Last week my family and I took a few days away from hot, blazing Las Vegas to see some friends in sunny but cooler Santa Rosa, California. Along this trip, I encountered a sad truth in today's society: small children tend to be discriminated against even now. So do desert drivers.
We got started on a Thursday afternoon (since we were not on a time crunch, we could leave at our leisure). It always seems like leaving Las Vegas is an impossibility in itself. If you look at the travel brochures, there are excellent airfare and hotel offers for people to come to Vegas, and the "black hole" does suck in many people to further suck out their money. I'd say, let the local Chamber of Commerce be honest, and instead of putting the pictures of showgirls on the signs and brochures, put Dracula, an aardvark, or a leech on the signs so long as they are all diamond-studded (we do have an image to keep here). For Vegas locals, the escape is not easy. Traveling from Vegas to another city usually takes more expensive airfare, and leaving by car is not easy, either, at least for us. Our daughter Natalie is the gravitational force holding us here. Even though California is just 50 miles away, her diaper and juice needs require sudden pull-offs from Interstate 15. Only after we get past Primm (motto: "Last chance to be sucked in") does she quiet down in dignified defeat.
Having lived in Nevada for nine years, I have done a lot of driving on desert highways, and I have to say now that it is truly for the birds...particularly vultures and buzzards! Seriously! Services are sparse and generally more expensive once one leaves the relatively cheaper confines of the Vegas Valley.
This is sadly true in the small village of Baker, California, a town seemingly designated to be no more than just a stop. It grants access to Death Valley, which is over 110 miles away via a 2-lane state highway. The gasoline prices are high in the center of town (about 70 to 80c per gallon higher than Vegas), though tend to lower as you drive west to meet up with I-15 once more. Restaurant prices are slightly higher at some places, also. Baker does boast the "World's Biggest Thermometer", one I hope is not used on me if I'm sick! There also used to be the presence of the Bun Boy restaurant and motel, which were advertised miles before town in either direction. Sadly, hard times forced the sale of the restaurant to Big Boy. I am not sure if the motel still functions, but I suspect the lack of cars in the lot on any given day indicates the negative view.
However, Baker does provide a stop for weary travelers. Driving through the desert is a drudgery (how's that for alliteration?) that only a good stock of beverages, snacks, and appropriate music can take care of. There are mountains, sure, but they tend to be just there without the majesty of other mountain chains. There are long straight stretches of road in the desert, and there is danger in that. Highway rest stops are needed for those who simply want to pull off and rest for a spell. Interstate 15 in California needs more stops like this. Currently there are only 2, and they are both within a half hour of Baker! Another stop in that first 100 miles would be good, as well as one between Barstow and Victorville! If one looks at I-15 in Utah, there tends to be a rest stop every 20-30 miles, aided by signs for the weary traveler to stop if they are indeed tired. That's what I call care for the traveler.
Let's see, we've passed Baker, with a poor choice of snack at a non-air-conditioned Dairy Queen, we've reached Barstow...ah, we are now on California route 58. This road makes my wife nervous because there are several 2-lane stretches for the first 40 miles, and it is indeed more desert to contend with for 70 miles. Once we pass Mojave, things change for the better drastically. 58 climbs gently into the southern foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, thereby blocking the sunlight in the evening. As we leave the Sierras 40 miles later, we are graced by a beautiful orange-tinted sun ready to set. Natalie thought it was the moon, but how can one argue with a 23-month old? We do not get this orange beauty in Vegas. I am guessing that the higher humidity levels in Bakersfield, coupled by the smoggy air quality, dim the harsh light. I do not know how many people find Bakersfield to be a place of beauty, and I certainly do not, but at that time of night, it was.
Unfortunately, our awe of natural wonders segued into a long nightmare. We had reserved a motel room at a national chain which I can't even rhyme an alias to but can give a subtle hint about (EoL), and expressed the need for a crib for Natalie. Well, we got there and there were none left! Apparently Bakersfield is such a happenin' place that one family decided to stay an extra night. Being the intelligent people with a backup plan that Vickie and I were, we decided to...see if Natalie would sleep in a bed. Unfortunately, our little girl was not going to be that accommodating (moreso than the motel, however), and refused to lay down. We ended up leaving EoL with them keeping our money at 4:00a.m!
In Fresno 105 miles later, a motel rhyming with Lambada was extremely accommodating with a very basic crib that Nattie could sleep in. We even stayed at a Lambada on the way home and got the same great treatment. My point here is that hotel cribs seem fairly cheap to invest in, and changing stations easy to install. If these national businesses want to present themselves as family-friendly, they need to include all family members, especially the ones wearing diapers. I hate it when people give you a sour or disapproving look when you change your child's diaper at the booth or table in the restaurant. I already have back problems from changing her in the car at times, so these disapproving old biddies need to write to Congress to make a law so that I don't disrupt their meal because their wandering eyes just can't help but look!
Ok, ok, the shower gel is back on the shelf. With a huge lack of sleep, we trudged the next day to Santa Rosa. After a few days of watching toddlers play and talking old times, we headed back. The return trip was fairly uneventful, and my wife even let me play my iPod for part of the way home. The Lambada Inn in Bakersfield was good, we got home the next day safe and sound, and life was good, and we got Nattie to the changing station, er table on time.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Road Trips...part 1
All right, I'm a nerd. Not that this is a total surprise to anyone, especially my wife. When she sees me with a road atlas, she smiles, kindly keeps her eye-rolling to a minimum, then goes back to playing Farmville. At any rate, the nerdiness I am referring to is my fondness for road trips and recalling the ones I have taken in my life, either by myself, with a friend, or with my family in the old days. My memories of the more recent ones are clearer than the old ones, so I will start with an old classic first....the famous drives from Pennsylvania to Michigan.
A little background...I was born in the Detroit area in the early 70s. We had a lot of family there. In fact, my two sets of grandparents lived a 5-minute walk away from each other. Since not all of my critical brain synapses were firing at the time, I didn't quite understand the state of depression that hard-working Michiganders like my father were in. Luckily, he found a way out and moved us all to Pennsylvania when I was 3. As my father's mother was suffering from cancer, we found ourselves traveling to Michigan fairly frequently for the next 5 years.
I never really considered the long drive officially beginning until we got to the toll booth to get our ticket for the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That state is very proud of their long toll road. They let you know five miles in advance of the road's access point and when you get there, there is a big sign telling drivers exactly where to turn. I was always amazed that there was not an armed escort leading each and every traveler to the toll booth...from which there was no turning back. I suspect these days there are credit checkers to tell drivers how many miles they are allowed to drive as dictated by their credit rating.
The first 86 miles of the drive takes the driver through some very beautiful farm country. As a kid I could either take or leave the scenery, I was more interested in reading every milepost that we passed, as well as all of the exit reminder signs and the occasional billboard if it looked interesting enough. I think my dad wished there was a serial sign stealer on the loose in the state, just so he wouldn't have to hear me every mile! Of course, in those days the speed limit was 55, so he didn't hear me every minute on the dot.
The excitement for a young boy really started with the first of 4 tunnels as the Turnpike entered the Appalachian Mountains. I still remember them clearly: Blue Mountain, Kitatinny Mountain, Tuscarora Mountain, and Allegheny Mountain. Blue and Kitatinny were less than a quarter mile from each other, so we dubbed them "the double tunnel." These tunnels were fairly short, no more than a mile long, but the thrill of the tunnel's special sound, the bright lights, and the "light at the end", so to speak, truly made my day. On an historical note, there were once 7 tunnels,as the legend goes (meaning from my dad's mouth), but upgrades to the road and better engineering made 3 of the tunnels obsolete. Personally, I'm glad they kept the 4, they are part of the Turnpike's magic.
Somwhere around Tuscarora's tunnel, we had passed the 100 mile mark. I do not know about other families' traditions, but we had a fairly stupid one: 100 miles before breakfast. Actually, in our case it was more like 120 miles, since there was no restaurant placed just for our benefit at the 100-mile mark. The wait was well worth it, though. Our stop was the Sideling Hill Rest Area, the only place on the Turnpike where east- and west-bound travelers had access. We would get our food in cafeteria style at the Howard Johnson's, which operated all Turnpike rest stops in those days. After eating, my sister and I would get a snack for the road, get our personal duties done, then head out on to the road again. I think what made these stops so special was that my dad hated stopping! It was not unusual for us to not stop again until after the Ohio line when the car's gas gauge began flashing. Occasionally, he would stop for one of us if we agreed to give up a certain agreed-upon percentage of our inheritance in exchange for a bathroom break. Incidentally, when I was adult and single, the 100 mile rule was still in effect just for tradition's sake. After I got married, new traditions were in effect.
The rest of the Turnpike was for the most part uneventful. There was one more tunnel after breakfast, along with some very beautiful mountain and valley vistas. I still read all of the signs, making my dad give back the 30% inheritance fee in exchange for my silence. If it was wintertime, the Turnpike could be a treacherous road. My dad usually had snow tires installed for those particular drives, especially the Christmas trip.
I got excited as the mileposts counted down from 10, followed by two toll booths spread a few miles apart. The first was to collect the drivers' retirement funds, especially if they drove the entire 360 miles of the road. Since we only drove 286 of it, my dad was allowed to keep some of his savings. The second toll booth confirmed our presence in Ohio. All new billboards advertised such attractions as the Pro Football hall of Fame in Canton and soon-to-be-passed sites in Youngstown. The mileposts had also reset, with 241 being the first number once we passed the Ohio line. There was also a rest stop close by where we refilled our gas tank to get us the rest of the way to Michigan.
Ohio was not quite as eventful. Its turnpike was fairly hilly up to the Cleveland area, before it entered Midwestern farm country. There were a couple of tall bridges, but they were not as exciting as tunnels. My mom pleaded with my dad often to turn on the radio on this stretch, just to hear something besides my verbal mile progress reports. My sister ignored all of it and read whatever book she was reading.
As well as reading mileposts and exit signs, I also memorized exit numbers, and knew our turnoff was exit 5 at milepost 72 in Ohio. This was HUGE to me! We were getting off the Turnpike! We were on the last big stretch to my grandparents' house! We had one more toll booth! To a kid like me, there was something grand about how we exited. There was a long ramp that took us off the Turnpike, then onto an overpass that crossed the Turnpike. My dad paid the toll, which was not too bad because we only went 169 miles on the road. Since there were not any big service stops in upcoming Michigan, we generally made one more stop on the Turnpike before getting off.
There was not much excitement about I 280. It was farmland for about 7 miles, and I was getting fairly tired of farms. Once we went through Toledo, there was a pretty cool drawbridge over the Maumee River, but that was about it. 280 ended soon after, merging with the most dangerous road I'd ever encountered: Interstate 75! It was not so dangerous because of bad drivers as it was for the bad condition the road was in. There were always potholes on 75, a condition brought on by constant winter snow and ice and the cold-warm-cold patterns that killed the road. From what I hear, not much has changed in over 30 years.
I 75 enters Michigan with all sorts of advertisements for Detroit and other attractions. It also counts up in mileposts like 280 did. To me it been been fun doing the countdown, not the countup, and as I was fairly tired of being in the car, I was quieter on this last stretch. 75 in southeastern Michigan was not very exciting, although its signs made it clear that Detroit was a big deal, and it was in those days.
After about 30 miles, 75 entered the southwestern burbs of Detroit. It didn't mean much except that exits were practically every mile, leading drivers to Taylor, Allen Park, and other commuter towns. The smells certainly got interesting as we passed the River Rouge Auto Plant for Ford Motors. One more interesting stretch was ahead for me. Since Turnpike exits were pretty uniform in appearance, the series of differing freeway to freeway interchanges got my attention! I 75 spun off I 96, then curved off for U.S. 10 and I 375 in downtown Detroit. If we were going through there at night, all of the big city and freeway lights made my day! There were further freeway meetings with I 94 and I 696 before we got off on 12 Mile Road in Royal Oak.
It was just a few more miles to my mom's parents' house. That was more often than not our destination, but we did stay occasionally at my dad's parents' home. I suspect the reason for this was that my dad's mom was sick and his dad worked a lot, so there wasn't a lot of time to make up the house for guests to stay, whereas my other grandparents' house always felt inviting, at least to me.
The trip back was never as exciting. We even broke our 100 mile rule and ate breakfast at a hotel just before the Ohio Turnpike entrance. I didn't count the signs as much. What was the point? We were only going home. My dad always built up the idea of sleeping in our own beds that night. I guess that was true, and I definitely appreciate that idea more as an adult.
As a kid I have my fond memories of these drives. I don't know how my sister felt about them, she was generally quiet and into a book. For my parents, these trips were stressful. My dad never knew if he was going to see his mom or his dad for the last time, and that put a big strain on my mom as well. I have to say this, though, my parents always built the trips up for me, and hid their stress as best as they could.
As the years went by, our Michigan trips became less frequent. My dad's mom went to heaven in 1981, so our Christmases were at home from that year on. We generally went in the summer after that so that my dad could play in the father-son golf tournament with his dad. That was a tradition until 1987, when my dad's dad passed away. A year after that, my mom's dad died and two years after that, her mom remarried. That 1990 wedding marked the last of our visits to Michigan as a family. We made a stop on the way home to check out a possible college for me for the next year in Indiana, Pennsylvania.
A lot had changed between 1976 and 1990. The turnpikes offered fast food choices, any of us could tune out the drive with our portable music devices, and sometimes my sister drove for stretches as my dad nagged her here and there just to be dad. I know it sounds sad and trite, but I wish I could hop into Doc Brown's DeLorean and set it for 1977.
A little background...I was born in the Detroit area in the early 70s. We had a lot of family there. In fact, my two sets of grandparents lived a 5-minute walk away from each other. Since not all of my critical brain synapses were firing at the time, I didn't quite understand the state of depression that hard-working Michiganders like my father were in. Luckily, he found a way out and moved us all to Pennsylvania when I was 3. As my father's mother was suffering from cancer, we found ourselves traveling to Michigan fairly frequently for the next 5 years.
I never really considered the long drive officially beginning until we got to the toll booth to get our ticket for the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That state is very proud of their long toll road. They let you know five miles in advance of the road's access point and when you get there, there is a big sign telling drivers exactly where to turn. I was always amazed that there was not an armed escort leading each and every traveler to the toll booth...from which there was no turning back. I suspect these days there are credit checkers to tell drivers how many miles they are allowed to drive as dictated by their credit rating.
The first 86 miles of the drive takes the driver through some very beautiful farm country. As a kid I could either take or leave the scenery, I was more interested in reading every milepost that we passed, as well as all of the exit reminder signs and the occasional billboard if it looked interesting enough. I think my dad wished there was a serial sign stealer on the loose in the state, just so he wouldn't have to hear me every mile! Of course, in those days the speed limit was 55, so he didn't hear me every minute on the dot.
The excitement for a young boy really started with the first of 4 tunnels as the Turnpike entered the Appalachian Mountains. I still remember them clearly: Blue Mountain, Kitatinny Mountain, Tuscarora Mountain, and Allegheny Mountain. Blue and Kitatinny were less than a quarter mile from each other, so we dubbed them "the double tunnel." These tunnels were fairly short, no more than a mile long, but the thrill of the tunnel's special sound, the bright lights, and the "light at the end", so to speak, truly made my day. On an historical note, there were once 7 tunnels,as the legend goes (meaning from my dad's mouth), but upgrades to the road and better engineering made 3 of the tunnels obsolete. Personally, I'm glad they kept the 4, they are part of the Turnpike's magic.
Somwhere around Tuscarora's tunnel, we had passed the 100 mile mark. I do not know about other families' traditions, but we had a fairly stupid one: 100 miles before breakfast. Actually, in our case it was more like 120 miles, since there was no restaurant placed just for our benefit at the 100-mile mark. The wait was well worth it, though. Our stop was the Sideling Hill Rest Area, the only place on the Turnpike where east- and west-bound travelers had access. We would get our food in cafeteria style at the Howard Johnson's, which operated all Turnpike rest stops in those days. After eating, my sister and I would get a snack for the road, get our personal duties done, then head out on to the road again. I think what made these stops so special was that my dad hated stopping! It was not unusual for us to not stop again until after the Ohio line when the car's gas gauge began flashing. Occasionally, he would stop for one of us if we agreed to give up a certain agreed-upon percentage of our inheritance in exchange for a bathroom break. Incidentally, when I was adult and single, the 100 mile rule was still in effect just for tradition's sake. After I got married, new traditions were in effect.
The rest of the Turnpike was for the most part uneventful. There was one more tunnel after breakfast, along with some very beautiful mountain and valley vistas. I still read all of the signs, making my dad give back the 30% inheritance fee in exchange for my silence. If it was wintertime, the Turnpike could be a treacherous road. My dad usually had snow tires installed for those particular drives, especially the Christmas trip.
I got excited as the mileposts counted down from 10, followed by two toll booths spread a few miles apart. The first was to collect the drivers' retirement funds, especially if they drove the entire 360 miles of the road. Since we only drove 286 of it, my dad was allowed to keep some of his savings. The second toll booth confirmed our presence in Ohio. All new billboards advertised such attractions as the Pro Football hall of Fame in Canton and soon-to-be-passed sites in Youngstown. The mileposts had also reset, with 241 being the first number once we passed the Ohio line. There was also a rest stop close by where we refilled our gas tank to get us the rest of the way to Michigan.
Ohio was not quite as eventful. Its turnpike was fairly hilly up to the Cleveland area, before it entered Midwestern farm country. There were a couple of tall bridges, but they were not as exciting as tunnels. My mom pleaded with my dad often to turn on the radio on this stretch, just to hear something besides my verbal mile progress reports. My sister ignored all of it and read whatever book she was reading.
As well as reading mileposts and exit signs, I also memorized exit numbers, and knew our turnoff was exit 5 at milepost 72 in Ohio. This was HUGE to me! We were getting off the Turnpike! We were on the last big stretch to my grandparents' house! We had one more toll booth! To a kid like me, there was something grand about how we exited. There was a long ramp that took us off the Turnpike, then onto an overpass that crossed the Turnpike. My dad paid the toll, which was not too bad because we only went 169 miles on the road. Since there were not any big service stops in upcoming Michigan, we generally made one more stop on the Turnpike before getting off.
There was not much excitement about I 280. It was farmland for about 7 miles, and I was getting fairly tired of farms. Once we went through Toledo, there was a pretty cool drawbridge over the Maumee River, but that was about it. 280 ended soon after, merging with the most dangerous road I'd ever encountered: Interstate 75! It was not so dangerous because of bad drivers as it was for the bad condition the road was in. There were always potholes on 75, a condition brought on by constant winter snow and ice and the cold-warm-cold patterns that killed the road. From what I hear, not much has changed in over 30 years.
I 75 enters Michigan with all sorts of advertisements for Detroit and other attractions. It also counts up in mileposts like 280 did. To me it been been fun doing the countdown, not the countup, and as I was fairly tired of being in the car, I was quieter on this last stretch. 75 in southeastern Michigan was not very exciting, although its signs made it clear that Detroit was a big deal, and it was in those days.
After about 30 miles, 75 entered the southwestern burbs of Detroit. It didn't mean much except that exits were practically every mile, leading drivers to Taylor, Allen Park, and other commuter towns. The smells certainly got interesting as we passed the River Rouge Auto Plant for Ford Motors. One more interesting stretch was ahead for me. Since Turnpike exits were pretty uniform in appearance, the series of differing freeway to freeway interchanges got my attention! I 75 spun off I 96, then curved off for U.S. 10 and I 375 in downtown Detroit. If we were going through there at night, all of the big city and freeway lights made my day! There were further freeway meetings with I 94 and I 696 before we got off on 12 Mile Road in Royal Oak.
It was just a few more miles to my mom's parents' house. That was more often than not our destination, but we did stay occasionally at my dad's parents' home. I suspect the reason for this was that my dad's mom was sick and his dad worked a lot, so there wasn't a lot of time to make up the house for guests to stay, whereas my other grandparents' house always felt inviting, at least to me.
The trip back was never as exciting. We even broke our 100 mile rule and ate breakfast at a hotel just before the Ohio Turnpike entrance. I didn't count the signs as much. What was the point? We were only going home. My dad always built up the idea of sleeping in our own beds that night. I guess that was true, and I definitely appreciate that idea more as an adult.
As a kid I have my fond memories of these drives. I don't know how my sister felt about them, she was generally quiet and into a book. For my parents, these trips were stressful. My dad never knew if he was going to see his mom or his dad for the last time, and that put a big strain on my mom as well. I have to say this, though, my parents always built the trips up for me, and hid their stress as best as they could.
As the years went by, our Michigan trips became less frequent. My dad's mom went to heaven in 1981, so our Christmases were at home from that year on. We generally went in the summer after that so that my dad could play in the father-son golf tournament with his dad. That was a tradition until 1987, when my dad's dad passed away. A year after that, my mom's dad died and two years after that, her mom remarried. That 1990 wedding marked the last of our visits to Michigan as a family. We made a stop on the way home to check out a possible college for me for the next year in Indiana, Pennsylvania.
A lot had changed between 1976 and 1990. The turnpikes offered fast food choices, any of us could tune out the drive with our portable music devices, and sometimes my sister drove for stretches as my dad nagged her here and there just to be dad. I know it sounds sad and trite, but I wish I could hop into Doc Brown's DeLorean and set it for 1977.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tragedy turned tragic
I will be straightforward: I do not like child killers. Who does? Even Mr. Wilson would not harm a hair on Dennis's head. Here is another straightforward opinion: I do not like child killers' (or alleged, to keep me away from lawsuits that would take away...let's see...a leased car and a rented apartment, and a teacher's paltry salary)images and videos all over my TV. It really cuts into my Bugs Bunny hour on digital cable!
CNN Headline News has really taken this case to the extreme. Every time we finish watching something on the DVR, CNN HL is the default channel for some reason. For the past week, America (meaning the residents of my apartment, at the very least) has been subjected to every detail of the Casey Anthony saga. I really do not know if she killed her little girl, and I do hope she did not. I am sad that a child's life was taken away unnecessarily. I do not know Casey Anthony personally, and quite frankly, neither does 99% of the American population.
My point is this: the American population is being stirred up by a very tragic occurrence. This may be a ruse to take our minds off the economy and never-ending Middle East situation. Hey, a good old Warner Brothers cartoon does it for me, and also episodes of "Cops". What bothers me is that there are other moms and dads who have definitely neglected and/or killed their children for selfish reasons, yet they were not equally vilified in public.
Today I saw another Headline News update about Ms. Anthony: she will be released soon and may be looking to go to another country. Not to darken an already dark cloud, but I do not believe she will make it that far. There are so many whackos out for "justice", as they say, who will gladly take the law into their own hands during this "media event".
Do I really need to paint a picture here? What's more, we will never hear the end of it. Headline News will be so full of opinionated heads in jars that the media will make use of the Emergency Alert System....you know, those annoying scrolls on your TV when there's a flood, tornado, hurricane, or a senatorial sneeze approaching. They are sometimes accompanied by static bursts and the classic frightening-to-little-kids-like-me beeps just for nostalgia. I can just see it now: "Emergency Alert Message: Anthony's killer protesting sentencing to Sheriff Joe Arpaio's jail, lawyer protests client's pink wardrobe"
In closing, I have my opinions about Casey Anthony. So does my wife. We all have them. Now let's move on! The Road Runner is on next!
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