Outside Portland after meeting with Greg Noyes, the journalist who has done extensive research on the Chinese miners massacre, I came across a sight not likely in Philadelphia. The scene: a heavy downpour, 3 lanes of Interstate slowed to a crawl as both the merging lane (where I was) and the right lane squeeze left, and two Tualatin Police Department cruisers creeping along, one in the middle lane and one 50 feet behind on the highway shoulder. As I finally merged, I saw what they were escorting: an extended family of geese comprised of 10 or so "teenagers" plus their parents, all taking a VERY leisure-paced Sunday morning constitutional. When I tried to visualize the Philly police and Schuykill drivers faced with the same situation, every image carnage and a cloud of flying feathers...

Another view of the geese on I-5. br />

Walking to my car in Eugene, OR after lunch at an anarchist vegetarian cafe -- where the metal on/in the wait-staff outweighed the flatware on the table -- I heard the familiar sounds of a Brazilian percussion band: the deep "Surdo" (Portuguese for "deaf") bass drums that anchor the rhythm, the snares and cow-bells, triangles and tambourines, and the whistle of the master signalling the changes. (The "Surdo" is my favorite to play in the Brazilian percussion workshop in Phila that I attend occasionally.) I ran around the corner and there they were, a local group of Eugenians? Eugenores? Eugeniacs? bringing a tropical sound to complement the tropical-like precipitation (but not temperatures) of the area. I stayed there grinning and swaying for long minutes.

One section of the percussion group. The plumage doesn't quite match the Mummers' in Philadelphia, but the music was, well, music to my home-sick ears.

The group had two dancers, who made a valiant effort at the Samba. However, truth be told and PC-ness be damned, if white men can't jump -- and I'll add that Chinese men can't dance, unless intoxicated-- a ten year-old Brazilian would have made these two look like they were standing still (which they almost were...). Oh heck, as long as I am being critical: they were also over-dressed and under-rhythmed for "Sambanistas"!

Rare is the homecoming that meets expectations, and mine, a few hours ago, was no exception. The gray and heavy air, typical of a Philadelphia Summer, started while still some three hundred (!) miles away, just east of Pittsburgh. (By the last fifty miles, the local weather report was predicting heavy thunderstorms. They were accurate.) Life sometimes being in the timing, I also approached the last portion, the infamous Schuykill Expressway, at rush hour, and the combination added an extra hour of driving, despite my preemptive detour to sit out the worse of it at the Apple Computer store in the (also infamous) King of Prussia Mall.

It's a strange feeling being back. After 8,969 miles and 33 nights spent in 25 different beds, I will be sleeping in my own in a few minutes, as I am tired and have much to do to establish a new routine. While the familiar is a safe-harbor and a welcome sight, the voices greeting me as I opened the door were: "Read me! Pay me!" (mail), "Dust me! Wipe me!" (shelves, surfaces), "Wash me!" ( a little muffled, being the clothes in my bags), and "Vacuum me!" (floors, rugs). Not quite the same as toddler-Julia shouting "Daddy!!" and running toward me with open arms and a wide smile…twenty years ago.

The rest of the photos and narrative – I’ve been "processing" the trip these last 1600+ miles from Deadwood, SD to Philadelphia -- will be posted when I get through the voices, so check again. It is good to have Home around me after having to carry it inside. I am looking forward to the many new beginnings.

I'm leaving Deadwood, SD shortly, a little disappointed by the sights. I've uploaded some photos (see below) from the last few days despite the slow internet connection. I had intended to put up the entire group from the day on the Snake River going to the massacre site, partly to contrast that terrain with the one of the drive that evening to Lolo, MT, but, I ran out of patience with the slow connection AND I have a full day of driving today: hoping to cross all of South Dakota.

I'm also adjusting to this being the beginning of the trip's end and
the feelings that engenders. Given the amount of driving over the next few days - my intention is to be in Philadelphia on Tuesday and I am still on the western border of South Dakota - the next postings might be very brief until I get home. (The weather reports for the Midwest states through which I'll be going through the next 3 days are chockful of thunderstorms and tornado warnings, so that may affect my plans.
please have patience!

If Route 12 East from Lewiston, ID to Lolo, MT is not listed as one of the great scenic drives in the Northwest, it should be. Like Ginger to Fred, the road follows the Lochsa River's lead through almost 200 of miles of turns and dips through pine forests that come down to the waters' edge.  Like any good dance partner, it detaches sometimes, to curve and climb a hill, but always returns to flow in unison with the river. Having it to myself -- there was no other traffic east-bound for over an hour, partly because I outsped the few -- was the perfect antidote to the day on the Snake going to the massacre site. The contrast between the two landscapes couldn't have been more striking. Whereas the vegetation along the Snake was sparse and ground-hugging in a palette of browns, the Lochsa ran a gauntlet of deep greens and towering pines covering every hill along it. It exuded strength, vitality, and life-force that was comforting.

More Route 12 at dusk, with one of the few vehicles encountered. Most were trucks, usually carrying logs. I like how the low fog looks like a plume of smoke/steam coming from the truck. (Clicking on the image enlarges it.)

(Old news.) A couple of friends asked me to post both the poem and my “advice” to Janet and Gary at their wedding in Carmel that was at the mid-point of this trip. (Photos of the happy couple are in a posting around May 30.)

I was very fortunate to find a poem that was short, fitting, and by a Chinese woman poet in a little anthology called “Women Poets of China”, co-edited by Kenneth Rexroth. I read it and then added my remarks.

The author of the poem, poetess Kuan Tao-Sheng was married to Chao Meng-Fu, a leading calligrapher and painter of Chinese history. (She herself was known as a calligrapher and painter of bamboos, orchids and plum blossoms.) She wrote the poem to her husband when she found out that he was intending to take a concubine. It is said that he was so moved by it that he did not.)

Here it is:


Married Love

Kuan Tao-Sheng , 1262-1319

You and I
Have so much love,
That it
Burns like a fire,
In which we bake a lump of clay
Molded into a figure of you
And a figure of me.
Then we take both of them,
And break them into pieces,
And mix the pieces with water,
And mold a figure again of you,
And a figure of me.
I am in your clay.
You are in my clay.
In life we share a single quilt.
In death we will share one bed.
--------

"I felt both honored and humbled when Janet and Gary asked me to share their special day by imparting some words of advice for their life together. 

In fact, I felt twice humbled: first, by having been perceived as having something valuable to impart and second, by the task of trying to live up to that perception.


The truth is that there are probably as many guides for a happy marriage as there are diets for losing weight. Yet, most of the advice for achieving either goal is familiar and comes from common sense.


Just listen again to the “action verbs” in the “Charge to the Couple” and their declaration to each other: CONFIDE, LAUGH, ENJOY, SHARE, LOVE, CHERISH, RESPECT, PROVIDE, PROTECT, COMFORT, TRUST.


If the advice is so obvious – and all marriage vows contain some or most of those verbs – what makes it so hard for them to be followed?


Well, just like in the work Janet and I share within Human Resources, the key in having a great hire (or a great spouse, in this case), is in selecting the right person in the first place, the person who is made of the right "clay".


Therefore, you have each already done the most difficult part. You have chosen each other as being made of the right clay to be your life partner. 

And that’s my advice to you: that if you remember always what made you choose each other, keeping those verbs active will become second-nature."

-----
I am in Deadwood, SD, famous for its history during the wild years following the gold finds in the Black Hills (and their theft from the Indians...). It's the location of the graves of Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane and the place where he was shot. Fans of "Deadwood" the HBO series -- and I am one -- will find this place to be somewhat of a disappointment. The main street is a gauntlet of original and "original" buildings ALL catering to the tourist dollar and ALL featuring gambling alongside whatever else they sell. (Deadwood must be the Mother of all dual-purpose emporiums.)

Living in a large Eastern city for so many years, I take many things for granted that aren’t so ordinary to others. Take “Baby”. Porsche Boxsters are not unusual around Philadelphia, but I have only seen four – not counting the ones in the dealer’s lot in Albuquerque – in the 6,691 miles covered since May 13th: three in LA, and one in Portland. Several times, Baby has been a conversation starter, but while puppies and babies attract women, sports-cars attract motor-heads, all of them male in my experience.

Tonight, I had barely pulled into the parking lot of an IGA Supermarket in Hardin, Montana, when a grinning, wide-eyed youth wearing a long apron came running to the driver’s side of the car. He was all motion, arms flapping in excitement, hardly able to wait for me to get out. (He was so excitable that, had it not been for the apron, which quickly pegged him as an employee of the market, I would have palmed the pepper-spray can before emerging.)

-“Wow, dude! Wow!! Is that a Boxer?”, he said in breaking voice, keeping his eyes fixated on Baby.
“Yes, it’s a Boxs-TER.” I corrected him. He came closer as I got out, almost blocking my exit and ability to close the door. He was a few inches taller than me -- yes, almost any teenage boy is -- and a little beefy, but looked less threatening with the untied apron’s sides flapping like a skirt in the evening breeze. He continued talking, almost squealing, his eyes never leaving Baby:
“Dude, that’s an AWESOME car! It is sooo cool!!”

I could see he wanted more than just talk, and since he looked both harmless and I had the time – Hardin’s life-blood are tourists on the way to the site of Custer’s Last Stand and the casinos for those tourists, but the casinos, which seem to be part of every business I saw (as in “Dairy Queen-Casino”, “Laundromat-Casino”, “Exxon-Casino”) don’t have card games so I had nothing to do – I said:
“ Do you want to..” and he was already seated inside, touching everything.
“Oh, it’s an automatic..”, his voice lowering with disappointment.
“It’s both an Automatic AND a Manual, but clutchless”, I replied. It confused him, as his foot sought a third pedal. I explained how it worked with the up-down shift-“clickers” on the steering wheel. “AWEsome, dude! AWEsome!”, he squeaked, and kept peering around the instrument panel.

I figured I would never get him out without turning on the engine, especially since, when he finally looked up at me, it was with a classic puppy-dog begging stare. So, with a little trepidation and a mental flash-video of him getting his left foot in (he hadn’t adjusted the seat back to get fully inside), putting the car in gear, and peeling out of the parking lot with me hanging onto the open door for dear life, I put the key in the ignition and turned it.

Porsche engines have a distinctive sound, at once soothing and powerful, hinting of forces straining to be unleashed. I thought the boy would cry or have an orgasm when he heard it roar to life. (I rarely get either feeling now -- from the car! -- but it brought back memories…) I said: “Don’t do anything stupid now!”, as he, oblivious to everything except the hum and ever-so-light vibration through the steering-wheel, put his right foot on the accelerator…..and almost floored it!

The needle on the tachometer shot up to somewhere around 6500 rpms (just south of the red-line) before he took his foot off. “AWEsome, dude! Really, AWEsome!!!”, he almost screamed. And gave me another begging-puppy look.

I knew what he was hoping for, and while others have driven Baby (most recently, Bonnie’s husband, Charlie, in Eugene), there was no way that I could allow it. My look answered the unspoken question, and he had come down to earth enough to accept it.

Getting out and recognizing that he had already experienced something he probably hadn’t imagined he would that day, he recovered his up-mood: “ Wow, dude! Great car!! Do you race it? Are you going to be around a while? How many horses?” I answered his questions – “no”,“no”, and "206" – as I locked the car and semi-escorted him toward the store as he talked. I considered asking him his age and about his Ride, but didn’t want to take a chance on making him feel awkward given his enthusiasm for mine. We parted as I entered the store and he went to his post as a grocery-bagger.

Later, as I was paying the cashier for my Fuji apples and yogurt, the healthy balance to the delicious bacon and eggs breakfast that John’s friends, Sally and Dan, made for me in Lolo, Montana this morning, he came up to me from the other check-out line and said: “Dude, can you drive by the Dry-Clean so my friends can see the car?”

“Sorry, I can’t.”, I said, and his whole body made a sagging motion to go with the verbal “Ohh…” of disappointment. And he moved back to his line.

The cashier, a friendly, plain-looking woman in her thirties said to me, smiling: “All that boy thinks about are cars and girls! He should be thinking more about school”, paused for a moment, and in a louder voice directed more toward him: “And work!” I laughed, as she did, and I said: “Yes, but his are the better thoughts at any age.” She laughed. I picked up my bags, said good night, and left.

What I found most interesting was how his focused interest made him oblivious to some social conventions (like saying “thank you”) and that he almost took for granted that I would let him sit in the car, etc. He wouldn’t have forced himself, but neither was he shy about what he wanted and expected to get. And, in a way, our enthusiasm for the car made me a willing accomplice and facilitator. It thought about a parallel with how celebrities are viewed by fans. Fans’ adulation and familiarity with gossip articles make for a sense of "ownership” that becomes on entitlement when they finally meet a celebrity in person. They expect to get an autograph, to be treated as familiar when they are really strangers. And, the celebrities comply, up to a point. As I did on behalf of Baby.
----

I actually had other things to write about from the past few days, including the conversation in the checkout with the same cashier and three Mexican men, as well as my visit yesterday by jet-boat to the site of the Chinese massacre I’ve previously mentioned, but it will have to be another day. I am way behind on important correspondence as well.

This “blogging” continues to be alien to how I write (as noted in earlier posting):it's a struggle to curb, not always successfully, an urge to edit and polish. A friend, with whom I talked about this tonight, said that I shouldn’t go for perfection, but, at least when it comes to writing, it’s in my nature.

It’s late and tomorrow is a long day since there is a 300 mile drive to Deadwood, SD after the visit to the Custer battlefield. I’ll also upload more photos when I get somewhere again with a high speed connection.

Not that you've been waiting with bated breath, but I finally got photos uploaded the RIGHT way, for those who've been complaining -- and you know who you are, ahem!) So, brace yourselves: they cover the highlights so far and start immediately below. Click on an individual photo to see a larger image (which is recommended). Enjoy (I hope).

Monday was supposed to have been my day on the river to the site of the massacre, but there was a goof-up on the part of the outfitter and it will be Tuesday instead. It gave me a chance to catch up on mail and this bloc....and to make a donation at the local casino's Black-jack table.

I mentioned in the text posting for that part of the trip how much fun it was to drive Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway from LA to -- eventually -- Crescent City in northern CA. This one and the next few try to give a sense of the scenery and the road.

Cox Bridge (?) on Highway 1 between San Simeon and Carmel.

Big Sur coast line from the side of the road.

Tough to shoot while driving. Don't try this at home. Next shot is of the same subject (the mass in the middle) done right.

I stopped to get the shot right, before the fog dissipated.

More coastal scenery from the road to Carmel...

Carmel, CA - Interior courtyard of The Carriage House Inn. Looks are deceptive: the rooms are very nice and the management very service-oriented. (See earlier text posting.)

Carmel, CA - Room 12 at Carriage House Inn, my home for four days. Highly recommend it, especially if you use LuxuryLink.com to book (see link section).