We slept in the car. Mom didn’t. She’s the type who needs a morning and evening shower. There wan’t anything else to do but fall asleep leaning against the car door, Anthony stretched out across the back seat bookended between his two sisters.
In the morning, we pulled out of the parking lot and into a service station. We’d drive to the Grand Canyon and do another national park drive through. Someone at the service station informed Dad about the showers.
Hungry, stinky, and bleary-eyed, it was hard to be excited.
And then we saw the views.
On the way to find the campground showers, we made a few stops at scenic overlooks.
You’d think the most memorable part of the trip was the magnificent view, but it was the showers. Dad split some quarters with Mom. He took off with Anthony in one direction and we took off with her in another. Not only were there few shower stalls, Mom put Angie and me in one stall and she took another.
“You’ll need to be quick and you’ll have to share. While one of you scrubs down, one of you stands under the water. When it runs out, it runs out.”
You have got to be kidding me.
We stood back to back because two teen sisters in the same space, in a shower, is mortifying.
“You’re hogging the water, MOVE so I can rinse my hair!”
It didn’t work. Midway through, the water stops.
“Go get more quarters,” I snapped.
Squeaky clean, Angie gets dressed and leaves me, drip drying, my eyes closed to block soap from running into my eyes.
“She ran out!” she announces when she returns. “You need to hurry so we can leave.”
Typical.
I get dressed, my hair half rinsed with soapy film.
We didn’t ride donkeys down to the bottom of the canyon like the kids on The Brady Bunch. No helicopter ride. No real camping, just a quick drive through with a pit stop for a shower. The canyon’s grandeur did take our breath away, but we weren’t there long enough to take it in the way such places deserve.
On this never ending road trip, our next stop is at Hoover Dam. I don’t want to see a damn dam.
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.
“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.
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.”
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…
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.
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.
One of the last things I did for the first time, aside from riding a train to New York City, was making a paper doll. One of my sisters, we call her Spidy, wasn’t able to join us on this trip. Disappointed, she made a suggestion that could work.
“Maybe you can turn me into Flat Spidy!”
So we did.
Angie brought construction paper and markers. I planned to make Flat Spidy the night before departing, but it became impossible. So there I am at our Airbnb scrawling out my most second grade looking drawing of Spidy, flattened so she could join us while riding in my bag.
Join us, she did. At the train station, Danny, our funcle asked a guy named Eddie about tickets. He tinkered on a machine others were grateful he was fixing while he gave us travel tips. In Texas, we pretty much only drive everywhere. We chatted about visiting places that aren’t conducive to urban hiking and public transportation. Great guy. Once I pulled Flat Spidy out of my bag, he about lost it.
“Whaddya mean? Of course I’ll take a picture! This story just keeps getting better. I’ll even let her wear my hat.” A die-hard Deadhead, that’s exactly what he did.
Her company added an element of playfulness we didn’t expect. Taking care not to get her soggy in the rain, we missed some photo ops, but it was one of the best ways for her to be present. In the evenings, we sent updates of her travels. Next time, we hope none of us need to become flat versions of ourselves to take that sisters trip we’ve been trying to make happen.
Here we go!Grand Central StationEmpire State BuildingCentral ParkTimes SquareSullivan’s Country MarketThe gazebo in New MilfordMystic
I happened across a great little book by Irene Smit & Astrid Van Der Hulst called Know Yourself: A book of questions. Actually, I’ve purchased copies of their other books, chock full of hygge: paper crafting, letter writing stationery, mini-notebooks, book marks, postcards, sketching ideas, tips for relaxing and self care. My Amazon feed suggested it. I bought it. One night I popped it open, you know, to relax and perhaps learn more about myself. I answered the questions without writing anything down and realized these are fantastic writing prompts.
Since it’s cozy season (anywhere else but in central Texas where we’re still at 90+ temps), I’ve decided to turn down the AC and attempt to create cozy fall vibes.
It starts with Gilmore Girls. Last fall, I started watching the series for the first time. My thoughts on Gilmore Girls can be an entirely separate set of posts I’m saving for later–yeah, had I written more consistently I could’ve knocked ’em out by now…
My sister, Angie, is a die hard fall girlie, Gilmore Girls fan, and has dreamed of visiting New England in October.
“So, what’s the verdict?”-Rory
“I am an autumn.”-Richard
I am a summer. I’ll take the heat. Until it’s almost November when cool weather should be the norm. We chat about making a trip happen. Inspired by Gilmore Girls. My niece, her oldest daughter, joined us. Last week, we finished up our first trip to Connecticut and New York in all of its fall foliage glory.
We arrived on Friday, October 10th. We decided to visit New York on Saturday because we’d soon experience our first nor’easter. A guy named Eddie, who worked on a ticket machine at the train station in Milford, assured us we didn’t need to panic. Cold rain and strong wind. He gave us tips and great conversation while we waited.
The one thing I had to see was NYPL. We walked over and noticed a demonstration. Banned Books Week! I had finished out my work week leading up to this trip teaching all of our eighth graders about intellectual freedom and censorship. I asked for a picture with someone wearing one of my favorite childhood books. We chatted about my work as a librarian.
“Better yet,” she suggested, “would you like to wear it?”
How could I refuse? Bonus points for the last time I went to NYPL for the first time. I also got a library card.
When was the last time you did something for the first time? This question taps my shoulder on days I feel myself falling into the mundane. It also guides me when I-don’t-know-what-to-write-itis strikes.
Not parent conferences, but TLA (Texas Library Association) Conference. It’s next week in Dallas and I already downloaded the conference app. I usually do it on the way there.
Our library services department is organized and provides a checklist of everything we need to do before, during, and after the event. This includes the appropriate forms and permissions from admin., budget codes, hotel accommodations, information regarding after hours vendor events, signing up for professional development credit, and copies of forms and suggested items to take (always take an umbrella).
In our TLA emails, there’s a thread regarding ways to prep and make the most of the conference. There are great tips. Pack sandwiches and keep them in the hotel fridge. Pack them for lunch so you don’t have to skip noon sessions. Stuff your bag with portable snacks. Take a large water bottle. Wear good walking shoes. Take a rolling crate or extra suitcase to pack books and swag (many books are gifted by publishers, plus steep discounts the last few hours in the exhibit hall). Dress in layers. Carpool. Take an Uber for a night on the town. Use a slide deck to take notes then share with colleagues.
The ideas keep flowing. I get ready to draft my response, scrolling through to make sure I’m not repeating something. It isn’t there and I begin to draft “Be sure you check the hotel amenities. Pack a swimsuit for the pool and/or hot tub…”
I stop dead in my tracks. Wait…the last few years, my TLA roommate and I have bowed out early from some events and made our way to the hot tub or heated pool. We’re usually accompanied by no one. We’ve encountered the occasional solo lap swimmer or person leaving the hot tub when we get there, but it has usually been quiet. It’s such a great way to relax after a packed schedule and being on our feet standing in long author signing lines, trekking across the exhibit hall, and making it to our sessions.
Grinning, I delete my draft. This one, I’m keeping to myself. We’re not quite ready for a bookish pool party.
Well my heart is where it's always been my head is somewhere in between...
My body and brain are ready to take on customer service reps. I send a message to confirm availability for a Saturday pick up from the airport. Step one, done. I check concert ticket availability. I call the airline and it’s an easy switch. I’m leaving too early on Saturday, but I can nap on the way home.
I check several ticket apps, steering clear of the one I used. Final step: acquire a concert ticket. Finding one seat, I make the purchase. At this point, I’ve already lost money. You’re in Vegas, I tell myself through gritted teeth, keep at it. You’ll hit the jackpot soon enough.
Check email. Accept the ticket. Hold my breath…
There it is, the part that was missing from the last fiasco. Immediately directed to my ticket app, I follow the link to open the app and tap. There’s my ticket. I now have the option to add it to my phone’s wallet. I take the option so I’m not searching through a barrage of emails. I re-open the ticket app to make sure it’s there.
Yes.
I re-open my phone’s wallet to make sure it’s there too.
Affirmative.
One more try. I’ll be going alone this time and I’ll have to take an Uber, but I’m all set. I’ve never used Uber. I’ll download the app later.
Today, we’re having a late breakfast, hanging out at my uncle’s place, roaming around the art district, and checking out The Neon Museum. Tomorrow I’m going to the concert of my life. Alone. And I. Don’t. Care.
Friday morning I sleep in. My phone’s calendar reminds me of the flight I canceled. Today, I’m relaxing at my uncle’s place. I was supposed to leave today, so he went back to work. I have the place to myself and binge watch a Netflix reality show.
I’m taking an Uberto the concert. Send someone to look for me if you don’t hear back from me. You’ve heard of those crazy stories. I don’t want someone to throw me in the trunk, murder me and dump me in the desert, I message my sisters.
Don’t get in the car if you feel unsafe. You have gut feelings for a reason, they blip in return.
What do I do if there’s a glitch with the Uber? I can not have another glitch! I’ve scheduled my ride to pick me up at 6:30. Doors open at 6:00 and the concert starts at 8:30. My muscles twist themselves into tighter knots. Calm down, it’s fine. I decide to take an afternoon walk to get my mind off all of the scenarios that will prevent me from entering the mother ship once again.
I get a notification my driver has arrived. Her name is Jackie. Make eye contact and talk so you’re less likely to get murdered. I tell my brain to shut up. I enter her car and I’m greeted with a mini night sky of tiny LED lights changing from neon pink, to purple, to blue, to green, to yellow, and pink again. Whoopsies. I feel bad for thinking she’d hurt me.
Back at the orb rising out of the desert, I follow the crowd. Stopping for a selfie, I make my way up the stairs. I enter the building and get to the portal. This time, my ticket is in a different section; I don’t need escalators. My heart wants to jump out of my body. I can relax once I’m inside. Bono’s voice fills the room. The glow transports me out of this place.
Give me one more chance and you'll be satisfied
I’m here early so there is no need to make small talk with people stuck in line. I enter the bag check point. I advance to a person with a scanner as I hold out my phone, barcode ready.
Give me two more chances you won't be denied...
Scan.
“Enjoy the show.”
Sixteen year old giddy me wants to SCREAM! I get in line for merch and buy an overpriced hoodie. I enter my section and gasp. Is this real? I’m sitting HERE? I’m on row 25. Not far from the stage. My non-tickets were on the back end of the highest section.
The DJ starts the pre-concert music and the crowd in the pit begins to gather. I dance at my seat and ping my sisters. I made it! You should be here with me… I dance through the rest of the show. This concert as at this venue is like the Grand Canyon. You see pictures and video, but you have no idea how the experience moves you until you see it in person.
I’ve waited most of my life to see my favorite band. I’ve never been much of a concert go-er, but this one topped my list of things to do for a fulfilling life. My funcle lives in Las Vegas, no need to hunt down hotel bargains. However, once concert ticket x 3 is out of our budget since we also want a summer vacation. Plus meals, plus airline tickets…a solo trip is easier. A little.
I downloaded several ticket apps. Checked prices, sections, looked at videos people posted, how can I not make this happen? It’s Sphere, a planet-building emerging from the desert, with U2 inside. Ticket prices seemed to drop the day of the concert. If I get there, wait until the day of the concert, maybe…
My husband and 14 year old gave me a “meh,” when I asked if they wanted to go. I didn’t need much convincing to go without them. I booked a flight, made arrangements to hang out with my uncle, who is more like my older brother, and decided to wait on the ticket. People resell tickets all the time. If I don’t make it, there are plenty of other places and events to see.
…but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for
I arrived in Vegas on Tuesday, December 6th to attend the concert on Wednesday. I scheduled my return flight for Friday. I figured a mid-week concert ticket would be a easier to snag than one happening over the weekend. This was before I knew they extended their residency through the first weekend in March. And so goes the world of not being up to par with concerts.
Not being much of a risk-taker, and certainly not one who gambles, I gambled anyway and bought two tickets four days early. My uncle would go with me. Who goes to a concert alone? Worse, what if they’re sold out? My youngest brother is also a fan, and I kept him and my sisters updated on this trip since I booked my flight in October. We contemplated a sibling outing so we could rock out together. It didn’t work. Like taking family pictures, it’s hard to get everyone in the same frame at the same time.
My OOTD
I kept them posted on everything in real time, but told them I’d enjoy the concert once we were there. I prioritized presence, but everything leading up to it didn’t count.
It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away…
The Portal
A beautiful night, anyway. We hike to the venue and figure out where to enter. I don’t know where to look. Do we take pictures in front of the massive orb or get in line and wait until after the concert? We decide to get in line. My heart wants to jump out of my body and I’m sixteen year old giddy. So many people! We’re in a portal about to board a mother ship to take (us) out of this place.
Tickets are ready and an usher directs us to another line even though it isn’t our assigned section. Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Small talk with people around us.
“We’ve waited for…”
“This is our second time…”
“We came all the way from…”
My barcodes are ready and I hold my phone up to the reader. The usher asks me to scan the second one. We try again.
ACCESS DENIED
“A lot of people are having this issue. Go to the service desk and they’ll get you in.” The usher continues scanning everyone else. Smiling at our line mates, we head to the desk to wait in another line. There’s more small talk with a guy who flew in a few hours earlier form Monterrey, Mexico. People are getting scanned or their tickets are getting printed.
Sleight of hand and twist of fate
Two young ladies make their way to the counter. “Are there tickets left?” The person helping us informs them it’s sold out. The lines have thinned. The deep U2 instrumental tones welcoming everyone have become louder as people found their seats. It starts soon.
My phone has stopped pinging.
I ping my sisters even though they’re probably already in bed.
I’m at a place called vertigo…it’s everything I wish I didn’t know…
