Home for the holidays

Snow on the Sandia Mountains

This time of year makes me think of Albuquerque, of the road trip from Phoenix through Flagstaff, Arizona and Gallup, New Mexico  to this mountain town dominated by its peaks in the east, tinged an unusual shade of pink at sunset (hence their name, meaning watermelon in Spanish).

It reminds me of struggling to find presents for nieces and parents-in-law; of sewing felt ornaments in the form of stockings with stitched names during the car ride, scissors, glitter thread, and scraps of felt scattered at my feet; of favorite road trip music (country stations, Allison Krauss and Union Station, Gordon Lightfoot, Bryan Adams, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Diamond, Journey and more) and holiday tunes by Jewel, Michael Buble and Nat King Cole; of a crowded, packed car and fast food lunches; of taking the same route through town to my in-laws house each time we came.

But here we are.  In Albuquerque.  Now.

No Christmas road trip necessary.  We can see family easily, scant preparation and only a few minutes of travel required.

I like road trips.  I'll miss taking the one between these southwestern sister states.

But, if pressed, I must confess that I like living here more than driving hours to be here.

It is a very good sign, I think - an indication of openness and happiness - when you move to a place that reminds you of every other place you've held dear.  While walking or driving around in Albuquerque, I have been reminded of the expansive park near my grandparents home in Idaho and of the many small towns in that state where my relatives yet reside.  I have recalled Tennessee, because I finished the first book about my childhood here, and I am again in an environment where the leaves on broad, beautiful trees hail the seasons. Of course, Arizona is present in my thoughts: the culture, history and landscape of both states are similar in several regards, and Arizona and all the loved ones there are just a reverse trip across state borders.

So this is Advent, and here we are already, in what could be characterized as our Christmas town.  The first snow has already come; snowmen were promptly built by my snow-starved children.

Gifts for relatives this year will be delivered on Christmas Day with smiles after traveling but a few miles from our own home, taking a fresh and already oft-traveled route.  Over the hills if not through the woods, to my in-laws house we'll go.

A Creek Runs Through It

A creek is my favorite body of water. It has a sense of adventure, but unlike a river, it doesn't wander anywhere too far, too dangerous, or too unfamiliar. It is not massive and impersonal like a lake nor small and muddy like a pond. Though it lacks the awesome majesty of the ocean, it has its own sacred rhythm beneath trees and bluffs.

I had a wonderful childhood, and a creek ran through it. I loved that creek at least as well as I loved the woods behind my childhood home.

But now my own family lives in a huge, sprawling city in the desert with a big, arid backyard.

Every so often I ask my husband if we can take our children to play in a creek.

Matthew needs warning. He appreciates nature, but he doesn't feel the need to visit its wilder places too often, and he certainly does not appreciate the condition of the roads that lead there. So weeks in advance I told him I wanted to visit Clear Creek and hike West Clear Creek Trail.

However, on the Thursday before we were to go hiking I had a truly horrendous day with the kids (and they with me, to be fair). Due to exposure to apocalyptic levels of whining, squabbling, shrieking and nagging that day, my adventure and nature-seeking spirit was quelled. I told my man I no longer felt like going; the best thing I could hope for was to sleep in on that Saturday for a very long time, my head buried in his shoulder.

But when we awoke very late the next morning, the adventuress in me had reemerged. I researched anew the directions to the creek and - ever so nonchalantly - acted like plans for the hike had never wavered. My forbearing husband didn't even object when we set out at noon in the 100+ heat.

We had a pleasant drive north until we abandoned normal byways and took a forest road less traveled. As our poor minivan pitched and heaved on the rocky, gutted, narrow dirt track, I was reminded again, as my hands squeezed the armrests, that my sense of adventure only goes so far. I felt an immense gratitude for my stalwart partner in life's escapades, for he drives far more fearlessly and calmly than I do under duress!

Frustration, thwarted plans and occasional feelings of being hopelessly lost or misdirected must accompany any adventure, I think, and we had our share.

Apparently, signs on roads or paths are undesirable in nature.

The forest road seemed to go on for much longer than was implied in the directions. We turned off at a likely and quite pretty spot only to find we were not at the trail head yet. When we finally found the hiking trail, parked and set out in relief, we soon discovered that it was not as "clear" as we would have liked.

There were many footpaths that deserted the trail to head toward the nearest pool of water. They looked like they could have been part of the trail that was supposed to cross the creek several times, but they dead-ended at precisely where there seemed to be a small crowd of people sharing a large swimming hole and perching on coolers. When we asked the patrons of such spots about West Clear Creek trail, we were met with confused faces.

And so we backtracked and took the high, dry ground (marked by pink ribbons) that seemed to eschew the water, and upon the advice of a young man with a backpack and a puppy who seemed to have some wilderness sense, we followed it until it befriended that stream once more and we came to a wide, pristine hole beneath some red rocks. Another family of four was there, enjoying the less frequented places.

It was at this swimming hole that I shed frustration and felt joy while watching my children revel in the water, enjoying nature giddily. They splashed around and fought the current and scrambled up slippery rocks and waded through deep narrow places in the stream, laughing, and I was right behind them, reliving my childhood and drinking from the fountain of youth in the only and best way.

Wading in the creek was an exhilarating experience for me. The water was not the expected frigidity that I had always encountered in the creek of my childhood or in many streams since. Perhaps it was the desert sun and its dry, crackling heat playing on the surface, for though the water was decidedly chilly against my legs, it was invigoratingly so.

We left the kind family who shared space and conversation so generously with us, and I urged my family farther along the trail. We saw a little grotto and crossed the stream once more before coming to a secluded spot with a tiny waterfall. Here our kids tested their strength against the current where it ran no more than a foot deep and two feet wide but surged with concentrated power. This was my husband's favorite spot.

There we also lost the trail, and, anyhow, Gabriella and the other kids were anxious to return to the magical swimming hole. Matthew was anxious to head home, but I whispered to the kids as we kicked up red clay from the path onto our wet shoes and legs that I hoped we would have more time to swim and play.

The large red rock that jutted out into the water over the swimming hole was a perfect place from which to launch yourself into the deep water below. At least, this was what the dad of the other family told me, as they were leaving, when I mentioned it was hot on the trail. He didn't seem the fearful type with his shoulder length black hair, square face and broad upper body, so I doubt he would have understood my hesitation to make such a leap. Berto and Ana? They jumped off that huge red rock repeatedly.

And this is what I did:

My little guy waits for Mama to take the plunge

I sat and looked and looked again. I couldn't quite get past thinking of exactly what would happen if I pushed off that rock into the water.

That's always my issue. I think too much.

Matthew told me to do it; we needed to go! And all the while he waited for the photo op of me overcoming my fear. Berto and Ana went from the rock to the water with words of encouragement for me, my own coaching and cheering squad. So many times, I inched forward, swallowing thoughts and hesitation, only to fall back on my heels. I watched my children be fearless but couldn't seem to catch the brave bug as they dove past me.

Have you ever said a prayer to the Holy Spirit for something you know is silly? Well, I prayed for courage to jump off that rock, because somehow it meant a great deal to me to be brave at this creek in this small way and to have the memory of it.

Matthew had put back on his socks and shoes and gathered up our stuff. His phone was tucked away in his pocket without the moment with his wife he'd waited semi-patiently for, and the kids were moving away from me.

Standing resolutely, Matthew announced,  "Alright, let's go!"

And I jumped without knowing I had made the decision. I hit the cool water and struggled up in the dark, green shadows, sputtering when I reached air.

I felt as happy as I have felt in some time.

"I did it!" I cried, elated, as I did a victory lap in that beautiful, deep water.

And Berto and Ana congratulated me exuberantly.

*******

Only later did I see the carnage on my side of our poor van. Long, wicked scratches ran along the whole length of it, scratches obtained by passing within inches of other vehicles on an uneven, exceptionally narrow forest dirt road bordered by brush.

Adventure always costs a little something, I guess. But my darling Matthew didn't complain.

A Post in Pictures: Prescott

Instead of driving downtown in the rain 9:30 on a Tuesday night just to check out the late night record show (Barenaked Ladies), my family drove up to Prescott in the July rain, 9:30 on a Saturday morning just to check out the annual Indian Art Market.

No, no - don't worry. This isn't another Sedona disastrous car trip story. This is about a man driving in on-and-off torrential rain for a couple of hours to take his woman to a Native American art fair. Man, that man loves his woman, especially considering that she was about to ask him for two pair of earrings after he drove all that way, white knuckles on the steering wheel.

While Papa tensed his body and locked his eyes on the truck ahead as the wipers swooshed madly, our kids exclaimed excitedly about the downpour pounding and streaming at our windows, and we were treated to commentary from our daughter about some low-floating clouds (Look! It's like they're hanging in mid-air!).

Finally, we got to Prescott around lunchtime and parked in front of the courthouse. Then we scrounged around in the car for old jackets abandoned in there since winter. They smelled like sour milk and stinky feet (the whole van does actually), but they would help keep out the rain.

We took the long walk before the beautiful Arizona Territorial Courthouse on our way to lunch at Prescott Brewery. The walk was cold and wet and confused, because it was only 60 something stinkin' degrees, still pouring, and we actually had no idea where the brewery was and saw no guiding sign. After asking some locals for directions, we were on our way across the street and paddling - uh I mean padding, though a canoe would have been welcome - down the sidewalk toward a hip indoor shopping venue.

When we stepped inside, we were wet through, and my husband, holding our Danny Sammy, was making puddles. The brewery wasn't open yet, and no amount of puppy dog eyes on the glass was going to persuade them to unlock their doors early. So we went up two flights of stairs to the restrooms and had ourselves a collective potty break.

When we finally sat down in the restaurant, I peremptorily ordered a beer sampler without waiting for my Man's input. I felt bad about that, especially when I saw how much beer came with the sampler, but then I didn't feel bad when I tasted the Petrified Porter. Yum! I savored the coffee notes in it, and it was just the thing for a woman with wet hair to warm up to. The food was good, and the kids behaved, thanks in part to sketch-a-doodles our server provided. We all passed around the offerings; nobody kept their dish to themselves. Between pretzels, nachos, hamburger, pizza, mac-and cheese and dips, we were well-fed and ready to head out to the market. Better yet, the rain had cleared.

Territorial Governor's "Mansion" 



The Market was on the grounds of the Sharlott Hall Museum, what once was the Territorial Governor's home. My kids love that place, because on display are all kinds of medical tools, like bloodletting instruments and bullet extractors,

antique pistols,

and a mummified mouse that was discovered beneath the house.

I loved showing them how simply people used to live.

My kids were not so thrilled when we spent the next couple hours surveying the vast array of jewelry in booths winding all around the grounds, the mud squelching beneath our shoes. I was waiting for something to grab my eye and beg to be worn by me for years to come, but every piece that did so seemed to cost a car payment. Finally, though, we had our "finds".

Before we left we bought the kids some lollipops to keep them happy on the haul home, and my Man snagged a picture of the Palace Saloon while stopped at a light. It's an Arizona landmark. Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and Earp's brothers Virgil and Morgan stopped there on their way to Tombstone in the late 1870s. In 1900 there was a devastating fire that raged through Whiskey Row, the line of businesses across from the courthouse. Patrons saved the ornate bar from the Palace Saloon, carrying it outside and across the street to the Courthouse plaza before continuing to knock em' back. The beautifully carved bar is still in use today. It's one of those great Old West stories.

Prescott is one of those great Old West towns.

The Red Rocks of Sedona...Red of Road Trip Hell

This post explains my insane and constant yearning to explore Native American ruins, my ambiguous feelings about Sedona, and my fear of small town roundabouts.

These are the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona. Pretty, aren't they?

But we had no intention of viewing them on Labor Day. Nor did we intend to go 15 mph down the curvy US 89 A, passing the camera back and forth in an attempt to catch all their glory through the bug-bespattered glass of our car windows. It happened because of bad choices and worse luck.

On a dark and stormy night...no, just kidding! It was a warm and cloudy desert morning, and we were leaving Albuquerque early (but not early enough as it so happens), blazing our way west on the I-40 and thumbing our city noses at the historic Route 66 near Gallup, and all its superior scenery.

I had high hopes for the trip home, because the destination was only home, and Matthew had promised we could stop off at the Homolovi Ruins just east of Winslow, Arizona. Nothing makes my heart pitter-patter like a good Native American puebloan ruin unless there just happens to be an archaeological dig happening at the time we visit.

The kids had high hopes that we would afterwards stop at a park in Flagstaff and run around in the clear mountain air like city folk do-gawking at every flower and hummingbird and kissing trees and small animals as we pass.

Our hopes were too high. This I now know. If we had anticipated nothing more than stinky gas station restrooms, plain sandwiches thrown at us in the car for lunch and stale chips scraped off the van floor and assigned likenesses to various presidential profiles, we would have had a fair day. I shake my head sadly at our impossibly high hopes.

Let me set the scene. There was a teething baby in the car - a sweet-natured baby but a teething one nonetheless. There was a young boy with an often and urgent need to go potty, and a little girl whose best dream was to play in a park on the way home. And there was a preschooler with candy from a birthday party.

I was at times smooshed between my baby and my son in the rear seat, and at other times risking my life and an embarrassing traffic ticket by stumbling over various obstacles and abandoning ladylike posture to climb into the front seat beside my husband. And when I was in that front seat, I turned into the road trip Nazi, shushing every little request for food or water or Scooby-Doo videos in an attempt to keep the baby asleep as long as possible. Meanwhile, Saint Matthew was driving the car.

Fate gave us an early handout at The Petrified Forest National Park before it spent the rest of the time laughing faintly but persistently in our ears.You see, we had to take that turnoff because a. the baby woke up so b. I agreed to finally allow the car to stop moving for a potty break.

Matthew filled up, and I took the kids to the restroom. Afterward, I snuck into the visitor's center with the kids when Matthew wasn't looking. At the Information Desk stood a thin dark-skinned man in a spiffy forest ranger uniform, a long black braid down his back.

"Where do we see some petrified wood?" I whispered, glancing over my shoulder.

The ranger examined me a moment and then decided to answer my idiotic question. His voice had an unusual lilting quality to it, as if he had lately been speaking an ancient Native American dialect.

"Well, we have some out there for viewing, but here's a map of the park," he said, pointing to the large picture on the wall five inches from my face. "There are several hiking trails."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly get out of the car," I said with a shifty glance around me.

"Are you headed to Flagstaff?" He asked. I nodded. "Then you just take the 180 instead. It's only 45 minutes longer."

"And can you see the Painted Desert from there?" I asked innocently.

Again I got that strange unfathomable look. "Yes," he answered slowly, "and the largest pieces of petrified wood are here," he added, pointing to a spot on the map near some public restrooms.

"That's five feet from where we are!" I said excitedly.

"No, we're here," he answered, moving his finger a good several inches. "That's on the other side of the park."

Oh, my husband won't drive that far off the freeway," I told him. "It's a chronic road trip problem."

I studied the map wistfully, and then I saw a marker that made my heart skip - Puerco Pueblo!

"Is this a Native American ruin?" I asked. "I love ruins!"

"Yes," he answered, glancing anxiously toward other tourists poised with equally stupid questions. Then he pulled out a pamphlet from beneath the Information Desk. "There's a map there," he said, pointing to the back of it and then deserting me.

I hustled the kids out into the bright sunshine and beat it out to where large logs of petrified wood lay in a courtyard, glistening in the sun with their jewel-toned ribbons of color. The kids started pounding them. Then I saw Matthew approaching.

"I forgot the camera," I told him. "You want me to go get it?"

"No, it's time to go."

"Ahwww," said me and the kids.

"Honey, there's a Native American ruin here!" I said as we walked. "Let's go see it."

"Is that your stop?" he asked bluntly.

We piled into the car, and Matthew backed out of the parking space.

"Why can't we see both?" I tried desperately. "Two Native American ruins! And the Painted Desert!"

"No," said Matthew. "It's this or Homolovi, but not both. So which is it? Better be quick."

It was too much pressure. I had contemplated Homolovi since the evening before. The site was a complete unknown to me; I couldn't remember reading anything about it. The mystery of it drew me like a magnet. Yet, here we were in the Petrified Forest near the Painted Desert-our first time ever in all the trips made to Albuquerque that we had actually stopped on this spot to use the National Parks Services bathrooms. What should I do?

It didn't matter; it was too late. Matthew had turned left away from the entrance to the park.

"Is that where you pay?" I asked, looking to the right where cars were lined up.

"Yep," Matthew answered. We were pulling out onto I-40.

I felt instant remorse that I didn't take the opportunity to see petrified wood in a colorful desert and a ruin to boot. But I still had Homolovi. It might be great, or it might be...well, a handful of stones scattered around. I spent the next hour imagining what I might find there...until we finally saw the sign.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's closed."


I looked up.What looked like a giant rectangle of red tape cut diagonally across the brown park services sign that read Homolovi Ruins, and it said in capital letters: CLOSED.

Fate smacked me in the face and laughed hysterically in my ear. Why do you think the baby woke up and everyone needed to use the restroom at the Petrified Forest? it mocked. You had your chance, silly girl.

I had no response to that, so I threw a tantrum.

"No, nooo! Why...why?" I moaned, pulling my hair with intermittent pauses to shake my fist in the air. Then I threw the Petrified Forest pamphlet on the ground and turned on Matthew.

"Why did you make me choose?" I wailed. "If you had just said it was okay to see them both, then it wouldn't have mattered!"

"I gave you a choice, and you made your decision," he replied.

"I know I made my decision, but I had it in my head we were going to see Homolovi. And now it's closed, and we won't see anything at all. And it's so hard to get you to stop; you never want to go anywhere!"

"I did agree to stop," said Matthew, finally irritated. "I told you we could go to Homolovi, and you had your choice between that and The Petrified Forest."

I railed some more, but it doesn't matter. It didn't help repair my dashed hopes that lay all over I-40.

The baby fell asleep. I climbed into the front seat, my bottom and feet in the air for a few minutes before I could right myself. Then I pulled out the map again to look for something, anything left to me, and while I looked at Homolovi marked by the highway, I had a flashback to another trip home from Albuquerque. I had pleaded, half-jokingly, for Matthew to stop at this ruin just off the highway, and when we had approached it, he had said in mock sadness, "Ahh, it's closed. Look at that."

"It's been closed for a while," I said, dazed. "I just forgot. We should have seen Petrified Forest-we were already there."

The only thing left was Wupatki Ruins just north of Flagstaff. But we would have to drive 40+ miles up to it and backtrack again. Even I couldn't ask Matthew to do that. Besides, even though I had seen pictures of those beautiful ruins, you have to hike to get the best view of them, and you can't even enter some of them unless you pay for a guided tour.

While I was contemplating this, the sign for the Meteor Crater popped up.

"You want to go there?" asked Matthew. "If you want to go, I'll take you. Really this time."

Yes, because there was another time when we had pulled off on that gravel road to find some restrooms and eat lunch, and since we were already there, Matthew had agreed to see how far it was to the Meteor Crater. After driving fifty feet, however, he had turned the car around. "It's too far. We better get back on the road," he'd said.

But it was poor consolation. I watched the exit get closer and closer. Matthew would have to change lanes. I couldn't decide; it wasn't what I had wanted...

"Well?" said Matthew. "Tell me now. It's right there."

"Uhhhh...."I responded.

And then a semi sped up between us and the necessary lane change, and we passed the exit.

"I couldn't decide," I said mournfully, looking back.

"Are we at the meteor?" Berto, our son, piped in at this point.

"No!" I snapped. "If we were at the meteor, there'd be a big hole in the ground, and I'd say, 'Look, kids, there's a big hole in the ground.' Do you see a big hole in the ground?"

Berto looked around just to be safe, and Matthew gave me a reproving look.

I was obviously on the doorstep of road trip hell.

And Ella was asleep. This upset me more, because she had asked for lunch before the Closed Homolovi Ruins exit, and I had told her to wait-we'd be eating when we stopped. Now she was asleep with only Tostitos and candy in her belly. I threw everyone else their sandwich.

"Here," I said. "We're not stopping."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And we weren't, because the friends we were supposed to meet at a park in Flagstaff never called us back. No running barefoot through the grass, doing cartwheels in the sun and kissing squirrels and butterflies as they flitted past.


"Look, you want to stop at Montezuma's Well?" said my generous husband. "That's still on the way."

"We'd have to go down through Sedona," I said, not sure if we should push our luck.

"I'm pretty sure there's an exit off the 17," said Matthew.

"But you have to go back north," I replied. "It's easier just to wind down through Sedona and take the exit off the 89."

Never mind that I had no clue what exit that was and whether it was near Cottonwood or Clarkdale. The map in my hands didn't list Native American sights, stupid thing.

"I've got to stop somewhere for gas," said Matthew. "Am I stopping in Flagstaff?"

We were almost there, and the baby was still asleep. I hesitated. For no reason did I want to wake my sweet baby who spent his alert moments crying and reaching out his arms pitifully to me from his car seat. Still, should we really go down through Sedona? Dare we tempt the road trip gods again? I only vaguely remembered the trip we'd taken to see Montezuma's Castle and Tuzigoot for my birthday a few years before. The Well was somewhere around there. It was the one thing we'd missed that day.

"Listen, I promise I'll take you to The Petrified Forest next trip to Albuquerque."

"Really?" I said, my voice lifting in renewed hope. "Thank you."

"Okay, so is that good then? Or do you still want to see Montezuma's Well?"

"I still want to see the Well," I blurted. "Daniel's asleep, and it's easier than taking a separate trip, isn't it? Then we could stop in Sedona for gas instead."

I could almost see Matthew steeling himself, and I felt a twinge of anxiety; I had made the call that would make or break the trip.

Five minutes later we navigated a major intersection with 89 A that had no stop lights, only two stop signs but plenty of impatient cars. The scenery once we hit that road was beautiful, all lush trees and some other greenery that resembled what we city folk term "weeds", but pretty, very pretty in a country setting. We soon came on the famous Red Rocks of Sedona. We had plenty of time to view them, too, because the speed limit quickly dropped to 30 mpr. Then the lines disappeared in the middle of the road, and we traveled downhill smack up against those red rocks that created sharp turns. The speed limit dropped to 15 mpr, and holiday traffic became heavy.

At first I uneasily commented on the lovely scenery, unnerved by Matthew's marked silence and the knowledge of my own bad decision. But as we began getting views of gorgeous Oak Creek and all the luxury cabins and resorts nestled on its banks, my muttered expressions of false enthusiasm were interrupted by the van.

"Ku-thunk..ku-thunk," it said.

Matthew gritted his teeth.

"What's going on?" I asked nervously as we navigated the cars lined up on either side of the road.

"It doesn't like down-shifting right now," said Matthew, braking as someone pulled off (ku-thunk, said the van). "It's been doing that for a while."

Matthew braked down the steep grade often and every time the van protested - "ku-thunk!". We were moving with all the grace and speed of a slug. Meanwhile, wealthy people waved merrily at us from the spacious decks of their luxury cabins overlooking Oak Creek.
"My boss has a time share here," commented Matthew.

"I think I see him," I replied.

"Can we stop and play?" asked Ana.

"We'll see, we'll see," I responded with misgivings in my heart.

"Papa, I need to go potty," said Berto.

There was nary a gas station in sight. We traveled a few more miles, sure we would spot one. We couldn't just park along the road; you had to have an official Red Rock pass to do that. Finally, we stopped at a coffee shop. There seemed to be plenty of those around as if espresso were the bizarre mutant offspring of Oak Creek and its luxury accommodations, and the people of Sedona were doing their darndest to find all those little coffee blends good homes.

The van still needed gas, and I was waiting for my own turn to use the little girl's room. Even when we started off again and approached Main Street Sedona, we didn't see one. That major thoroughfare supported only two kinds of businesses: the coffee shop and the art house.

"How can they support this many coffee shops?" I wondered aloud.

"It's all these roundabouts," Matthew growled as we navigated another one. "They think they can trap you."

He was right. Stop lights are apparently passe in Sedona. Every fifty feet there was another roundabout to slow us down, make us dizzy and allow pedestrians to jog past us gleefully, sloshing their premium coffees and waving their latest abstract paintings at confused drivers. Matthew finally found a gas station; he just had to ride a roundabout the whole way 'round before he could get to it. Then he had to backup to the pump.

"Everybody out," he ordered. "And you," he pointed at me. "Use the restroom."

I'm not usually one to disobey orders, but I wanted to get one clear shot of the famous Red Rocks. While I was snapping the camera with Daniel in my arms, Matthew shoved the kids back into the van and parked in front of the gas station. I quickly turned to enter when a sign posted on the door halted my progress.

I looked at Matthew and pointed: Restroom Out of Order.

Road Trip Gone to Hell.

I hopped back in the car and said to Matthew, "Just get back on the 17. Forget the Well."

"Dang right," he responded, or something in that line, anyway.

Ana sat up. "Aren't we stopping at a park?" she asked for the twentieth time that hour.

"No."

"Well, can we go to one when we get home?" she whinnied like a little heartbroken mare.

"No," said Matthew sharply. "We just need to get home and relax."

"We can go to a crummy city park any old day, Ana. I wanted to see a Native American ruin," I whined.

"You mean we're not going to a park at all?" Her voice had reached the crescendo before the tears. She began to weep bitterly.

"Seriously?" demanded Matthew, jerking around in his seat. "You're going to cry about this?"

"Honey, they thought we were going to a park before we even left Albuquerque," I reminded him. "I'd be crying too."

To make everyone feel better, I proceeded to narrate everything that had gone wrong on the trip thus far. After saying "stinks" and "Native American ruin" and "park" twenty times apiece, I summed up with, "And it's just been a stinky, stinky trip!"

"Finished?" said Matthew.

I was. And soon we were on the 17 toward home going 35 mph, because, of course, every city family was heading home at exactly the same time on Labor Day like some mindless mechanical cattle. I wanted to say, "Stupid city people!", but I could not. To thy own kind be true, they say.

Not long afterwards we passed the brown sign for Montezuma's Well, but none of us had the heart to try and salvage the trip.

Adventure Schmenture, or Discovery-Bah! Whatofery?

Matthew, me and the kids are going to day trip to an old copper mine site near the historic town of Jerome, AZ. You know how I know this? Because I asked him two weeks ago if we could, and Whew! that was cutting it kind of close.

You see, my husband's the kind of man that you have to present a detailed itinerary to before he will even consider a road trip, even if the drive time is a mere 45 minutes. You have to have a set date (preferably a month ahead) with estimated travel and scenery-gawking time calculated into total trip hours. And if you want lunch while you're out, you better ask for it first, or you'll be eating the petrified string cheese that fell out of the kids' school lunch a week ago along with that clementine that's been hibernating under the van seat since last winter. In other words, you have to plan! plan! plan! how long it will be before he can be back sitting in his recliner at home with some fancy micro-brewed beer.

You cannot spring a casual suggestion on him. For instance, I would never say (at least not twice), "Sugar, let's mosey on down to Tombstone on this lazy Saturday morning for a good Old West shootout. After that we'll just saddle on up to the best BBQ house in town and eat a whole rack of ribs. And how 'bout some prickly pear ice cream for dessert? Ummm! Sounds good, don't it? Then we'll clean our pretty faces to have some pictures taken in old time garb. I'll be the saloon gal and you be...oh, whatever. What d'ya say?"

Ain't...gonna...happen. No, sir.

Matthew's eyes will bulge and he'll exclaim, "Woman, you know I can't just hop in the car and drive somewhere...with kids!"

This is a fundamental difference between me and my guy. 'Cause I would...that is, if I weren't so markedly outnumbered by those kids. Dang it!

I think this strange road trip disconnect between us springs from how differently our families approached road trips while we were growing up.

For Matthew's family, you got in the car, and you drove. That's it. You have your destination and you just better dang well forget about whatever lies along the way. T-Rex bones lying right there on the side of the highway, you say? Well, take a picture of the sign. No sign? Then just forget about it. It doesn't have anything to do with your final destination.

They took a trip to Mount Rushmore once. Matthew says they pulled up, got out, looked at it. Got back in. They'd driven; they'd seen; they went home. But Matthew does have a special memory of that trip: there were some really good hamburgers somewhere on the way.

Okay, so you wonder, what were Miss Hillary's car trips like? Well, we drove, too-pretty slowly actually, because Dad's a defensive driver. Then we kids would get antsy, loud and obnoxious, so Dad would pull over. Anywhere-just out in the middle of the wide western nowhere (we were usually traveling to Idaho from Tennessee, you see), and he'd say, "Kids, go run in that valley and play with some wild coyotes."

So we'd stream from the car and run out into a field by the highway, yelling, and Rueben our dog would run out behind us, because he'd spent the whole time scrunched up by Mama's feet in the front seat with his head in Dad's lap. Plus, he was probably hoping to rustle up some rattlers for entertainment.

So, you understand-totally different.

Which brings me back to our day trip. I said to Matthew, "Honey, I read an article to the kids about this mine and ghost town we're going to visit, and they're so excited. It's like on eight acres of land, and the guy who owns it has all this cool machinery, old cars, motorcycles-all kinds of stuff! And there are animals to feed, too."

"Yeah, Papa, " piped in Berto. "And it says the donkey will kiss you."

At this I'm pretty sure Matthew rolled his eyes.

"But, Mama," continued Berto. "It's only on six acres of land."

"No, I'm pretty sure it's eight, Berto. But, honey," I continued excitedly, "it says it's so crowded with stuff that it might look neglected, but it really isn't. This guy maintains it all. It's just not like a State Park...you know-all manicured lawns and walkways and stuff."

Matthew looked annoyed, "You mean we're going to have to walk around through a bunch of weeds and wear long sleeves and jeans and boots and get all itchy?"

"No," I said, back-pedaling. "The weeds are probably just growing between the old cars and things."

"Oh, great!"

"But the places where people walk all the time will be clear and smooth, of course," I said exasperated. "Honey, don't you like to go and explore and discover things? Don't you like adventures?"

"Under certain conditions," was the response.

"You mean in the city in an air-conditioned environment," I rejoined, fed-up.

"Look, I'm taking you," he said. "But you're the one who had to go and ruin it by saying we're going to have to wander over eight acres of weeds looking at old stuff that we have to find for ourselves-in weeds!"

"Matthew, please tell me you like nature and history and travel and discovering new things. Please tell me you do."

Matthew looked at me but did not venture to speak.

I threw my hands in the air. "Are you just gonna live on a golf course when we're retired then while I'm traveling and doing stuff?"

A smirk.

"Fine," I said. "I'll join the Peace Corp and write letters home!" Matthew grinned, and I stalked off.

But as I stormed off, I thought to myself, By gosh or by golly, we are going to visit that mine. And we're gonna stop for lunch, too. Just you wait and see.