Flying Low

 

The exact date in 2005 is lost to me now, but the memory is seared into my brain.

It started out as a long Sunday night drive from Northern California. I was heading home to SoCal after a solo turn-n-burn trip to visit my ailing younger brother Chuck in Paradise, a small town nestled in the Sierra foothills 75 miles North of Sacramento.

It would be the last time I'd see Chuck alive, but that's another story.

I was rushing home so I could be at work the next day. The Artist hadn't made the trip because it was too long a drive for her over a single weekend. I'd done it several times over the years, so it was no biggie for me.

My Black '93 Toyota SR5 Xtra Cab was a total Highway Star for drives like this, owing as much to the strong V6 engine as to the long wheelbase and excellent road-going suspension. That baby could ROLL.

The run from Paradise, through Sacramento and on to Stockton only took about two hours, with light traffic most of the way. I stopped at a decrepit gas station in Stockton to fuel up and grab a Mountain Dew and a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos, my road food combo of choice.

Once back on the Southbound I-5 freeway, the traffic disappeared and civilization fell away. I was cruising at about 65mph because the area was a known speed trap and I didn't need a ticket.

As I made the Tracy Cutoff, I could see one or two cars waaaay up ahead of me, so I nudged the throttle and settled in at 80mph. Soon enough, the Cutoff blended onto the main two-lane I-5 Southbound. I was now going about 90mph with a couple of cars about a quarter-mile ahead. I also noticed a car in my rear-view mirror, about a quarter-mile behind.

My sled was cruising along so smoothly that, just for fun, I squeezed the throttle a bit more and was now going 100mph, smooth as butter. Watching the roadway ahead, the two cars in front of me used the inside lane to pass a slower car, so I did the same when I caught the crawler, as did the car behind me. 

After a few minutes at this excessive velocity, I realized the cars in front and behind were doing the same speed as me!

Eventually, our high-speed auto caravan grew to six cars, all of us keeping to the same speed, catching and passing slower cars in a nighttime freeway ballet. It was amazing to watch us all sweep around slower cars and trucks, one after the other, at 100MPH!

Now, don't get me wrong - this kind of driving was totally illegal and dangerous, and any single thing could have led to disaster. But after a while it seemed so natural... the starry nighttime sky, the headlamp-lit highway streaming underneath, the tunes pumping from the speakers, my concentration cranked up to 11... perfection. A shared celestial moment between drivers who knew nothing about one another except that we were hauling ass.

It was MESMERIZING.

We sped along like that for almost 90 minutes... at 100mph... at night... on the freeway... slicing through the Northern San Joaquin Valley like so many bolides.

I imagine the other drivers had the same shit-eating grin as me the entire time, whooping out loud when we each caught and passed another car, flowing from the outside lane to the inside lane and back to the outside lane. I don't recall there were very many semis on the road that night.

Eventually it had to end, so when the exit signs announced the Kettleman City offramp (gas/food/lodging), two of the cars ahead signaled their exit and, as we flew past, popped their hi-beams and flashers in a sign of shared law-breaking exuberance.

Not too long after we blew by Kettleman City, our Night Train dwindled down to just me and one other car.

We'd done the 130 miles from the Tracy Cutoff to Kettleman City in less than 90 minutes, but now we were approaching the southern half of the valley and on the run to Bakersfield. The traffic grew a bit heavier and I backed down to 85mph. My compatriot behind was lost in the mix, probably doing the same with a new-found abundance of caution.

The rest of the drive... flashing past Bakersfield, over the Grapevine and dropping into overnight SoCal traffic and civilization was an 85mph blur of lights and cars.

I made it safely home, grabbed a few hours of sleep and headed off to work.

BUT... that magical 90 minutes was still buzzing in my head. Had it really happened? Yep, and it wouldn't happen again.

Stupid. Exhilarating. Illegal. Fantastic. Dangerous. Spectacular. Wildly inappropriate. Wholly enjoyable.

I've had the good fortune to drive real race cars on real racetracks, but that insane high-speed nighttime I-5 drive stands out as a truly singular experience, one that gives me pause when I realize exactly what I'd done, how much risk I took and how little it seemed to worry me at the time.

I'm an old fart now and wouldn't do anything like that on the open highway again. However, in my mind's eye I can still see that freeway ballet, performed when no one else existed in the world except me and my temporary road warrior compadres in our speeding projectiles, hurtling through time and space.

I wonder if any of them remember that night the same way I do?

Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de Commander Cody & His Lost Planet Airmen 'Hot Rod Lincoln', muchas gracias a YouTube; Recuerda volar bajo y evitar el radar!

Leave The Driving To Us

This ridiculous story is 100% true.

In early 1976, I had decided to move to the town of Paradise, California and leave SoCal behind for good. I'd help Dad run his recently-opened Mexican restaurant in that sleepy mountain burg nestled in an oak forest within view of the Sierras. 

At least that was the plan. I wound up leaving Paradise and returning to SoCal less than 18 months later, but that's not the subject of this story.

Before moving North, my good friend Patti had set a date for her upcoming marriage and demanded that I come back to participate in the festivities. Of course I said yes. Since it would involve a 3-day quick trip turnaround, Dad gave me that Friday and Saturday off and I decided to take a Greyhound bus rather than put more miles on my sweet '72 Capri. That way I could be as high or hungover as possible on Sunday and not have to worry about keeping it on the asphalt for the trip back.

I left my car at the Greyhound terminal in Chico (about 12 miles from Paradise) early Friday morning and started my journey with only three scheduled stops during the 8-hour trip on Interstate 5: once in Sacramento for a transfer, once in beautiful Kettleman City for a rest stop and the final destination in Downtown Los Angeles.

For the uninitiated, back in the 70's Kettleman City was only rest stop on I-5 between Bakersfield and Sacramento, a stretch of over 275 miles. Kettlemen City smelled of pesticides and manure. Otherwise, the I-5 corridor was a desolate sea of agriculture.

I'd planned to stay with Mom during the weekend, so she picked me up in LA and after I dropped her off at home, I used her new Camaro as my sled for the festivities.

Just like Mom's Camaro!

 The wedding was great, we partied like monsters and I was indeed very ragged on Sunday morning when Mom dropped me back at the LA Greyhound bus station. I staggered into the terminal, confirmed my ticket and crawled onto the bus. I was barely conscious as we pulled out onto the freeway around 9AM when the driver made an announcement that woke me right the fuck up:

"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this express shuttle that will make scheduled stops all along Interstate 99, with our planned arrival in Sacramento at approximately 9PM tonite. Welcome Aboard!"

Holy Crap!!! How did I wind up on a shuttle that would take 4 hours longer for the return trip?!?! I scrambled for my ticket and sure enough, it said 'Express Shuttle'... I'd picked the wrong bus for the ride home and would be lucky to get home to Paradise before midnight.

The trip to Sacramento was unending. No booze, no weed, with stops in literally every city along I-99. I had pretty much calmed down somewhere near Glendale, resigned to the long ride and just slept off my hangover for most of the trip, waking up each time the bus pulled into a dusty terminal near the freeway.

We arrived in Sacramento ahead of schedule (!!) just before 8:30PM and as I was exiting the bus to hit the restroom and get some snacks, I asked the driver if the same bus was headed up to Chico, he said yes and for me to leave my bag on board.

BIG MISTAKE.

I returned to the bus (with a new driver aboard) and settled in for the 2-hour run to Chico, my car and home. The bus made its way onto the freeway around 9PM, heading North on the I-5 when the driver made the following earth-shattering announcement just outside Sacramento:

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen... thanks for choosing Greyhound. We hope you'll enjoy this non-stop express bus, with our planned arrival in Redding at approximately 1AM. Welcome Aboard!"

I jumped up out of my seat and ran up to the driver.

Me (trying desperately to remain calm): "Wait a minute... did you say our next stop is in REDDING?!?!"

Him: "Yes Sir, we'll be there right on schedule."

Me: "But that's impossible! The last driver told me this bus would continue on to Chico!!"

Him: "It was, sir... but there was a schedule change due to a mechanical issue and the Chico route is being handled by another carriage."

Me: "WHAT?!? But but but the other driver told me..."

Him: "Sorry sir... perhaps you should have double-checked the updated schedule at the Sacramento depot. This bus rolls on to Redding and then back to Sacramento, non-stop both ways."

I was frantic, standing there at the front of the bus, knowing the driver was probably getting pissed, knowing most of the other passengers were watching to see if I was insane or drunk or violent and needed to be restrained for my own good.

I looked out the front windshield and saw that we were fast approaching the exit from the I-5 to the I-99/I-70 road that would lead to Chico and home.

Me:  "Please stop the bus and drop me off at the upcoming I-99 exit."

Him: "SIR... I'm not able to do that, it isn't safe!"

Me:  "PLEASE, I really need to get off this bus because it's headed in the wrong direction from my home!!! I can't go all the way to Redding because there's no way I'll make it to work in the morning!!"

Him: "Sorry Sir, that's just not..."

Me:  "PLEASE!!!!!!"

A few moments later, the bus stopped to drop me off on the side of the freeway, then slowly drove away.

And there I was, standing alone with my bag beside the desolate freeway interchange at 9:30PM on a Sunday night, 10 miles North of Sacramento and almost 80 miles away from my car in Chico.  I stood there for a few minutes, wondering what the hell I'd just done, really pissed at myself for this revolting development.

After about 5 minutes of mental self-flogging, I picked up my bag and started walking down the I-99 exit. Once I got off the exit incline and onto level ground, I did the only thing I could do: I stuck out my thumb in the hopes of hitching a ride.

I stood there for about 30 minutes while cars whizzed by until one slowed down to pull over and pick me up.  I ran down the road to jump in... it was a Black Pontiac Trans-Am with the t-tops out and the giant 'Screaming Chicken' decal on the hood. I looked inside at the driver, a dude with a buzz-cut, sleeveless t-shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Me: "Hey man... thanks for the lift! How far you going?"

Him: (obviously totally drunk, with a can of beer in his hand): "Oh hey, maaaan... howyadooin'? Ahm going back to Beale Air Force Base outshide-a Marysville, that cool with you?"

Me (alarmed but desperate): "That sounds great, but... are you OK to drive?"

Him: "SHUR I YAM! Hop in and let's boogie!"

I tossed my bag into the back seat, climbed in and buckled the seat belt. He stomped the accelerator and peeled outta there, fishtailing and throwing up a rooster tail of gravel and dust.

Just like the drunk Air Force guy's Trans-Am!

I was petrified. Here's this drunk Air Force guy, driving along a desolate four-lane country highway at 85 miles an hour, barely keeping the car in the lane, talking to me with slurred speech while the radio was blasting so loud the music was distorted, pounding down a beer and laughing.

Him: "HAW HAW HAW... Good thing I picked yew up, I almosht din't see you there standing by the side of the road, what th' hell are you doin' thumbing in the middle of nowhere, anywaysh?"

I started trying to explain my sitch, but decided not to distract him from the task of trying not to drive into the deep irrigation ditches that bordered both sides of the roadway. He just kept on drunkenly talking to himself, drifting from the one side of his lane to the other, barely conscious and alert.

By some miracle, we made it all the way into Marysville and I asked him to drop me off at the corner of 9th and B... B Street turned into I-70 once it left town and would eventually get me to Chico. I jumped out and he once again peeled out, covering me in dust and tire smoke.

It was now about 11PM and I was almost halfway to Chico. I decided to grab something to drink at the small restaurant/bar located on the corner, so I stashed my bag behind some bushes and went inside.

It was smoky and noisy inside but not too crowded, so I sat at the counter next to a couple of half-drunk girls and started talking to them. They laughed at my predicament and said they'd be glad give me a ride to Chico where they lived. What luck!!!! I bought them both a beer and we talked for awhile before they decided to go to the restroom.

I sat at the bar for about 15 minutes waiting but they never came back. 

They ditched me. I'd been had.

Now it was past Midnight and I was still only halfway home. I walked outside, grabbed my bag and walked up B Street about a quarter mile, stopped in front of an all-night gas station and stuck out my thumb again.

After about 15 minutes, a ratty green Dodge truck pulled over to the curb in front of me. I opened the door and looked inside to see the driver was a grizzled older Black guy wearing a stained cowboy hat with a cigar in his mouth.

Him: "Howdy, Son... need a lift?"

Me: " Uhhhh... sure... thanks for stopping! How far you going?"

Him: "Well, I live in Gridley... where you goin'?" (Gridley is about halfway between Marysville and Chico).

Me: "I'm trying to get to Chico, but I'd really appreciate the lift to Gridely."

I got into the truck. He sat there smoking for a moment.

Him:  "You know, I jus' flew into Sacramento from Europe this evening and ahm pretty tired raht now. If you don' mind driving so's I can take a nap, you kin drive all the way to Chico and ah'll jus' turn 'round and head back to Gridley. How does that sound?"

Me: "WOW... that would be amazing!!! I'd be happy to drive, and THANK YOU!!!"

Just like the old guy's truck!

A few minutes later I was driving the truck out of Marysville with the old guy smoking away in the passenger seat.

Him: "Yep, been a long week. I play harmonica and been in Germany doin' a few shows, just got back into Cali tonite."

Me (suspiciously): "Germany, eh? Did you do any recording there?"

Him:  "Sure did! Here... pull over and look'a diss."

Once I'd stopped the truck, he pulled out several newspaper articles and copies of playbills from under the seat featuring him, Andy Rodgers (click the link) a world-renowned harmonica player who was famously known as the 'Midnight Cowboy' and had done session work with musical legends for decades. He gave me a couple of the copies to keep.

I was floored, amazed and humbled that this famous human being was willing and able to be so nice to me, a total stranger, in my hour of need.

After a few minutes on the road, Andy fell asleep while I drove through the dark Northern California countryside on a winding two-lane road, bordered by trees and farms and small isolated communities. I kept my speed at about 45mph so as not to take a curve too fast and wake him up.  He was leaned up against the passenger door, hat covering up his eyes, snoring loudly.

About 90 minutes later, I slowly pulled into the Chico Greyhound terminal and parked next to my Capri. It was well past 2AM. I woke up Andy and in just a minute or so, he was in the driver seat and I was shaking his hand like crazy.

Me:  "THANK YOU, ANDY!!! You have no idea how grateful I am that you helped in in such a big way. I'm so glad to meet you and will never forget you!"

Him: "You welcome, Bob... ahv had many people help me in mah life, so I jus' wanna' return the favor as often as I can. Maybe I can get mah wife to come up to yo Dad's place in Paradise sometime! It ain't that far from Gridley!"

With that, Andy slowly drove away, waving his arm out the window at me.

I stood there in the empty terminal parking lot, leaning on my car, taking a few hits off a joint, thinking about the 16-hour journey I'd just been on. 

The bus ride to Sacramento was endless, thanks to my own stupidity. 

I was really lucky to get a ride outside of Sacramento and not to have died in a fiery alcohol-fueled crash on the way to Marysville.

And I was especially lucky that Andy Rodgers, world-famous harmonica player, took the time to stop and help a brother out. I got into my Capri and drove the 12 miles home up on the ridge in Paradise.

I wasn't worth a shit at work the next day, and Dad made sure I knew it.

**********************************************************

I wish I still had those playbill copies that Andy had given me, but they went MIA in the many years since like so many things do in our lives. He never made it to the restaurant, and by the end of 1977 I had moved back to SoCal where I'd soon meet my future ex-wife.

Hitchhiking is now a thing of the past, relegated to behaviors that we just couldn't or wouldn't do in our modern world.

But I did a lot of it in the 70's, when the world seemed so much bigger and other people seemed far less mean and dangerous.

R.I.P. Andy Rodgers (1922 - 2004).

"The great thing in the world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)




All images, Gracias de Google Open Images; CCR 'Sweet Hitchhiker' video, Muchismas Gracias de YouTube; All vehicle images are indicative of vehicles referenced in this essay and are NOT the actual vehicles involved, M'Kay?

The Yardwork Gene

I was talking with Awesome Dad on the phone recently about his upcoming relocation to the wilds of Southwestern Idaho. We got on the subject of yardwork, so I recounted a conversation I'd had with my younger brother Chuck back in 2005, mere months before his passing.

Chuck had taken seriously ill with a failed liver, was fighting a devastating blood infection and in the final throes of his battle with alcohol. He'd recently moved into a small cottage in the city of Paradise, California (same city as Mom and Dad) where he'd lived since 1979, and we were talking about his new pad.

Me: "So, dude... you gonna hire someone to do the yards?"

Him: "Well, I made a deal with the landlord and he agreed to take $100 a month off my rent if I keep the lawns mowed and raked."

Me: "Ummmm... are you sure you're strong enough right now to take on that kind of physical labor?"

Him: "Of course I'm strong enough... I'm not a pussy, you know."

Me:  "But Chuck... you've never done any meaningful yardwork in your entire life."

Him: "Phhhht... it's easy, anyone could do these yards."

Me:  "BUT CHUCK... you don't have The Yardwork Gene like Dad and me, and you know it."

Him:  "Yeah... well... it's no big deal, I'll take care of it."

Upon hearing my story, Dad says "Well, you KNOW who wound up doing his yards, don't you?"

We both laughed at that and the idea of Chuck EVER doing yardwork of any kind, mostly because we miss him so much. And yes, it was Dad that did his yards, because Dad has The Yardwork Gene and Chuck never did.

The reason I mention all this is because the image at the top of this essay, of that lovely home surrounded by trees and greenery and verdant lawn... that image was taken by Dad after he'd done his yards for the final time before the new owners would take possession of the house and Mom and Dad would move out and be gone after living there for 35 years.

What's important to note is this house, surrounded by trees and greenery and verdant lawn, is located in Paradise, California. Yes, THAT Paradise, the same city that only last November was devastated by the horrific Camp Fire that destroyed 90% of the homes and 70% of the businesses and resulted in over 80 people losing their lives. The population dropped from 29,000 inhabitants to less than 3,000... you can't buy gasoline anywhere because the stations all burned down... the sound of dump trucks and bulldozers and chainsaws echo up there on the ridge six days a week now... you never even hear a barking dog at night because everyone is gone.

Even though their home was spared and insurance covered the moderate repairs that were needed, Mom and Dad decided to sell because their friends... their community... their way of life... all the things they knew and loved about Paradise are now gone. The city may eventually recover, but they ain't waiting around for it.

For 35 years, Dad was the sole groundskeeper for his acre of nature, dubbed 'Descano (means 'relaxation') Gardens' because they lived on Descanso Lane. Over the decades, he mowed and raked and trimmed and planted and weeded and fertilized and landscaped and trenched and filled and leveled and seeded and raked and raked and raked and... well, you get he idea. The lot was dotted with huge pines and California Redwoods. He dismantled a horse stable, built a stone-lined babbling brook across the rear part of his property, built a greenhouse and workshop, and created an outdoor haven for parties and gatherings that became legendary in that bucolic mountain burg.

He even built a small memorial area off to the side of the property where Chuck's ashes were stashed, a lovely little spot with a small bench under the trees where'd I'd play my guitar for Chuck.

Even now, almost a year after burning to the ground, there are still some properties in Paradise that look like this:

In fact, the image of Dad's (now) former home is misleading, because although the fire leaped over and spared the house and the front yards, it scorched the property out back, taking out his workshop and greenhouse, completely burning down some of the huge trees so badly that the roots burned right out of the ground, leaving giant holes in the dirt.

Dad and I talked about his final day of yardwork on Descanso Lane, and I asked him how he felt about it.  His answer surprised me.

He said "Honestly, Son... I'm actually very relieved. This property has been a lot of work, especially over the last few years, and it's taken a lot to keep up with it. I'm glad to have enjoyed such a beautiful place to live, but I'll be happy never to have to clean up that huge yard again."

Did I mention that Dad will be 84 years old this year?

Dad has The Yardwork Gene... typical Mexican.

Not everyone has The Yardwork Gene, but I'm thankful and grateful that Dad passed it on to me, because I LOVE doing yardwork.

I have The Yardwork Gene. Don't judge.

As a kid growing up in La Puente, my weekly allowance was predicated on the completion of tasks that included washing dishes every night, keeping the house clean, washing Dad's truck every week and (you guessed it) doing the yardwork. I enjoyed it, to be honest... I even rolled the lawnmower up and down our street, offering to mow the neighbors' lawns for a few bucks. It was a natural part of growing up.

I feel like doing the yards is a foundation of my adult-ness.

These days, I usually trim and mow every other weekend, and I find myself getting antsy mid-week and looking forward to opening the garage door on Saturday mornings and spending a couple of hours weeding and trimming and raking and mowing my little patch of greenery. I used to wear my ipod Nano while working but now enjoy the ambient sounds of my labor, feeling more connected to the world around me, smelling the raked gardens and cut grass and wet pavement when I wash everything down.

Once the yards are done, I always have a lookie from across the street because Pride of Ownership, amirite? It's not the largest or fanciest or best landscaped yard on the block, but it's ours and we've loved it for over 27 years. 

Less than a quarter (prolly fewer) of the homeowners in my 'hood do their own yards, opting instead to pay a fleet of Mexican gardeners who descend en masse with their implements of destruction and leave nothing but trimmed edges and hedges and smooth lawns in their wake.

I truly appreciate those Mexican gardeners who work so hard, seven days a week, making our neighborhood beautiful, Making America Great like only hardworking people can (Eat The Rich). I see whole families working those yards, sometimes even with tiny kids dragging a mini-rake or broom around, not really working but pretending to help Mom and Dad earn their keep. Those little kids are the ones who learn early to appreciate their parent's efforts to keep them housed and clothed and fed in a country that needs them to grow up happy, healthy and strong.

Now that Mom and Dad are officially gone from Descanso Lane, I'll miss making the 9-hour drive into Northern California, a drive I've made countless times since 1975.

I'll miss sitting in Chuck's Place, strumming my guitar and thinking about him and how he influenced me in so many ways.

I'll miss hanging outside with Mom and Dad and The Artist, sitting under the shady arbor, talking and laughing and just being together.

I'll miss simply walking around Dad's property, seeing his latest efforts to upgrade or change or just clean up, marveling at his ability to do so much work and keep it all looking so great in a natural, unaffected way.

I hope that I can keep doing my yards with the same joy that I do today. I hope I never get tired or bored with raking and trimming and mowing and sweeping, because when I do all of those things, I feel closer to Awesome Dad.

The guy that gifted me with The Yardwork Gene.


Paradise house image, Gracias de Manuel A. Macias, Jr.; Paradise burned image, Gracias de sacramentobee.com; Mission Viejo house image por El Autor; Suburban Lawns 'Janitor' video, Gracis de youtube.com.