Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas, 1989

Petrified Forest National Park

As we left Gallup, New Mexico, I saw signs for Petrified Forest National Park.

“Can we go there too?”

Mileage signs announced our approach. Might as well stop, but with Dad determined to get to Flagstaff, we’d likely glimpse it as a blur through the window. I explained what I learned about petrified wood in science. Mrs. Scribner, back in junior high, had a chunk of petrified wood she let us handle once in class. Looked like a rock, but you could see it once was wood.

Three kids sitting on a petrified wood log.

“It’s just on the side of the road, we can stop for a little while…” I wistfully mumbled. Cars in front of us turned into the park. Our car followed.

“We’ll drive through and take some pictures.”

Giddy with excitement to visit my first national park, I’d have a great “What did you do on summer vacation?” experience to share at school.

Young boy pointing to a rock with petroglyphs.

From one scenic overlook to another, we hopped out of the car, taking in the vast landscape. We took a short walk on a trail when Anthony discovered some petroglyphs. We stood in front them, mesmerized with a reality that made us believe pictures we saw in National Geographic magazines.

Anthony started picking up and pocketing rocks. We did the same.

The visitor’s center was our last stop before our last stretch of road to Flagstaff. While we waited for everyone to get a drink and take care of business, I took a peek at an exhibit. Letters from all over the globe, along with chunks of petrified wood told stories of people pocketing pieces of the park. Guilty consciences penned letters accompanied with chunks of petrified forest returned to their rightful place.

“Anthony! We have to leave these pieces of petrified wood or we could get arrested!”

We all looked at one another.

“We’re not supposed to take anything,” I informed everyone.

Mom quipped, “No one will know you have those tiny little rocks.”

As we climbed back into the car, I reluctantly emptied my pocket, except for one little piece.

The sun set as we exited the park. I would’ve liked to have explored more. National parks take planning. Driving through and taking a look is better than nothing. I held my souvenir between my thumb and forefinger, feeling its smooth, weather worn sides. How much time did I hold in my hand?

Anthony once again sprawled his body across the seat, his two sisters conveniently cradling his head and feet. I don’t know how many road signs I read, but Holbrook, Arizona was next. Then Flagstaff.

As we approached Holbrook, a billboard announced a motel with tipis. This looks fun! It didn’t hurt to try.

“Dad, can we just stay in Holbrook instead, this motel is coming up…”

“We’re going to Flagstaff, it’s closer to the Grand Canyon. We’ll be there in an hour and a half.”

We drove past the motel with tipis. I looked through the back window as it got smaller, the sky darkened, and Anthony’s legs got heavy on mine.

When we got into Flagstaff, a large banner welcomed us to an annual southwestern art festival. Dad stopped at a motel to check us in. We waited in the car.

“Well?” Mom asked.

“We’ll go to another one. They didn’t have any rooms.”

On to the next one. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. We were sticky, hot, and tired. No vacancy. The other hotels, motels, no-tels told us the same thing in neon: NO VACANCY.

One last ounce of hope. Dad stops the car. He tries to check us in.

“They said they’re having to send people all the way back to Holbrook. There’s an art festival.”

The tipis? We could’ve stayed in the tipis!

“We’ll go to Williams, it’s a short drive to the Grand Canyon. If we stay there, we can sleep a little later.”

By now, I’m tired of sitting in the car most of the day. Mom didn’t say much, but she wasn’t happy Dad didn’t make room reservations.

Williams is a small town. Once again, Dad stops at a hotel and gets out to check us in. It took him longer this time. Finally. We can get out, stretch out and get proper sleep.

He sits in the driver’s seat.

He drives to a parking space underneath a street light.

He looks at Mom and quietly says, “We can stay in the parking lot. They don’t have any rooms.”

We will sleep in the car.

Slice of Life log — Tuesday, July 21, 2026

Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas, 1989

Who takes their kids to Las Vegas?

My parents.

Our “vacations” consisted of piling into the car to leave no later than 5:00 a.m. for the twelve hour drive from the top of Texas to the bottom. That’s how we explained it to one another. A long, boring, hot drive to Dad’s hometown to visit his side of the family. If we were lucky, we’d squeeze in a trip to the beach at Corpus Christi.

The summer of 1989, we ventured out on another twelve hour drive. Long, hot, and boring, but this time to Las Vegas.

Why?

I was 17 about to begin senior year. I had an attitude I kept to myself because backtalk wasn’t allowed and I didn’t push buttons. At least not those belonging to my parents. Siblings were fair game.

Mom and Dad visited Las Vegas a few times with their friends. This summer they decided to take us along on The Great American Road Trip along Route 66. Dad gave me a quick overview about the history of the Mother Road. A road is a road and twelve hours on it wasn’t my idea of fun nor a good history lesson.

I’d share the backseat with one of my two sisters, Angie and seven year old brother Anthony. Aida got to stay with Nana and fly in with Uncle Danny later, to give us a little extra room in the back seat. Lucky.

Still, that meant sweaty bodies, body odor, burping, elbows to the ribs, Dad’s Tejano music, our bickering, and Anthony’s head, but mostly his entire body eventually rolling all over us girls for the road trip nap. For whatever reason, we left well past 5:00 a.m. because the sun was bright that morning. I stayed awake to scope out the scenery.

Flat and treeless. Because we went west instead of south, I hoped for something other than cotton and cornfields. I thought once we passed Texas into New Mexico, I’d see a drastic change. Nope. More of the same. This is going to be a long day.

Road signs announced our route, but they didn’t mean much. How many more hours made more sense.

Two hours later, we stopped in Ft. Sumner, New Mexico. “This is where Billy the Kid is buried,” Dad announced.

“Let’s go to his grave so I can spit on it!” seven-year-old smart-alek brother quipped.

“Shut up!” us girls started.

We eyed souvenirs, but Mom reminded us we have a long way to go. If we get something here, we won’t get anything in Las Vegas. We piled back into the car and headed west. Unfamiliar towns came and went.

Approaching Arizona, Dad announced a surprise. We’d stop in Flagstaff for the night and visit the Grand Canyon the next day. This was the highlight of the day. Las Vegas wasn’t my idea of a great family trip, but the Grand Canyon? Movies and TV shows were the only way we’d ever seen the Grand Canyon. The Brady Bunch road trip was a favorite.

Our ears perked up and besides the excitement of seeing–and not spitting on–Billy the Kid’s grave, we were now on the lookout for proper ghost towns. But before the Grand Canyon, there was Petrified Forest National Park…

The Summer I Have Yet to Name

Tuesday, June 9, 2026

It became a little tradition years ago–I don’t know how many–to name my summers as the school year wrapped up. One was The Summer of Reading where I read eight books while running around after my two year old. The only two of the eight I remember are Holes by Louis Sachar and On Death and Dying, by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. That was the summer Papá died of lung cancer less than two months after his 80th birthday. It was the one where I presented a summer PD session on teaching poetry. I got the phone call five minutes before my session began. I presented anyway, faking enthusiasm. Left the conference early and packed up to head home. I wrote his eulogy in the car on the way there while hubby drove. My first piece of writing done entirely in Spanish.

Another one was The Summer of Learning. I taught myself how to knit using a kid’s book from my middle school library. An old one, published in 1972, was better than newer instruction books. I figured a book written for kids should be foolproof. It was. I learned enough to say I know how to knit, but I never made anything more complicated than a baby’s hat or scarf. I should pick up my sticks again, if I can find them.

The Summer I Turned 40 took me on a girls trip to Las Vegas. The one where we were shushed on a 7:00 a.m. nonstop flight by some “crabby old lady” who was likely jealous of our youth. That’s what we told ourselves anyway. Seriously, who sleeps on the way to Vegas? And no, we didn’t have a single mimosa in our systems. We made a Top 10 list of things we wanted to do and hit 7 out of 10. Hit a couple of dollars on the nickel slots. Watched some shows. Discovered the cheapest place to buy alcohol was Walgreens while webwatched a guy open a bottle of vodka, pour it into a fountain drink cup, and walk right out without a fuss.

Then there was The Summer of Getting Things Done! We took a family vacation to Playa del Carmen and invited my mom as a bonus. When we arrived home from our trip, my parents volunteered to take the kids for a week so I could have some uninterrupted time to declutter and take a break. We packed the kids, S had just turned five and E was eleven, and took a little breather. That evening, hubby and I went to a movie. I mean, why not? Before the movie was over, I remember feeling cold. Summers are hot and while the movie theater is cool, it wasn’t that cold. I went to bed, shivering, piled on the blankets and slept. And slept. And slept. The next morning, it hit hubby. Flu. Must have caught it on the flight back. Nothing got done before it was time to go back to get the kids. Sigh…

I haven’t made time to think about this one. So far, I’m doing what I can to get out and do things rather than lament how quickly the summer goes and being stuck inside catching up on home projects that like to wait for summer. One week in, and I’m already bleary and brain-fogged, unable to figure out which day it is. It is Tuesday, I remind myself. I *tried* playing pickle ball this morning. First time. I may go again. Sunday, hubby suggested we go to the UT baseball game. It’s summer, why the hell not? (That’s been my attitude lately.) It was a late game which meant it ended even later. After midnight.

Photo of four books. Don't Call It Art 10 Ways to Create like a Kid Again by Austin Kleon. Anita de Monte Laughs Last A Novel by Xochitl Gonzalez. Unstuck a Writer's Guide 101 Doorways Leading from the Blank Page to the Last Page by Ramona Ausubel and a yellow Note Book for writing.

Last week consisted of shopping with S., a hike with friends, our 27th anniversary, and running around on countless errands. I managed to pop in for a week of virtual creativity workshops and a book launch by Austin Kleon, complete with an aesthetic book stack that would make any influencer, well, influence.

If I don’t name this summer, I’ll take it as it comes and figure it out later. No plan is a good plan.

As far as my book stack goes, I haven’t touched it since I snapped the picture.

Are You There Judy? It’s Me, Ally…

Sunday, March 22, 2026

Hi again. This is the 4th or 5th time I write to you (on my blog). I’ve had people suggest I send these letters (links) to you. Worth a try even though you may be buried in fan mail. I’d absolutely love it if you’d write back.

Thank you for writing books I needed to read when I was a kid. I’ve never forgotten them and I learned about the world in them. Looking back, I also learned about family dynamics. My parents worked long hours out of necessity. I had first born child responsibilities as a tween and teen, you know, be the little adult you’re in charge until we get one type of situation. My grandparents and extended family lived minutes away, so it wasn’t an unhealthy or awful situation, just one of those where we had some responibilities a little earlier than most kids do. Your books helped me be a teen with other teens and I enjoyed living vicariously through your characters.

My daughter and I recently re-watched Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret while she finished some homework. We both enjoyed watching it on the big screen and it was fun having it on again. She’s now older than Margaret’s character so she had a great time psychoanalyzing the family dynamics. She even offered Margaret advice through commentary about her friends and life change.

I’d love to visit your book shop some day. I’ve heard that sometimes you’re working in the shop. you are at the top of my author meet-up bucket list. I’ve been lucky to meet great authors in person, so I know it’s a possibility. If I saw you out in public I’m sure I’d go right back to my twelve year old self in excitement. If I met you in person, I think I’d cry.

Do you still get massive amounts of fan mail? I wanted to write to you years ago, but I wasn’t sure if you’d read my letter. I find myself wondering the same question now. Maybe you’ll get this. Maybe it will remain unsent. Regardless, I appreciate how your books found me.

Sincerely, a long time fan,

Ally

P.S. Is there anything you wish you would have written?

Calendar

Mine. Yours. Ours. I’ve been using an official planner to keep myself organized. There was a time when my lesson planner was enough, but those days are gone. One kiddo is adulting and the other is smack dab in her teens. Hubby’s work schedule changes frequently so I have to keep track of that, too. I took a break from having said little boxes tell me what to do, but that week is over, so back to the boxes I go.

I could use the ones in my phone that will give me notifications, but said notifications get ignored. I’m a paper planner type of person with a side of phone calendar. Dates are transferred to the official keeper of time.

Keeping work at work, I focused on personal & family dates for the rest of this quarter and the next one. That takes us into summer break, and hopefully, a summer vacation. My niece turning fourteen two weeks ago launched us into birthday season. For March, it’s two friends, an aunt, a niece, and two nephews. There’s also a wedding I missed, an anniversary, and everything Lent related from our church calendar.

In April, it’s two nieces, a nephew and his mom, my sister-in-law (both on the same day), an uncle, my dad, two cousins-I might have lost count. Add Mother’s day in May, a niece’s birthday, a quinceañera, all of the extra celebrations, end of the school year shut down the library frenzy, and my parents’ anniversary.

Oh, and there’s testing. So much testing!

To plan ahead for S.’s appointments, I take a look at her testing calendar. AP exams. Uh-oh. AP exams. When are they scheduled? I poke around on the school’s testing website and find them. I pencil them in their proper calendar cells.

Then I get sucker punched to the gut. Wait. I did pay the registration for AP testing. Or was that last school year‘s World History test? Uh-oh. I check my inbox and search. It’s gotta be here, I rarely delete important information.

Sure enough, I have the testing confirmation and receipt. Calm down, heart, don’t jump out of my body. I jot down the two dates in May.

Returning to my inbox, I see the subject line: Important Info for S’s Senior Year.

It’s from the school’s photo company. Senior portrait session appointments are available for booking next fall. I start filling out the form and stop in the field to add her phone number for notifications. I don’t know her number and I’m not in the mood to check. It’s the last chunk of March. I’m working with the end of this school year’s dates.

I’m not ready to go there yet.

Almost

Back to the ghost mall today. She calls to make sure what she needs is in stock as promised two days ago. A bout of insomnia last night means a late wake up for me and that means getting ready for the day long past noon.

“Are you ready?”

“Almost!”

I pick up snacky lunch dishes while she gets ready.

“Are you ready now?”

“Almost!” Antsy, I’m ready to go and return home for doing all of the things that need doing. If we don’t go now, we’ll get stuck in traffic on the way back.

“Let’s go!” I holler impatiently.

“I’m almost ready!”

“You said that two almosts ago!”

#lifewithateen

Why can’t she just answer the question with a simple yes or no?

Connectivity

Met up for pedis with one friend this morning and met our other friend for coffee afterward. We taught together years ago before the great split. A. went on to work as an instructional coach. About five years later, I shifted into my librarian position. C left the district to teach in a nearby district and returned as an instructional coach as well. She’s on my campus this year and I’m lucky we’re back together again, even if we don’t see each other every day as we once did.

We’ve watched our kids grow up and we’ve helped each other grow, professionally and in our friendship. Retirement is a much closer option we’re currently discussing although we’re still a few years from it. They’ll catch up to us.

My car took a few tries to start when we left the salon. A quick message: “My car isn’t starting!” followed by “Never mind. Got it.” I can’t tell if it’s the car battery or the key fob battery. Hubby and I begin bickering about it when I get home, he was called in to work a few hours early and doesn’t have time to check into it. He leaves his key fob so I can experiment and take it in to get the battery tested. Except, I don’t. I’d like to catch up on chores I’ve let slide.

S. wants to watch episode 3 of a series we started. I like to pin down any minute she’s open to hanging out with me. Last night, as we watched episode two, she fell asleep, her head on my lap. She leaned into me like she did when she was little, breathing deeply knowing I’m right there when she wakes up.

We agree to a speed clean to pick up bits of our spring break carelessness. I plan to pop in to get my slice posted and I notice the wi-fi is down. Uggg! My phone connection is slow. I troubleshoot and reset the router. Doesn’t work. I don’t have the patience to deal with calling our provider.

S. skips out announcing, “I’m ready to watch!”

“Wi-fi is down and nothing I’m doing is working. Give me a bit and I’ll see if I can get it working.”

A bit later, she changes her mind.

“Well, since we can’t watch anything, J. invited my to hang out and have dinner. Can you take me?”

It’s a nice day and I almost say she should walk to J’s, but decide to drop her off.

Arriving back home, I get my gear on and take a long walk. I found a new to me trail tucked behind a newer neighborhood. Earbuds are in, but about ten minutes into my walk, I decide to unplug. Might as well connect with sunlight and blue skies.

Ghost Mall

A canceled appointment led S. and me to the mall for something she wanted (and definitely didn’t need). The only place to get it is from a store at the mall. It’s almost 11:00 and the parking lot is deserted. Did we miss something? I turn a corner and find a small group of cars parked near the front doors of an anchor store. Prime real estate back in its hey-day.

We go through Macy’s bedding department. All of the beds are dull beige with lifeless and colorless bedding. They don’t look inviting. Gone are the days of wanting to curl up in a cushy and fluffy department store bed. I bypass Christmas themed super clearance dinnerware I don’t need. Someone else can get the deal. Geoffrey the Toys R Us giraffe from the kids’ toy section grins at no one, pink Barbie boxes line shelves willing kids to take a look, but there are no kids. We pass escalators that are either broken or turned off. To save energy? Who knows. We head to the front of the store that opens to the mall.

I haven’t been here in years. I missed the mark and parked on the opposite end of where we need to go. What was once an old Borders book store is open, full of giant stuffed Pokémon and other licensed stuffed toys in the windows, but more shops are caged closed with the lights off than those brightly flashing their wares. Jewelry stores. Candles. Shoes. A boutique announcing everything must go to no one but us.

Nearby escalators we planned to take are also not operational. What’s up with the escalators? We continue on, looking for people. I relay my “when I was your age” story about how spring break brought everyone who didn’t go anywhere to the mall. Even that was a treat for those who didn’t travel. We pass the food court. Every seat is available. Chick-fil-a lines snaking around tables are gone. A pretzel place is there, but most other well-known food court spaces disappeared. Pizza. Baked potatoes. Footlong corndogs. Panda Express. All gone. A shut down movie theater around the corner doesn’t send its buttery popcorn scent luring people to catch a flick.

Finding working escalators, we descend to the first floor. Gray covers robe vendorless mall carts stationed along the center walkways. No one asks us to test lotion, no cheap silver jewelry beckons us to take a look and politely decline. A mom with two littles smiles as they sit on the Easter bunny’s lap-likely the same costume used for the past thirty years-no line here either.

“That bunny is creepy.”

Formal dresses sparkle, desperately hoping for a prom queen or quinceañera to take them out of their misery and out on the town. S. doesn’t give them a second look, but if I were choosing, it would be the long emerald green one.

We arrive at the shop S. needed to find. Is this place open? It’s hard to tell. Half the lights are off, but the space is open, so we go inside.

“We’re out of stock right now,” the lone sales clerk informs us, “but our shipments come in at noon on Thursday.” We’re the only three people in the store and she she stands behind the counter as if she’s afraid to come out, peering at us, confirming we’re real people shoppers.

Wanting to take a quick look, we walk around to another anchor store. The lights are on, sign still flashing brightly, but the glass doors are closed. All inventory has been stripped, fixtures bare, but signs still advertise manly cologne.

“Let’s get out of here. This place is sad and depressing. It has really low energy, Mom, I don’t like it.”

An empty coin operated carousel offering FUN plays an odd calliope circus tune as an animatronic Build-a-Bear waves, flanked by stuffed bears, pink Peeps, bunnies, and rabbits advertising spring.

Easter bunny sits alone, the mom and her littles long gone.

***

Today, I stepped into our version of the Jasper Mall documentary.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ominous

A little before I settled in for writing, running through a mental of list of zero topics, one dropped into my phone. E, my 23 year old, started the conversation. He loves pulling pranks on me, making it difficult to know whether he’s serious or not.

He drove through The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Gotta love how builders select names for subdivisions and stick to the theme. Stories manage to find their way into every part of our lives. I read about a Friends themed subdivision being built a few years ago in a nearby town. Friends in Texas.

Today may be a good day to hunker down with a good Western.

As promised, I’m tagging his tumblr post here. *language alert

Wedding Gift Season

Tomorrow marks family wedding season. I won’t be able to attend an evening wedding tomorrow afternoon, but there are two more weddings on my calendar. October 2026 and Spring 2027. Other family members who live much closer will attend tomorrow and we got into a discussion about wedding gifts.

What do you get the couple who seems to have everything? Something off the registry is easy and guaranteed to be something the couple wants, but what if there isn’t a registry? Cold hard cash is easy and useful for honeymoon spending. What if it’s isn’t the first marriage? Rules have changed and I wonder what modern etiquette dictates. I could consult AI, but, nah…

Never mind. I had to check. Sure enough, contributing to a honeymoon fund or donating to a charity is acceptable for second marriages.

I once gifted a young couple a set of Nerf guns with a quirky note that said “For your first fight.” It was a bridal shower gift and the bride and groom always had a great sense of humor. A gift from their registry was also included.

They used them. One wound up with a purple welt to the leg, but they enjoyed chasing one another around the house with them.

I don’t remember all my wedding gift, but I still use my pizza stone. Mainly for baking cookies, though. Our champagne flutes are still a favorite, but I broke one when I dropped it in the sink.

What’s the strangest wedding gift you have ever given or received?

Asking for a friend.

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