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

The Summer of Why the Hell Not?

It was there embedded in my own words-from my last post-and it took you all to find it for me. I’m grateful; thank you!

I’ve been why-the-hell-notting for a while. Getting “older” and (sometimes) wiser, finally has done it, along with advice from my brother-in-law. “Might as well enjoy all you can. If you’ve gotta pay for something, why the hell not? You can’t take it with ya!” There have also been too situations hitting too close that make you rethink why you do certain things.

Certain thing number one: being overly cautious. Relax, live, and have fun! I’m a natural worry-er which competes with being a warrior and chasing thrills. My kind of thrills don’t sucker punch you with adrenaline like bungee jumping or sky diving. It means not overthinking details. Just roll with it and see what happens.

Certain thing number two: I work hard and do my best to live below my means. However, if I want something, I save for it and do my best to stay out of debt. We’re now able to afford some activities that would’ve been impossible years ago. Might as well use some and enjoy it.

I’m not a huge country music fan, but come on, George Strait? I grew up in small town Texas, his songs on repeat in the back of the bus on our way to Friday night football games. I checked for tickets on concert day, finding reasonably priced floor tickets. I checked in with hubby and asked if he wanted to go. If not, I’d go solo.

Why the hell not?

We didn’t have Friday night plans. S. spent quality sibling time with E at his apartment.

Great concert!

Certain thing number three: Try it, you might like it. A friend invited me to play pickleball with her, her boys (who were patient with my lack of skills), and another close friend. Despite almost melting in the sun, we had a great time.

I don’t like FOMO, but I’ve also learned to enjoy JOMO (the joy of missing out), but often I miss out too much in favor of keeping up with household tasks. Uggg…

When hubby found tickets to a UT baseball game a couple of weeks ago, he pulled the same trick. Sunday night 8:00 start time. Ooh, that’s late.

My self-talk consisted of Nope. Just go. It’s summer break. No Sunday scaries. No waking up early for work on Monday.

We went. They won. I had a great time. We got home well after midnight.

There isn’t a big vacation planned this summer. However, I’ll see where why the hell not? takes us.

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.

This One Isn’t Handwritten

Tuesday, March 31, 2026

Dear Slicers,

Thank you for the 31 day writing adventure. I appreciate you for showing up every day and writing with me, taking me into your world, and showing me how I can, we, can still do this. Each year I believe it will get easier.

It doesn’t.

What it does, is bring us together to share a bit of ourselves in this big, often perplexing world. Perhaps it isn’t the world that’s perplexing, but the human behaviors that make it so. The world holds us in it. We can choose to make it spin one way or another.

I began year seven with a handwritten Sunday letter, inspired by The Correspondent: A Novel by Virginia Evans. Know what? It feels odd not to write this letter on paper. I suppose the analog life is pulling me back, a little at a time. And that is a good, good, thing.

March did it’s thing and marched right over me this month. Slowing down helped. Writing every day helped. Your stories helped.

Did I read more posts this time as I planned? Nope. Since I’m practicing slowing down, I’ll continue popping in to read posts I missed along with catching up on replying to your comments.

Thank you for your ideas, book recommendations, new knowledge shared, and new connections made. If you’d like to receive a letter in the mail some time as I continue with The Sunday Letter Project, I should be able to see your email address if you comment or reach out. We can exchange addresses via email from there.

Regardless of when we meet again, on Tuesdays, a Sunday, or next March, be well.

Write well. Write often. Write much.

Sincerely,

Alice

P.S. I returned home this evening from my librarian conference with a stack of books. My next book on my TBR pile is The Shippers: A Novel, by Catherine Center. We did a little line dancing yesterday before she signed our books. That sounds like an analog and whimsical spring activity. Line dancing. I’m not good at it, but it was fun!

What are you reading?

Blizzard of Bucks

I frequently talk about how I rarely win prizes or get chosen for things. As random as prizes can be, so are some of the prizes I have won. Or were they opportunities? Either way, as a kid I watched one too many episodes of The Price is Right, The $10,000 Pyramid, Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy! Press Your Luck, you name it, I watched it. Stuck in Texas with nowhere to go, being on a game show has usually been only possible through watching on TV.

Zoom forward several years from my childhood days to college. Student services once sponsored a game show called The Blizzard of Bucks. Think along the lines of Minute to Win It games, but with money. A group of friends decided to go and I tagged along. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but watching a non-televised game show sounded better than a lame Friday night study session.

Taking our seats in the audience, the host explained the rules. There are games and several rounds. Lose a round and you’re eliminated, everyone else advances until there’s one left standing. The lone winner gets a minute inside a booth with a ton of cash. Get as much as you’re able to collect in one minute and you get to keep it. Of course, there are rules about what is and isn’t allowed when grabbing at the cash. Once the timer starts, so does the power blasted fan, sending cash up, down, and all around inside the booth. This will be fun to watch.

What we didn’t know is contestants would be chosen from the audience. No one needed to sign up and they didn’t take volunteers. The Price is Right style! I didn’t expect getting selected. My friends cheered for me and I had no idea why. After realizing my luck, I walked to the set-up in front of an audience seated in folding chairs, taking my place with other contestants.

The first game is a blur and I don’t remember not losing, but my friends cheered even louder. I made it to the next round. Okay, well, not expecting much, let’s get on with the next game. The host walks out with a baby bottle explaining what to do. These will be filled to the top. 8 ounces.

I’m losing this one. I hate milk!

All contents must be fully consumed, no spitting it out.

Oh no, I hate milk

The game crew returns with baby bottles for each of us. They’re filled with orange juice.

Juice? Orange juice? That’s my favorite.

The timer starts and we tip our bottles. This is easy. I start chugging. I hear my friends go hysterical. They’re cheering my name and I gain momentum.

Chug, chug, chug!

There’s a giant hole in the nipple of the baby bottle so I’m swigging it down like it’s in a cup. I finish it off and put the bottle down. Other people are still chugging, or trying.

I look at the money booth. Is this real?

Advancing to the next round, we get more directions. This time, each person gets a marshmallow. It has to stay in our mouths while we say “chubby bunny.” It must be pronounced properly and the audience has to hear it. They’re checking lips to make sure they touch at the b sound. Don’t eat the marshmallow. Marshmallows will be added until there’s one person left.

Marshmallow number one.

“Chub-by b-unny.”

My friends roar.

Marshmallow number two. I strategically tuck the marshmallow into the opposite cheek.

“Chuhh-by buhh-ny.”

I try to suck up the drool that’s sliming out of one side of my mouth. I take a peek at the money booth. Can I fit another marshmallow in my mouth? They’re bigger than they look.

Marshmallow three. I tuck it into my right cheek. Nope. I didn’t pay much attention to placement the first time. Can I shift it just right into the left side? I do my best to tuck it in and take as deep a breath as I can.

“Chwah-wee, wah-wee.”

“Oh no! So sorry, you almost made it!”

The audience lets out a sigh.

I swear I heard The Price is Right horn walk me off the stage.

A hulk of a guy next to me popped the third marshmallow in his mouth.

“Chubby bunny!”

As I get back to my seat, my friends high five me. They’ve had a great time and remind me how I got so close. We watch the marshmallow guy get into the booth to try his luck at the cash. Money swirls around him as he swats at bills filling the space around him like confetti, trying to grab them by the handfuls.

I didn’t make it to the money booth, but it was an unforgettable experience. My consolation prize was an Igloo cooler with a canteen. Not too shabby for a Friday night.

Rush Hour

Coffee mug and water bottle go on my desk, work bag underneath. Power on my laptop, desktop, and the computer dedicated for making student ID cards. Flick on three of the five light switches. New LED lightbulbs glare like the Arctic tundra, so one gets flicked off. Power on three computers kids use to search for books. They are lined up outside, ready for me to let them in.

They know by now to wait a bit until everything is up and running and make two lines to sign in.

I quickly scan email as kids get settled in their morning chats about books, browsing their favorite sections, and swapping books that won’t make it to the book return because BFF has to have The Summer I Turned Pretty before anyone else can get it.

Subject line: Ms. S’s classes will be in the library today through 4th period

Um, no. That was yesterday. Ms. S. didn’t show up. I check my schedule. I check my calendar. I check my inbox for an email several weeks ago asking for availability. Glitch on my part. I set the wrong date.

Major glitch: I scheduled a lesson with a teacher. In the library. For today.

I email Ms. S asking if she can keep her kids in her classroom for 1st period then come down later. I send the second teacher a chat explaining my issue. Call me asap if you see this.

The line for checkouts is getting longer. I scan ID badges and books. My phone rings and I explain my mess up. “I can go to your classroom instead.”

Issue averted. Ms. S walks in, oblivious to my email as I explain myself. I gather my materials and head to the classroom.

Rush hour is an understatement. This was all in a nice, neat 30 minutes before the bell rings package.

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.

Not Today

Morning walk before heat sets in
Nope, not today

A three page date with my journal
Nope, not today

Coffee and brunch with a friend
Nope, not today

A family jaunt downtown for something fun
Nope, not today

Hiking and ice cream afterward
Nope, not today

Shopping to update my wardrobe
Nope, not today

Friday, you win,
but I'll be back tomorrow

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.

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