, getting directions to his next rescue.  

         

 

No words were expressed.  None were needed.  Injury, shock, hunger and wet were more than the totality of his nine lives could handle.  For closure, I reported this on neighborhood social media, eliciting from someone: “You did your best.  You know there are plenty of cats at the shelter.”

         My curt reply: “We don’t need a cat.”

         I thought about this through the rainy mid-afternoon and into the evening ultimately realizing that while my comment may have been true, perhaps, in this case, Mr. Buttons simply needed us.  

         If only for his final hours.

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press