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Well, our trip to Washington is now history and the earthly tabernacle of Grandpa Paul has been safely returned to the bosom of Mother Earth. The travel was arduous, but I am recovering and expect to be fully functional (at least as far as that phrase applies to an old man) in just a few days. Once again I had the opportunity to observe the female of the species preparing for a journey, and again noted the innate differences between the genders. I doubt there is a power on earth that can induce Barbara to prepare in advance. The only functional stimulus of which I am aware is the yell, "Get in the car, it's time to leave." At that point, preparation begins. This used to be a source of frustration, but now that I understand the laws that govern this aspect of the physical universe I am more amused than amazed. I have a particularly graphic graphic that illustrates this portion of our trip, but have been threatened with bodily harm if I include it. My momma raised ugly kids, not dumb ones, and you will note that the photo is absent. However, if you ask nicely, Barbara may let you view it. 
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This was one of three accidents we passed on the trip. One of them was quite spectacular, but Barbara wouldn't let me stop and take photos ("...I can't believe you! That is soooo gauche"). Once outside of the metropolitan areas, the freeway actually became "free" and we made fairly good time. |
Driving the freeway from Salt Lake to the Oregon border approximates following a ray to infinity, but finally it was over. Oregon is a state that prides itself on being "environmentally friendly" and as a result has some of the stupidest laws imaginable. One of them prohibits a motorist from pumping his own gas (he may spill some on the ground). My reaction is to avoid buying fuel in that state. Given this mind set, I was not expecting much. One of the first signs I saw (the camera was too slow) was an injunction to "Keep Oregon Green." Does this look green to you? The only green in this area was an occasional vehicle.
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Well, maybe this was just an exhortation to bring money, and I guess I can see how they would feel this was desirable. Even though I'm a desert rat and I don't pretend to understand the problems of winter driving, there are some things that I think should be intuitively obvious. But then again, we are dealing with environmentalists. This next photo sums it up. Oregon, here's your sign.
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Barbara tried to tell me this cut up the slope was part of the original "Oregon Trail." Well, that may be, but if is it, why didn't they just use the tunnel?
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We arrived in Washington without mishap (if you don't count the fact that our radiator was empty the next time we tried to use the car). The funeral itself was interesting. None of Paul's children share a religion, and the resulting compromise was close to being non-denominational. In truth, I don't know much about Grandpa Paul's religious preferences. |
There were elements representing the various parts of Grandpa's life, and remembrances by family and friends produced both tears and laughter.
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Grandpa Paul was in the 8th Air Force stationed in England during WWII, where he functioned as a crewchief on a heavy bomber (B24 Liberator). This service, coupled with the fact that his funeral was held on Veteran's Day, resulted in a significant military flavor.
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The graveside services included both religious aspects and military ceremonies, including a 21-gun salute. I may be easily swayed, but I thought it was quite impressive.
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They also had what they called an "Earth Service," the likes of which I had never witnessed. Various friends/family members placed a small amount of soil in the grave atop the casket. I would have liked to have learned more about this ritual, but tending a grandchild intervened and the opportunity to make inquiry later did not present itself.
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I guess it is kind of selfish on my part, but I prefer to remember Grandpa Paul the way I knew him, enjoying the outdoors in bib overalls.
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One of the ironies of life, is that even though funerals are sad occasions of great loss, they have aspects that can be enjoyable. Few events have the power to bring family and old friends together as effectively as a funeral. The first time I made that observation was when I helped bury my Grandfather's brother, Uncle Ether. At the time I felt some small degree of guilt for enjoying it so. Since then, I have come to accept the irony, grieving and enjoying simultaneously. I hope both my friends and enemies enjoy my funeral, even if it is for different reasons. At any rate, I enjoyed seeing my in-laws. I also got to spend a modicum of time with grandchildren. When my children were small, they didn't ever seem to change or grow, but grandchildren change at a rate that approaches disbelief. Kaleb is so different than I remember him being this summer, that (for a fleeting moment) I wondered if Lindsay had traded him in on a different model. |
Daniel hasn't changed quite so much, but he is now talking a stream. The problem is that he expected me to comprehend, and I have become very rusty in my ability to understand toddler-speak.
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The trip coming home was about twice as long as the one going even though we covered essentially the same territory. Central and southwestern Washington has added grape growing/wine making to its already formidable repertoire of agricultural expertise. I just couldn't pass this pile of wine barrels without documenting them. I didn't count, but I suspect there were at least a thousand.
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Sugar beets are also a major corp. I have no idea what possessed the first farmer to try these monsters. They certainly look dis-inviting. There is no scale in the photo, so the size is not evident, but the big one is over a foot in length.
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We had thought to visit Barbara's relatives on the coast, as well as my cousin Lindella, but the freeway (yes FREEWAY, as in Interstate 90) was partially blocked by a snow induced rock slide, and Barbara thought it judicious to avoid that problem. The Northwest is a different animal than Arizona. Elevations are generally lower, and their mountains would hardly qualify as hills here, but on the return trip we encountered snow in the pass, even if the elevation was only 4130 feet.
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It was only flurries and did not cover the roadway, but the trees testify that this wasn't the first event of the season.
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Fall was just arriving in Provo. Daddy still had leaves on his apple trees, and reported that the weather service had not yet recorded frost. November 14 is the record for the latest freeze, and I spoke with him on the 13th of November. This implies that the record would either be tied or broken this year.
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Daddy is experiencing declining health. He has difficulty leaping out of his chair, and has been coughing up blood for several months. X rays showed spots on his lungs, but cultures produced inconclusive findings, although they did rule out tuberculosis. He has since gone in for what he said would be a biopsy, and I expect to learn the results this coming week.
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Lois seems to be doing well, although she complains of being tired, to the point of using all of her energy getting out of bed and dressed. After watching the process in several people, I have concluded that growing old is certainly not for sissies.
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At Barbara's request, we visited Cove Fort, Utah. This was a "way station" (combination fort, hotel, outpost, supply depot, and trading post) half way between Richfield and Beaver, located about a days ride (30 miles) from both. For $0.50 a night, you could get food, feed, and a bed to share with fellow travelers. It was built as a fort complete with thick rock walls, hollow (sand filled) gates, and strategically placed gun ports, but there were never any Indian problems there.
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Just down the road in Marysville, Indians were more of a problem, and the early settlers abandoned their homes. After the discovery of rich mineral deposits nearby, miners proved to be a more tenacious breed. The settlers returned, and this building served as a school, governmental headquarters, and community civic center for the next 75 years.
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In Kanab, we encountered a restaurant with a vaguely familiar sounding name. Maybe Nathen knows something about this establishment.
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These are the Vermilion Cliffs. They were a stopping point on my trips home from college, and this overview is one of my favorite spots on earth. Barbara wanted to stop another night, but like an old horse, I had taken the bit in my teeth and ran straight for the barn. It is fun to travel, but after a few nights gone, there is simply no place like home!
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Given my particular combination of reaction time, boredom tolerance, constabulary avoidance preferences, and vehicle capability, two days (16 hours each) of driving are required for this sojourn. Since the camera was near the bottom of the pile during the first day, I have no images to share. We went through Holbrook where we stopped briefly (note that the meaning of that adjective is subject to gender-biased interpretation) in Holbrook where we retuned some printed materials to Aunt Nella, and then across the reservation, through Moab and Green River, and finally entered the freeway just south of Provo. I have a love/hate relationship with freeways. True to form, there was an accident during rush hour just north of the Point of the Mountain, and we spent the mandatory time inching forward. Upon arrival, we found it was a minor fender bender completely contained in the right lane of a six-lane freeway (and as far as I can tell, there exists no rational explanation as to why it stopped the other five lanes).