After being a UCC and a Lutheran since I left Kearney, I was a Presbyterian for the first time today. It was lovely. I went and heard my friend Laurie preach. She is a friend from seminary that I've been able to connect with on Facebook. I know that people joke about Facebook, but it has been a blessing for me to find so many people I have lost track of through the years.
Laurie is an associate pastor at a multi staff church here in Portland. It is a beautiful old building with a large and enthusiastic congregation with a lot of kids. The worship was thoughtful and followed the central theme of Jesus parable of the poor man Lazarus and the rich man. Laurie preached a great sermon on the topic. There was a baptism of a baby girl who looked like she was the source of infinite wisdom, as babies often do.
I realized as I watched my friend preach, that I miss preaching. I miss leading worship. I always thought of attending a worship service as a special treat. It was nice to go to church and not have to be the one in charge. It was something that I was able to do so infrequently, either at a Presbytery meeting or when I was vacation or study leave, that it was a special pleasure.
I enjoyed the worship today. I felt blessed to be among such lovely people, to see how well Laurie preached. But for the first time today, I really missed it. Preaching and worship leadership was always my favorite part of the job.
So I've got a call into Cascades Presbytery. I'm hoping to get on their pulpit supply list. I need to get back on the horse, one step at a time.
Susan took me to the beach house in Lincoln City for the fist time on Friday. We spent the night there. It is an older house, it reminded me a lot of the houses you see around Seneca Lake, up above the water, great views. The weather was incredibly clear while we were there. The sunset was incredible. There was a full moon that night and you could see the ocean in the moonlight. I felt like this was a place I could sit and watch the sea and pray and write and heal and grow strong. I move there tomorrow.
Blessings,
Cindy
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Oregon, not Busted
Am writing this in the comfy family room of the home of my friends, Fred, Susan and their son Colin. I baptized both Colin and Fred on the same day, Colin was just a toddler, Fred, obviously not. Colin is now a 6'2" teenager. The place, Lake Oswego, a suburb of Portland, Oregon. I made it. Fred and Susan are the lovely people who have invited me to live in their beach house in Lincoln City. Susan and I will go to see the house tomorrow, so she can make sure everything is OK and show me stores, the library, the community center and the good places to eat.
Left San Francisco last Saturday. I had planned to get to Marilee's by the Nebraska/Washington kickoff, but traffic on Hwy 101 was not cooperating. Got there in time to see Melinda, Marilee's daughter who is now a delightful young woman. The big highlight of Saturday was a trip to karaoke at a local gay bar. I sang, "L-O-V-E" as I did in Lake Tahoe. Well received, I thought. I was the only woman in the bar carrying a purse.
On Sunday morning I was a UCC with Marilee and her mother. Pleasant congregation, the interior of the church reminded a lot of the church I served in Hector, NY. Same kind of pulpit, similar pews. The organist played the hymns at a really good tempo and I had a good chat with him afterwards. Sunday night was quiet since Marilee and Erin had a celebration at MCC in San Francisco for their pastor who is leaving. The idea of attending a celebration for a pastor who was leaving seemed a little close to home, so I stayed and Marilee's mom fixed me dinner even though I told her not to.
Left and headed north the next day. Drove through the vineyards of Sonoma County, through the old Spanish settlement of Sonoma and skirted the edge of Napa before I got on the freeway to take me to I-5 which my friend Kris called "the guts of the west."
California's central valley as flat as Kansas and a shock to the system after Bay Area. But Kansas is not bordered by hills on either side. Drive, north, north north, past irrigated fields and orchards. If you eat food, you've had food from the Central Valley. Approaching Corning, California and suddenly Mt. Shasta appears on the horizon, it could be a mirage, disconnected from the ground. Stopped at the "Olive Pit" for some presents for Oregon friends and kept driving toward the mirage. I kept trying to pull off the freeway and take a photo of Mt. Shasta, but couldn't find a vista that didn't include the McDonald's arch or the sign for a muffler shop. I had to get past the mountain and a rest stop that was almost in Oregon to get a view without a sign in it.
Stopped in Redding for gas. Not only was it cheap, but a young man actually came around and scrubbed the bugs off my windshield. I was so shocked I tipped him two bucks!
Soon, I crossed the border into Oregon. Medford and my bed for the night was easily reached. I love how many of these 1950's or older motels have reinvented themselves with a updated interior and in room microwaved, coffee pots, mini fridges, free wifi and flatscreen TV's.
Next day was an easy drive into Portland and my friends. They have been cooking delicious dinners and asking if they can get me anything else.
On the drive north, I had one of my self pity moments. OK, more than one. I don't have a job. Lots of people right now don't have jobs. Most of them don't have six months of severance and a free beach house in Oregon. I thought of Job, who lost so much more than I ever have and thought of him saying, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." I realized for the first time, he said it with a lump in his throat, choking back his tears.
So, I got over my self pity and made a joke about being homeless to Fred and Susan. Susan told me later she was upset when I said that. "You aren't homeless, you have a home as long as you need one."
I learned again, the people in your life are truly a gift from God.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
blessings,
Cindy
Left San Francisco last Saturday. I had planned to get to Marilee's by the Nebraska/Washington kickoff, but traffic on Hwy 101 was not cooperating. Got there in time to see Melinda, Marilee's daughter who is now a delightful young woman. The big highlight of Saturday was a trip to karaoke at a local gay bar. I sang, "L-O-V-E" as I did in Lake Tahoe. Well received, I thought. I was the only woman in the bar carrying a purse.
On Sunday morning I was a UCC with Marilee and her mother. Pleasant congregation, the interior of the church reminded a lot of the church I served in Hector, NY. Same kind of pulpit, similar pews. The organist played the hymns at a really good tempo and I had a good chat with him afterwards. Sunday night was quiet since Marilee and Erin had a celebration at MCC in San Francisco for their pastor who is leaving. The idea of attending a celebration for a pastor who was leaving seemed a little close to home, so I stayed and Marilee's mom fixed me dinner even though I told her not to.
Left and headed north the next day. Drove through the vineyards of Sonoma County, through the old Spanish settlement of Sonoma and skirted the edge of Napa before I got on the freeway to take me to I-5 which my friend Kris called "the guts of the west."
California's central valley as flat as Kansas and a shock to the system after Bay Area. But Kansas is not bordered by hills on either side. Drive, north, north north, past irrigated fields and orchards. If you eat food, you've had food from the Central Valley. Approaching Corning, California and suddenly Mt. Shasta appears on the horizon, it could be a mirage, disconnected from the ground. Stopped at the "Olive Pit" for some presents for Oregon friends and kept driving toward the mirage. I kept trying to pull off the freeway and take a photo of Mt. Shasta, but couldn't find a vista that didn't include the McDonald's arch or the sign for a muffler shop. I had to get past the mountain and a rest stop that was almost in Oregon to get a view without a sign in it.
Stopped in Redding for gas. Not only was it cheap, but a young man actually came around and scrubbed the bugs off my windshield. I was so shocked I tipped him two bucks!
Soon, I crossed the border into Oregon. Medford and my bed for the night was easily reached. I love how many of these 1950's or older motels have reinvented themselves with a updated interior and in room microwaved, coffee pots, mini fridges, free wifi and flatscreen TV's.
Next day was an easy drive into Portland and my friends. They have been cooking delicious dinners and asking if they can get me anything else.
On the drive north, I had one of my self pity moments. OK, more than one. I don't have a job. Lots of people right now don't have jobs. Most of them don't have six months of severance and a free beach house in Oregon. I thought of Job, who lost so much more than I ever have and thought of him saying, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." I realized for the first time, he said it with a lump in his throat, choking back his tears.
So, I got over my self pity and made a joke about being homeless to Fred and Susan. Susan told me later she was upset when I said that. "You aren't homeless, you have a home as long as you need one."
I learned again, the people in your life are truly a gift from God.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
blessings,
Cindy
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Cindy's San Francisco
Long but enjoyable day. Jim took me to Japantown today. This is my old stomping ground. I spent my internship year with the delightful Christ United Presbyterian Church in J-town. Christ United is a resilient little congregation that withstood being taken over by the Presbytery of San Francisco when the members of the congregation were interned by the US government during World War II. Most of San Francisco's original J-town was destroyed during the war, what is there now is mostly commercial property centered on the Japantown mall and community organizations like the Japantown Foundation, Christ United Church and the Buddhist Church.
I grew to have a lot of fondness for that little area of San Francisco and was happy to see it again. Even happier to go to Mifune's for cold soba noodles and then to the sushi boat place just for the sheer pleasure of seeing those little boats laden with sushi glide by with their lovely treasures.
It is an amazing thing to return to the scene of one's youth and find that it is largely unchanged. I turned 30 during that internship year and felt as old as the hills. I look back now and think about that thinner, more flexible, more idealistic version of me and smile at her naivete. But it is a smile of profound affection.
Tonight, Jim and I went to the Giants game at the beautiful AT&T Park. So much fun to arrive at the gate by MUNI. Would have been more fun to see the Giants win, but any day in a major league ballpark is a good one, especially this new old fashioned ball park.
I love this city. I am not sure I could ever live or work here again, but I am profoundly grateful that I had that time when I was young. Jim and I had a conversation today about how the best time to live in San Francisco is when you are young and single and don't have to worry about educating a family or finding an affordable mortgage. I'm glad I did it when I was young and didn't mind sleeping on futon or sharing a house with two other people.
In that spirit, let me give you some of Cindy's tips for being happy in San Francisco.
1. Bring a jacket.
It gets cold in the winter. And the spring. And the fall. And the summer.
2. San Franciscans do not wear white after Labor Day.
San Franciscans do not wear white before Labor Day, either. White sneakers are the only exception to this rule.
3. Start with the movies filmed here.
There are so many classic and not so classic movies that were filmed here! "Vertigo" and "Bullit" and one my favorites "Time After Time." Get a guidebook like "Celluloid San Francisco" and check it out.
4. The real San Francisco is not at the tourist spots.
Real San Franciscans do not go to Alcatraz unless dragged there by out of town friends. It's ugly and you can't get a beer or a decent cup of coffee there. Go to Pier 39 or Fisherman's Wharf or Ghiardelli Square if you must, but know that you are in the part of town that is entirely populated by tourists or by people who work there. That is not the real San Francisco.
5. Get out into the neighborhoods.
San Francisco is a collection of all these wonderful neighborhoods, each has a history and a culture. Chinatown, Japantown, the Castro, the Haight, Noe Valley, Nob Hill, North Beach, the Richmond, the Sunset, the Mission, the Marina district are just a few of these wonderful neighborhoods. This is where actual San Franciscans live and work and shop and eat.
6. Let's eat!
A diner's paradise. Dim Sum, sushi, pizza, California cuisine, vegetarian, vegan, Thai, Russian. Don't you dare think of going to McDonald's or some other restaurant chain! Outside the tourist areas, you can find some very affordable. They brew great coffee here. I never drank coffee until I moved to the Bay Area. The coffee in Nebraska when I moved away was bitter, thin and tepid. My mom used to put an ice cube in her coffee so it would cool faster. In San Francisco I found out that coffee was thick and strong and wonderful. By the time I moved back to Nebraska 20 years later, good coffee influenced by the barista culture of the West Coast was everywhere. The premiere seafood is the dungeness crab. Good just boiled and served with lemon or in a special sauce from an Asian place.
Rice a Roni? Not the San Francisco treat. It's made across the Bay in San Leandro. The only place you will see it is the ads on the cable cars.
7. San Franciscans do not wear stupid t-shirts.
You know the ones. "Property of Alcatraz" Shirts with pictures of cable cars. Shirts that say, "San Francisco" without any affiliation to a team or organization.
If you want to blend in, buy a Giants cap or a 49ers shirt. Or if you must an A's cap or a Raiders jacket. San Franciscans dress in layers that they can add or peel off as the fog comes in or burns off.
8. San Francisco can be a deeply spiritual city
This is a minority view, but I do truly still believe it after all these years. There are beautiful churches in this city, Grace Cathedral, Mission Delores, Old First Presbyterian. Glide Methodist has a fabulous tradition of community activism. Even little churches in San Francisco tend to be architectural treasures. Julia Morgan, the architect of Hearst Castle, designed little Ocean Avenue Presbyterian where I worked in the Outer Mission. My favorite congregations in San Francisco tend to be eclectic, ethnically diverse and gay friendly.
9. San Franciscans prize people who are unique, eccentric and rebellous
So don't stare at the drag queens. Don't stare at the aging hippies. Don't stare at the transexuals. Don't stare at the Giants fans who are dressed in orange. People who walk to the beat of a different drummer are quite normal here.
10. What to do:
Golden Gate Park, the De Young Museum, Legion of Honor Museum, SF MOMA, the Giants, the Niners, music in little clubs, music with the symphony or the opera. Movies, bookstores, shopping. But please, do not miss walking on the Golden Gate Bridge. Amazing views of the city, cold winds blowing in from the ocean, the bridge vibrating in the wind or from the traffic. And it is free to walk across, free to drive to Marin County on the bridge, but if you want to get back into San Francisco by car, you have to pay the tolls.
But once you have been, you'll come back. That's why, whenever the Giants win, they play, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."
On to Santa Rosa in beautiful Sonoma County tomorrow. Staying with my friend Marilee and her family for a few days and to watch the Nebraska game tomorrow. Marilee is a seminary classmate who is from Lincoln, so, Go Big Red!
blessings,
Cindy
PS don't call it Frisco. The name of the city is San Francisco. And don't bring up Barry Bonds. Just don't.
I grew to have a lot of fondness for that little area of San Francisco and was happy to see it again. Even happier to go to Mifune's for cold soba noodles and then to the sushi boat place just for the sheer pleasure of seeing those little boats laden with sushi glide by with their lovely treasures.
It is an amazing thing to return to the scene of one's youth and find that it is largely unchanged. I turned 30 during that internship year and felt as old as the hills. I look back now and think about that thinner, more flexible, more idealistic version of me and smile at her naivete. But it is a smile of profound affection.
Tonight, Jim and I went to the Giants game at the beautiful AT&T Park. So much fun to arrive at the gate by MUNI. Would have been more fun to see the Giants win, but any day in a major league ballpark is a good one, especially this new old fashioned ball park.
I love this city. I am not sure I could ever live or work here again, but I am profoundly grateful that I had that time when I was young. Jim and I had a conversation today about how the best time to live in San Francisco is when you are young and single and don't have to worry about educating a family or finding an affordable mortgage. I'm glad I did it when I was young and didn't mind sleeping on futon or sharing a house with two other people.
In that spirit, let me give you some of Cindy's tips for being happy in San Francisco.
1. Bring a jacket.
It gets cold in the winter. And the spring. And the fall. And the summer.
2. San Franciscans do not wear white after Labor Day.
San Franciscans do not wear white before Labor Day, either. White sneakers are the only exception to this rule.
3. Start with the movies filmed here.
There are so many classic and not so classic movies that were filmed here! "Vertigo" and "Bullit" and one my favorites "Time After Time." Get a guidebook like "Celluloid San Francisco" and check it out.
4. The real San Francisco is not at the tourist spots.
Real San Franciscans do not go to Alcatraz unless dragged there by out of town friends. It's ugly and you can't get a beer or a decent cup of coffee there. Go to Pier 39 or Fisherman's Wharf or Ghiardelli Square if you must, but know that you are in the part of town that is entirely populated by tourists or by people who work there. That is not the real San Francisco.
5. Get out into the neighborhoods.
San Francisco is a collection of all these wonderful neighborhoods, each has a history and a culture. Chinatown, Japantown, the Castro, the Haight, Noe Valley, Nob Hill, North Beach, the Richmond, the Sunset, the Mission, the Marina district are just a few of these wonderful neighborhoods. This is where actual San Franciscans live and work and shop and eat.
6. Let's eat!
A diner's paradise. Dim Sum, sushi, pizza, California cuisine, vegetarian, vegan, Thai, Russian. Don't you dare think of going to McDonald's or some other restaurant chain! Outside the tourist areas, you can find some very affordable. They brew great coffee here. I never drank coffee until I moved to the Bay Area. The coffee in Nebraska when I moved away was bitter, thin and tepid. My mom used to put an ice cube in her coffee so it would cool faster. In San Francisco I found out that coffee was thick and strong and wonderful. By the time I moved back to Nebraska 20 years later, good coffee influenced by the barista culture of the West Coast was everywhere. The premiere seafood is the dungeness crab. Good just boiled and served with lemon or in a special sauce from an Asian place.
Rice a Roni? Not the San Francisco treat. It's made across the Bay in San Leandro. The only place you will see it is the ads on the cable cars.
7. San Franciscans do not wear stupid t-shirts.
You know the ones. "Property of Alcatraz" Shirts with pictures of cable cars. Shirts that say, "San Francisco" without any affiliation to a team or organization.
If you want to blend in, buy a Giants cap or a 49ers shirt. Or if you must an A's cap or a Raiders jacket. San Franciscans dress in layers that they can add or peel off as the fog comes in or burns off.
8. San Francisco can be a deeply spiritual city
This is a minority view, but I do truly still believe it after all these years. There are beautiful churches in this city, Grace Cathedral, Mission Delores, Old First Presbyterian. Glide Methodist has a fabulous tradition of community activism. Even little churches in San Francisco tend to be architectural treasures. Julia Morgan, the architect of Hearst Castle, designed little Ocean Avenue Presbyterian where I worked in the Outer Mission. My favorite congregations in San Francisco tend to be eclectic, ethnically diverse and gay friendly.
9. San Franciscans prize people who are unique, eccentric and rebellous
So don't stare at the drag queens. Don't stare at the aging hippies. Don't stare at the transexuals. Don't stare at the Giants fans who are dressed in orange. People who walk to the beat of a different drummer are quite normal here.
10. What to do:
Golden Gate Park, the De Young Museum, Legion of Honor Museum, SF MOMA, the Giants, the Niners, music in little clubs, music with the symphony or the opera. Movies, bookstores, shopping. But please, do not miss walking on the Golden Gate Bridge. Amazing views of the city, cold winds blowing in from the ocean, the bridge vibrating in the wind or from the traffic. And it is free to walk across, free to drive to Marin County on the bridge, but if you want to get back into San Francisco by car, you have to pay the tolls.
But once you have been, you'll come back. That's why, whenever the Giants win, they play, "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."
On to Santa Rosa in beautiful Sonoma County tomorrow. Staying with my friend Marilee and her family for a few days and to watch the Nebraska game tomorrow. Marilee is a seminary classmate who is from Lincoln, so, Go Big Red!
blessings,
Cindy
PS don't call it Frisco. The name of the city is San Francisco. And don't bring up Barry Bonds. Just don't.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Our Heroine's Journey So Far
I'm in San Francisco, at the home of Jim and Dolly. Jim is a seminary classmate who is now a college counselor and delightful Dolly is a nurse. I was lucky enough to stay with them for a few days last year when I came to San Anselmo for study leave. They spoiled me rotten on that last trip and they are continuing now. They have a large house just south of Golden Gate Park. We all went out for Dim Sum today before Dolly had to go to work and I am still feeling stuffed! Sorry I haven't updated lately, but here is the journey so far.
Left Omaha and stopped in Kearney. Got my hair fixed one last time by my stylist. Had to go to church to pick up a few forgotten items and it was OK. Went to storage and dropped off extra clothes and pick up winter coats. Coffee with Lutheran pastor John G, dinner with Presbyterian pastor, Caroline Vickery for excellent Thai food. Yes, Kearney has Thai food made by actual Thai people! Went on to North Platte after dinner.
Spent two nights with the Hawley family in North Platte. Several good conversations with BFF Amy Hawley. Ate good Chinese food, spent time with charming Jamie and Aaron Hawley, the kids. Jim off meeting and greeting with his fellow wizards.
Spent one night in Denver because my little place in the mountains didn't have a reservation the first night. I forget between visits how much Denver just pisses me off. The traffic, the sprawl, the general frack you attitude. At the end when I was trying to get turned around and to a gas station, I just yelled to the cars interior, "I just want to leave this #@& city!!!" So I did and headed for the hills.
I love going up into the mountains. When I was a kid, we went every year from Omaha to just above Idaho Springs where we rented one of the Big Spruce Cabins operated by the Cole family. After we left Denver, we would say the name of the exits like a mantra. Lookout Mountain, Mother Cabrini, Buffalo Bill's grave. Buffalo Bill's grave always included mutual agreement about injustice of him not being buried in Nebraska. El Rancho, Floyd Hill, Chief Hosa, turn off to Central City, Idaho Springs! Idaho Springs!
In the fifties, my dad's best friend moved to Idaho Springs and we would come out first to visit them and my parents former pastor from Lincoln. Renting the cabin for a few weeks meant we had our own place and own place to cook, especially the trout we caught.
The Cole family sold Big Spruce in 1977. Alan Cole, the son of the couple who built the place, came and told us while we were staying there. An era ended in the Harvey family. We had lost that common place we all loved. Since then, Tom and my parents came to love Georgetown, Mike and Sue often go to a friend's home in Salida, Bill and family have Evergreen and Aspen. I didn't find my happy place until I found Hot Sulphur Springs just last year. The Big Spruce Cabins passed through a few different hands and is now owned by people who only rent it out for months at a time and who want to run a credit check before you rent. The days when Mr. Cole would take a personal check and a handshake are long past.
A few years ago, I drove up to Big Spruce Cabins. The Big Spruce it was named for is now gone. Lightening or pine blight, I suppose. I got teary as a took a picture of the enormous stump to show to my brothers.
I still like to stop in Idaho Springs, though. Somethings are exactly the same, like the statue of Steve Canyon, the old gold mines and the water wheel. Somethings are new like the Starbucks and a new addition just this summer since June, a business named "Cannabis Med." I had to circle the block three times to make sure I was looking at what I thought. No, I did not stop.
There is a charming deli in Idaho Springs, Two Brothers. A lot of locals hang there and so do I. It is run by laid-back women, has wonderful sandwiches and soups and coffee.
Then it was up I-70 the the Eisenhower Tunnel. I like to drive in the mountains. Both of my parents had sure hands and taught me how to slow the car without stepping on the brakes by down shifting. It was frustrating all the way up to the tunnel because two lanes had to merge to one. We had a lovely delay of about 40 minutes for about a ten foot section of work being done. Two lanes again through the tunnel. When I emerged from the tunnel, I pulled into the fast lane and descended 3500 feet to Dillon/Silverthorne yelling "WHEEEEE! WHEE! WHEE! WHEEEE!" just like the pig in the Geico commercial.
Exited at Dillon/Silverthorne and wound around into Grand County and Hot Sulphur Springs. Small town, not entirely touristed up like most of Colorado. A bar with good food, a breakfast lunch place with good food, an ice cream stand with good food. A little general store that doesn't sell much besides beer. The Hot Springs spa. You can stay there, but I prefer one of the other two motels, The Ute Trail. There is also a charming candy shop where I bought cocoa and candy coated shelled sunflower seeds. Crazy Delicious.
The Ute Trail is one of those old, two lane highway motels. The furniture is early American blond, the walls are knotty pine, the fixtures in the bathroom are "classic." Every inch is spotlessly clean. The beds are new and comfy, the rates are rock bottom. There are microwaves and fridges and coffee makes. The owner, Dee, has just invested in Dish TV. Dee is a sweetheart and sells discount passes to the Hot Springs. I soaked and vegged and enjoyed for three days.
On Monday of this week left for Salt Lake City. Passed through the area of Utah known as "the basin." The thrifty Mormons have damned up the rivers and have been taking advantage of that greatest of Nebraska exports, center pivot irrigation from Valley. I could see the blue Valley signs on them, some from quite a distance. I thought of a friend who went to Africa and saw an center pivot. He went over to look at it. It was from Valley.
Drove far into the evening to get to a unimpressive but cheap hotel out by the airport. Didn't sight see or anything in Salt Lake City. The next day, drove from Salt Lake to South Lake Tahoe, so two long days in a row. Passed through that amazing Great Salt Desert west of the Lake. Miles and miles of nothing, empty. No birds, no animals, no plants.
People have a need to mark this empty space. There is a sculpture, "Metaphor: The Tree of Utah" by Karl Momen. Here is a link to some info and a picture.
http://www.utah.com/amusement/metaphor_tree.htm
You approach this massive thing for miles and it is in stark contrast to the barren landscape.
There are informal installations as well. People come out, from Salt Lake City, one would think, and leave circles of stones, or cairns or a heart made of stones with two initials in the middle. Some people write out words with stones. There are also places where dozens of beer bottles are pushed neck first into the sand. One would hope that more than one person was involved in emptying all those bottles.
Long but easy drive across Nevada. Stopped in Winnemuca for $3.99 ham and eggs. Wasn't hungry until I saw the sign. Didn't gamble at all in Nevada, not even a nickel into a slot machine. Got into Tahoe about 9 o'clock. My friend Wanda came. We had not seen each other in almost 30 years. We just fell to talking right away. She took me to karaoke and she sang "Promises, Promises" by Naked Eyes and "Megalomaniac" by Incubus. I sang "L-O-V-E" ala Nat King Cole. "Cindy picked up that song and spanked it!" sand the KJ. (Karaoke DJ).
I loved the karaoke. There is a crowd of regulars. They are all really supportive of each other. Nobody gets booed, everyone gets a nice round of applause. Wanda has a lot of friends in that group. I gave her the same caution I give all my friends before they take me to a party, "Don't tell them I'm a Presbyterian minister. Some people really freak out." God bless her, she didn't.
The next morning, Wanda I took one of the midday cruises on the Tahoe Queen a beautiful paddle wheeler. Wanda's daughter Sarah works on the boat. I hadn't seen Sarah since she was three and she is now a gorgeous young woman with a daughter of her own. Then, set out for San Francisco. Wanda and I promised each other it would not be thirty years before we met again.
It always amuses me that almost immediately coming into California, people start driving like Californians! There is lots of jockeying for position and aggressive driving. Came down from the mountains, into the Central Valley and suddenly, palm trees appear. Sacramento, Davis, Vacaville, Vallejo all pass by, suddenly there is the Bay.
I was on the Oakland Bay Bridge in 1989 when it broke during the Loma Prieta earthquake and have never felt happy about driving across ever since. Made it without any freak outs. It helps that I was driving into the city on the top level, instead of exiting the city on the bottom level like I did during the quake. I realized I didn't have Jim and Dolly's address anywhere handy, so I called and got the address and was able to find it without any trouble.
They welcomed me with a comfy room and hot pizza. Today we gorged on dim sum before Dolly went to work and then Jim and I went to the Beach Chalet to sit in the bar and enjoy a cup of coffee for him and a club soda for me. Beautiful building built during the WPA years at the beach end of Golden Gate Park. Filled with old murals and tile work depicting San Francisco. The murals are oddly devoid of anyone Asian or African American or Hispanic. One pair of men was setting off my gaydar, however.
The Beach Chalet was boarded up when I lived in the Bay Area 20 years ago, but a combination of private and public money has made it into a display about the history of Golden Gate Park on the lower level and a restaurant and brew pub on the upper level. The fog lifted briefly on Ocean beach and I was just able to make out the breakers coming to shore. Tomorrow, AT&T park and the Giants, one half game back in the NL West.
blessings,
Cindy
Left Omaha and stopped in Kearney. Got my hair fixed one last time by my stylist. Had to go to church to pick up a few forgotten items and it was OK. Went to storage and dropped off extra clothes and pick up winter coats. Coffee with Lutheran pastor John G, dinner with Presbyterian pastor, Caroline Vickery for excellent Thai food. Yes, Kearney has Thai food made by actual Thai people! Went on to North Platte after dinner.
Spent two nights with the Hawley family in North Platte. Several good conversations with BFF Amy Hawley. Ate good Chinese food, spent time with charming Jamie and Aaron Hawley, the kids. Jim off meeting and greeting with his fellow wizards.
Spent one night in Denver because my little place in the mountains didn't have a reservation the first night. I forget between visits how much Denver just pisses me off. The traffic, the sprawl, the general frack you attitude. At the end when I was trying to get turned around and to a gas station, I just yelled to the cars interior, "I just want to leave this #@& city!!!" So I did and headed for the hills.
I love going up into the mountains. When I was a kid, we went every year from Omaha to just above Idaho Springs where we rented one of the Big Spruce Cabins operated by the Cole family. After we left Denver, we would say the name of the exits like a mantra. Lookout Mountain, Mother Cabrini, Buffalo Bill's grave. Buffalo Bill's grave always included mutual agreement about injustice of him not being buried in Nebraska. El Rancho, Floyd Hill, Chief Hosa, turn off to Central City, Idaho Springs! Idaho Springs!
In the fifties, my dad's best friend moved to Idaho Springs and we would come out first to visit them and my parents former pastor from Lincoln. Renting the cabin for a few weeks meant we had our own place and own place to cook, especially the trout we caught.
The Cole family sold Big Spruce in 1977. Alan Cole, the son of the couple who built the place, came and told us while we were staying there. An era ended in the Harvey family. We had lost that common place we all loved. Since then, Tom and my parents came to love Georgetown, Mike and Sue often go to a friend's home in Salida, Bill and family have Evergreen and Aspen. I didn't find my happy place until I found Hot Sulphur Springs just last year. The Big Spruce Cabins passed through a few different hands and is now owned by people who only rent it out for months at a time and who want to run a credit check before you rent. The days when Mr. Cole would take a personal check and a handshake are long past.
A few years ago, I drove up to Big Spruce Cabins. The Big Spruce it was named for is now gone. Lightening or pine blight, I suppose. I got teary as a took a picture of the enormous stump to show to my brothers.
I still like to stop in Idaho Springs, though. Somethings are exactly the same, like the statue of Steve Canyon, the old gold mines and the water wheel. Somethings are new like the Starbucks and a new addition just this summer since June, a business named "Cannabis Med." I had to circle the block three times to make sure I was looking at what I thought. No, I did not stop.
There is a charming deli in Idaho Springs, Two Brothers. A lot of locals hang there and so do I. It is run by laid-back women, has wonderful sandwiches and soups and coffee.
Then it was up I-70 the the Eisenhower Tunnel. I like to drive in the mountains. Both of my parents had sure hands and taught me how to slow the car without stepping on the brakes by down shifting. It was frustrating all the way up to the tunnel because two lanes had to merge to one. We had a lovely delay of about 40 minutes for about a ten foot section of work being done. Two lanes again through the tunnel. When I emerged from the tunnel, I pulled into the fast lane and descended 3500 feet to Dillon/Silverthorne yelling "WHEEEEE! WHEE! WHEE! WHEEEE!" just like the pig in the Geico commercial.
Exited at Dillon/Silverthorne and wound around into Grand County and Hot Sulphur Springs. Small town, not entirely touristed up like most of Colorado. A bar with good food, a breakfast lunch place with good food, an ice cream stand with good food. A little general store that doesn't sell much besides beer. The Hot Springs spa. You can stay there, but I prefer one of the other two motels, The Ute Trail. There is also a charming candy shop where I bought cocoa and candy coated shelled sunflower seeds. Crazy Delicious.
The Ute Trail is one of those old, two lane highway motels. The furniture is early American blond, the walls are knotty pine, the fixtures in the bathroom are "classic." Every inch is spotlessly clean. The beds are new and comfy, the rates are rock bottom. There are microwaves and fridges and coffee makes. The owner, Dee, has just invested in Dish TV. Dee is a sweetheart and sells discount passes to the Hot Springs. I soaked and vegged and enjoyed for three days.
On Monday of this week left for Salt Lake City. Passed through the area of Utah known as "the basin." The thrifty Mormons have damned up the rivers and have been taking advantage of that greatest of Nebraska exports, center pivot irrigation from Valley. I could see the blue Valley signs on them, some from quite a distance. I thought of a friend who went to Africa and saw an center pivot. He went over to look at it. It was from Valley.
Drove far into the evening to get to a unimpressive but cheap hotel out by the airport. Didn't sight see or anything in Salt Lake City. The next day, drove from Salt Lake to South Lake Tahoe, so two long days in a row. Passed through that amazing Great Salt Desert west of the Lake. Miles and miles of nothing, empty. No birds, no animals, no plants.
People have a need to mark this empty space. There is a sculpture, "Metaphor: The Tree of Utah" by Karl Momen. Here is a link to some info and a picture.
http://www.utah.com/amusement/metaphor_tree.htm
You approach this massive thing for miles and it is in stark contrast to the barren landscape.
There are informal installations as well. People come out, from Salt Lake City, one would think, and leave circles of stones, or cairns or a heart made of stones with two initials in the middle. Some people write out words with stones. There are also places where dozens of beer bottles are pushed neck first into the sand. One would hope that more than one person was involved in emptying all those bottles.
Long but easy drive across Nevada. Stopped in Winnemuca for $3.99 ham and eggs. Wasn't hungry until I saw the sign. Didn't gamble at all in Nevada, not even a nickel into a slot machine. Got into Tahoe about 9 o'clock. My friend Wanda came. We had not seen each other in almost 30 years. We just fell to talking right away. She took me to karaoke and she sang "Promises, Promises" by Naked Eyes and "Megalomaniac" by Incubus. I sang "L-O-V-E" ala Nat King Cole. "Cindy picked up that song and spanked it!" sand the KJ. (Karaoke DJ).
I loved the karaoke. There is a crowd of regulars. They are all really supportive of each other. Nobody gets booed, everyone gets a nice round of applause. Wanda has a lot of friends in that group. I gave her the same caution I give all my friends before they take me to a party, "Don't tell them I'm a Presbyterian minister. Some people really freak out." God bless her, she didn't.
The next morning, Wanda I took one of the midday cruises on the Tahoe Queen a beautiful paddle wheeler. Wanda's daughter Sarah works on the boat. I hadn't seen Sarah since she was three and she is now a gorgeous young woman with a daughter of her own. Then, set out for San Francisco. Wanda and I promised each other it would not be thirty years before we met again.
It always amuses me that almost immediately coming into California, people start driving like Californians! There is lots of jockeying for position and aggressive driving. Came down from the mountains, into the Central Valley and suddenly, palm trees appear. Sacramento, Davis, Vacaville, Vallejo all pass by, suddenly there is the Bay.
I was on the Oakland Bay Bridge in 1989 when it broke during the Loma Prieta earthquake and have never felt happy about driving across ever since. Made it without any freak outs. It helps that I was driving into the city on the top level, instead of exiting the city on the bottom level like I did during the quake. I realized I didn't have Jim and Dolly's address anywhere handy, so I called and got the address and was able to find it without any trouble.
They welcomed me with a comfy room and hot pizza. Today we gorged on dim sum before Dolly went to work and then Jim and I went to the Beach Chalet to sit in the bar and enjoy a cup of coffee for him and a club soda for me. Beautiful building built during the WPA years at the beach end of Golden Gate Park. Filled with old murals and tile work depicting San Francisco. The murals are oddly devoid of anyone Asian or African American or Hispanic. One pair of men was setting off my gaydar, however.
The Beach Chalet was boarded up when I lived in the Bay Area 20 years ago, but a combination of private and public money has made it into a display about the history of Golden Gate Park on the lower level and a restaurant and brew pub on the upper level. The fog lifted briefly on Ocean beach and I was just able to make out the breakers coming to shore. Tomorrow, AT&T park and the Giants, one half game back in the NL West.
blessings,
Cindy
Monday, September 6, 2010
West
Tonight is my last night in Omaha. I haven't been blogging much, too much excitement going on. Had Brother Mike and Sister in law Sue over for dinner at Tom's on Friday. Made my favorite meal to cook, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas, berries for dessert. We looked at old pictures and read some letters our Pop wrote home during World War II from Lincoln Airbase. One of them got us all choked up when he wrote about how awful it was from everyone to be separated from their families and about war being caused by human sin. He wrote about how much he missed is parents and MJ (our mom) and Tommy, who was just a baby. He would be discharged after 90 days because he was discovered to have a heart murmur and spent the rest of the war working in a bomber plant, but he didn't know that when he wrote the letter.
Saturday, helped Brothers Tom and Bill to go through Tom's garage and all the Christmas decorations. Already have filled up one Cindy box and started on the second. They will have to stay in Tom's garage for time being. I took one teddy bear dressed as a Christmas Tree to serve as my Christmas tree this year, since all my decorations are packed up.
Saturday evening we took off and went to the Big Red Keno Bar. My brother Bill is the attorney for Big Red Keno, we have had some interesting discussions about gambling. But it is also a great place to watch a game, especially a pay per view game. Potato skins, onion rings, burgers, cold beer all brought right to you. It's a wonderful thing. Nebraska won big, too, so GO BIG RED. I've already got it set with Bill that I get to take Nephew Bob to the last Colorado game ever when I am home for Thanksgiving.
Rested on Sunday, today, more garage cleaning in the morning. This afternoon I took my father's three fishing reels to Cabela's to be restrung and learned they are valuable antiques. The salesman restrung them but begged me not to fish with them, especially since I had the boxes for the reels. I haven't done any research yet, but I bought myself a new reel and will leave these with Tom.
Tomorrow, I turn West. I am as much a fool for American History and American Myth as anyone. There is something about the drive west, from the prairie, through the mountains to the ocean. I am in awe of the people who made this trek before cars, interstates, rest stops and McDonalds. Last summer when I paused in the great Salt Desert to survey that bare, incredible, terrifying landscape I marveled that people once crossed it in nothing but a wagon. I'm amazed that anyone built a railroad or a highway across that expanse of white.
I first made that trip by car from Omaha, to Colorado, to San Diego when I was a child. Brother Mike was on a mission trip to San Diego and Mom, Pop, Bill and I drove out there to pick him up and go to Disneyland. It was fun. But my Pop and I both caught some kind of upper respiratory infection in LA. By the time we got to Arizona, we were dreadfully sick. All I remember about the Grand Canyon was how awful I felt looking at it. Mother and Mike talked after Pop and I fell asleep and decided to find a doctor in the morning.
We just went to a doctor's office and were seen right away. Remember, this was the mid-sixties, and you could still do that. The doctor we found had gone to the University of Nebraska Medical School with our doctor back in Omaha. He told us that many people from the Midwest got sick in LA, it was the smog that our lungs couldn't handle. He fixed us up with some kind of cough syrup, we were both well again very quickly.
During and just after seminary I lived in California for just over four years, but in the San Francisco Bay Area. I have never been back to Los Angeles. It always seems like the journey East has always been more dangerous to me since then than the trek West. I made the trip by car just a handful of times by car while going to or coming from seminary. Flying by plane, which I did more often, just doesn't count. I've had to nurse my finicky convertible across I-80 twice. The trip from San Francisco to take my first call in Ohio was particularly exciting. My car gave a huge cough of a back fire on top of Donner Pass, but kept going. I had a scary moment in Wyoming, passing a truck and suddenly realized I was driving on shear ice. A trucker I will never know saved my life by easing back and letting me back in the right lane. On the way back east to Nebraska from California last summer, I tripped and fell on my way into a gas station in Fallon, Nevada. I'm still having back and knee problems from that fall.
Yet, I am still in love with the trip West. There is a curve that I-80 takes on the way out of Omaha that just looks like the road goes on forever. Every time I take that curve, I feel the years fall away and I'm on my way to the mountains to go fishing with my Pop, on my way to meet Mickey Mouse.
Most of the time, I am in love with this adventure. How many people, in the 51st year of their life, can just get in a car and take off? Other times, I look around my bedroom, I'm sorry, Tom's living room, now completely taken up by a rather large inflatable bed and think with longing of when I still had a home myself. Then I feel angry and sad all at once. I long for my desk, my bed, my pictures on the wall, my kitchen, my stuff, now all packed up in Kearney.
It doesn't last very long. West. West like Lewis and Clark to learn about a continent. West like Teddy Roosevelt to cure his asthma and his broken heart. West like Willa Cather as a child by train and wagon from the gentle hills of Virginia to the Nebraska prairie to find her destiny and her voice. West like Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. I used to sit underneath their stained glass window in Stewart Chapel at San Francisco Theological Seminary. Later, I served in their home Presbytery in New York.
I am not in their class, nor in the class of the thousands upon thousands who came, who for good or bad built this country. I am an informed historian. I know it came at the cost of lives, lives of people who had lived in the west for centuries. I know it came at the cost of the land itself. But somehow, there is still something in me that responds to the romance of the American Dream. But still, I head West, to see the mountains, to smell the sea air. Oregon or Bust.
Blessings.
Saturday, helped Brothers Tom and Bill to go through Tom's garage and all the Christmas decorations. Already have filled up one Cindy box and started on the second. They will have to stay in Tom's garage for time being. I took one teddy bear dressed as a Christmas Tree to serve as my Christmas tree this year, since all my decorations are packed up.
Saturday evening we took off and went to the Big Red Keno Bar. My brother Bill is the attorney for Big Red Keno, we have had some interesting discussions about gambling. But it is also a great place to watch a game, especially a pay per view game. Potato skins, onion rings, burgers, cold beer all brought right to you. It's a wonderful thing. Nebraska won big, too, so GO BIG RED. I've already got it set with Bill that I get to take Nephew Bob to the last Colorado game ever when I am home for Thanksgiving.
Rested on Sunday, today, more garage cleaning in the morning. This afternoon I took my father's three fishing reels to Cabela's to be restrung and learned they are valuable antiques. The salesman restrung them but begged me not to fish with them, especially since I had the boxes for the reels. I haven't done any research yet, but I bought myself a new reel and will leave these with Tom.
Tomorrow, I turn West. I am as much a fool for American History and American Myth as anyone. There is something about the drive west, from the prairie, through the mountains to the ocean. I am in awe of the people who made this trek before cars, interstates, rest stops and McDonalds. Last summer when I paused in the great Salt Desert to survey that bare, incredible, terrifying landscape I marveled that people once crossed it in nothing but a wagon. I'm amazed that anyone built a railroad or a highway across that expanse of white.
I first made that trip by car from Omaha, to Colorado, to San Diego when I was a child. Brother Mike was on a mission trip to San Diego and Mom, Pop, Bill and I drove out there to pick him up and go to Disneyland. It was fun. But my Pop and I both caught some kind of upper respiratory infection in LA. By the time we got to Arizona, we were dreadfully sick. All I remember about the Grand Canyon was how awful I felt looking at it. Mother and Mike talked after Pop and I fell asleep and decided to find a doctor in the morning.
We just went to a doctor's office and were seen right away. Remember, this was the mid-sixties, and you could still do that. The doctor we found had gone to the University of Nebraska Medical School with our doctor back in Omaha. He told us that many people from the Midwest got sick in LA, it was the smog that our lungs couldn't handle. He fixed us up with some kind of cough syrup, we were both well again very quickly.
During and just after seminary I lived in California for just over four years, but in the San Francisco Bay Area. I have never been back to Los Angeles. It always seems like the journey East has always been more dangerous to me since then than the trek West. I made the trip by car just a handful of times by car while going to or coming from seminary. Flying by plane, which I did more often, just doesn't count. I've had to nurse my finicky convertible across I-80 twice. The trip from San Francisco to take my first call in Ohio was particularly exciting. My car gave a huge cough of a back fire on top of Donner Pass, but kept going. I had a scary moment in Wyoming, passing a truck and suddenly realized I was driving on shear ice. A trucker I will never know saved my life by easing back and letting me back in the right lane. On the way back east to Nebraska from California last summer, I tripped and fell on my way into a gas station in Fallon, Nevada. I'm still having back and knee problems from that fall.
Yet, I am still in love with the trip West. There is a curve that I-80 takes on the way out of Omaha that just looks like the road goes on forever. Every time I take that curve, I feel the years fall away and I'm on my way to the mountains to go fishing with my Pop, on my way to meet Mickey Mouse.
Most of the time, I am in love with this adventure. How many people, in the 51st year of their life, can just get in a car and take off? Other times, I look around my bedroom, I'm sorry, Tom's living room, now completely taken up by a rather large inflatable bed and think with longing of when I still had a home myself. Then I feel angry and sad all at once. I long for my desk, my bed, my pictures on the wall, my kitchen, my stuff, now all packed up in Kearney.
It doesn't last very long. West. West like Lewis and Clark to learn about a continent. West like Teddy Roosevelt to cure his asthma and his broken heart. West like Willa Cather as a child by train and wagon from the gentle hills of Virginia to the Nebraska prairie to find her destiny and her voice. West like Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. I used to sit underneath their stained glass window in Stewart Chapel at San Francisco Theological Seminary. Later, I served in their home Presbytery in New York.
I am not in their class, nor in the class of the thousands upon thousands who came, who for good or bad built this country. I am an informed historian. I know it came at the cost of lives, lives of people who had lived in the west for centuries. I know it came at the cost of the land itself. But somehow, there is still something in me that responds to the romance of the American Dream. But still, I head West, to see the mountains, to smell the sea air. Oregon or Bust.
Blessings.
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