Tag: summer

Summer Road Trips: Las Vegas, 1989

Kids sitting on petrified wood log.

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.

Landscape with petrified wood log.

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

A Quarter

A quarter of a century. How is it that many years already? A quarter of a century of my life spent teaching, mostly. Slightly less than half of my life. Half! Twenty five years of packing up classrooms and now a library. Shoving things in drawers, closets, cabinets, storage closets. The garbage because..can I just go home already?

I pack my car with high hopes. Planning over the summer so it won’t be so much work. I still can’t manage to do it though. Laptop. I’ll need it for my first day back.

A bag-o-books, this fall’s Lone Stars, the best reads for middle schoolers. I packed a stack instead of all thirty and will probably read two. Maybe three since one is more than half finished only because it’s an audiobook and these days listening is easier than reading. I have my own TBR tower at home I’d like to read.

A pink Keurig needs a deep clean (and a break). I dug out a broken down box from the recycling bin to carry it out. Somehow it’s dripping residual coffee from yesterday’s second cup.

The Wonder Woman spiral notebook with a pile of papers jammed in its middle gets stuffed inside the box too. Good thing the cover is plastic and I don’t care if the papers get coffee all over them. I’ll go through each one to figure out what to do with them. Keeping things fresh so I don’t forget-when days start blurring together-about what it was that needed doing but could wait until fall.

These days, years, I bring less home. Twenty five years and I’m still the last one out. You’d think I’d have this moving out thing figured out. Everything that needed doing got done. Another wave of a spiraling timeline makes me dizzy. Some day I’ll pack it up for good. I look over the clean space, uncluttered counters (mostly), tables, desks, and unplugged computers. Desk supplies hibernate in dark drawers along with framed photos.

I turn in my badge and keys. My much younger self winks back at me. Have a good summer, she says. We’ll catch up again soon!

Tuesday, June 4, 2024

Cicadas

drone off and on
off and on
their outer selves hold
tight to a blade of grass
tree trunk
iris leaves we don't remember planting
the front door frame
under the porch
as if they've been invited
they were time tellers 
before I could read time
signaling a long hot day
hanging back on my favorite swing
long hair dangling in the dirt
rocking myself into a bright summer haze
eyes closed
big toe digging into the ground
giving myself a little push
nothing to do inside
nothing to do outside
too hot
too boring
all I could do was swing
back and forth
back and forth
if I were a cicada
I'd sing with them
droning off and on
off and on
complaining about the heat
the sun
summer
almost wishing for cooler weather 
then realizing 
I'd have to stop swinging
I leave the shell of my former self
on the swing
pull myself up and head indoors
for a drink of water
the cicadas continue their songs
reminding us 
this summer heat 
is temporary
Tuesday, July 12, 2022


	


	



			
				


			

			
Summer Initiation
		
	
	

		

I must have been born with a magnetic plate in my head that attracts flying objects, magnetic or not.  If I believed in alien abductions, I’d blame it on that too, but I save that one for my pinkie toe and other stories.  Stay tuned.  Ever since I can remember, anything launched into or sticking out of the air, finds me.  The top of my head.  My ear.  My face.





The last day of eighth grade, brothers in our friend group, the only ones with access to a pick-up truck, invited us to their house to fill water balloons after our end of school year celebration.  Officially, even though it’s summer break, we’re Freshmen.  Fish.  Stinky Fish.  Why do they even call it that?  Not wanting to be left out, I tagged along.  I wore my favorite jams shorts printed with tropical fruits and a tank top.  My new summer outfit.  





I was supposed to go home right after school to watch my younger siblings, but I convinced them to stay put and not tell Mom where I ventured.  “I won’t be gone long and I’ll be home way before she gets home.  Don’t tell!”  I took off with a friend and made it to the party house.





The plan was to fill the balloons, load them-and ourselves-into the the bed of the pick-up and drive around town catching the new unarmed sophomores unaware.  My bestie had a crush on one of them and on one of the drivers, so this was more of a flirting opportunity for her than anything else.  Summer teen romance with a side of a third wheel.  





We filled buckets with water and loaded them with water filled balloons.  The brothers got inside the truck cab while the rest of us climbed up the back and sides to find our places.  We drove around, our pent-up and hopeful for high school energy oozing out of us hollering “Ninety! Ninety! We’re the Class of Ninety!”  No one heard and no one cared.  Except for us.  And those sophomores.  





We made our way to the only park in town.  That’s where we found them.  They walked toward us and then, “Fire!”  We all scrambled for water balloons and began to aim.  Mine didn’t ever go far.  Not only do I not throw like a girl, I can’t hold on to any type of sports equipment and water balloons weren’t any different. The others, faster and with better aim launched balloon after ballon at our opponents.  They didn’t need my help throwing them, so I started grabbing as many as I could hold and distributed them to the others.





With nothing in their defense, the sophomores devised a clever plan.  Evenings had been rainy.  The unpaved parking area where we sat in the truck bed was…muddy.  They picked up handfuls of mud.  Sticky, clay-like mud that holds its shape when cupped into the palm of a hand and shaped into a ball.





“D-u-u-u-ck!” One of the guys yelled.  





I sat near one of the buckets, so I didn’t see the commotion.  I kept handing out water grenades.  “D-u-u-u-ck!”  





The girl in front of me ducked.  I didn’t.





WHACK!





Everything went black for a split second.  I reached for my glasses, but almost couldn’t find them.  “My glasses, where are my glasses?”  Still unable to see because I kept my eyes closed, I felt around for them.  I took them off and noticed mud where the lenses were supposed to be.  My face throbbed.  Chunks of mud decorated my new outfit.  





I’m not crying.  I’m not crying. I’m NOT crying. 





The truck peeled out and we were back on the street, pitched mud balls hitting the side of the pick-up.  Most of the other kids laughed and pointed while I tried to figure out if the lenses to my glasses popped out or broke.  





“You look like a raccoon!”





One of the girls, in between laughs, asked “Why didn’t you duck down?”  I didn’t think I needed to.  They aimed for her, not me.  





“I’m going to get in so much trouble,” I managed to choke out.  I pulled chunks of mud off my glasses and found the lenses.  Mud clung to my hair.  When I almost figured out what happened,  a bucket of water came at me.





“Why did you do that?” one of the girls fussed at one of the boys.  





“I was just trying to help her get the mud off,” he explained.





“You didn’t have to dump the whole bucket of water on her!”





Some of the mud washed off.  Still intact, I wiped the lenses with the bottom of my tank top.  I held my composure, but throat tightened.  “Just take me home now.  I’m going to get in so much trouble.”





I climbed out of the truck and walked up the driveway.  One of my sisters ran outside when she saw I was home as I headed to the water faucet in the backyard.  I gave her a look and put my finger up to my lips.  I turned it on and hosed down my hair.  I was already drenched.  I put my outfit in the washer, cleaned myself up, and put on my responsibility cloak.





I heard about high school freshman initiations.  I watched them in movies and read about them in books.  I didn’t know they existed for summer breaks.  Later, I managed to laugh about it, but I still have that taste of mud in my mouth.






Tuesday, July 5, 2022