May 25th, 2006
Okay, you’re in California- you drove three days to get here. Nice, but its not a vacation. Vacation means you relax.
Even so…
Hills. Rolling like serene waves plotted with endless grapefields flanked by rows of tall poplars. Beyond that, nothing but sky. Fresh, sweet air unpolluted by the racket and persistent noise of home. Its quiet, so gently alive and content. As if nature had tried every other form of structure, exhausted every alternative possibility, and then merely resigned itself to art. It resembles the plains of Italy in many ways. One pure uninhibited flow of solemn smiling complacency.
Would it be premature to say that I love it here?
Yes… of course it would.
… I love it here.
I could not disrespect such beauty with logic, with analysis, with the butchery of a philosophy that would compare myself to it.
The house is open planes of natural earthen-tones, creams and woods. The air tickles with the soft scent of grapenut and lavender, James Blunt cooing softly in the background.

That was the first thing I wrote upon arriving at my Aunt’s house and achieving verifiable coherency. Looking back now, I would have preferred that my brother not blow all of that whimsical beauty into little pieces with the help of my cousin and two shotgun rifles that were brought in case of the uninvited presence of bears at Yosemite. They took it upon themselves to go tearing through the countryside in two all terrain vehicles and a motorbike as fast as they were capable, blowing random foliage into a sudden and interrupted oblivion along the way.
My aunt was… is, considerably saner. In her home, nature reigns. All of her food is either homegrown or home raised, all of the dishes are unique, made by the hands of individual potters (half of whom she knows personally) not creating dishes exactly, but creating art. She floated about the house as if she were a happy little cloud completely content though aware of any unpleasant undercurrent in the surroundings. She was happy, not so cheerful that it was superfluous or creepy. Just serene, and she had a reason for being so. That reason was present in every element of her home from the garden she grew to the music she preferred.
Half of the music was in another language that no one understood. She told me she liked it that way because when there’s no understanding the lyrics, the voice is more the instrument that God intended it to be, instead of providing something to distract from absolutely enveloping oneself in the music.

The first order of business was accommodations. Everything was unpacked and unloaded and plugged in and unscrewed and set up and reorganized and the whole bit. Aunt Jill floating around like a breeze offering everything and anything from help with the unpacking to any number of snacks and foods that many of us had never even heard of. The reason for this was that no one there had ever tried such things, even Aunt Jill herself. Apparently, this was not an exclusive occurrence. Her son, my cousin, and my brother’s new gun-buddy, explained that she was constantly becoming fascinated with anything she had never tried before, not merely limited to food, and always sampling a fresh variety.
Culture, was the word that came most to mind.

It was at this point that I stopped keeping a chronological log of the vacation. I had been in a car for well above the recommended amount. I had subjected myself to such drudgeries as the extended and enclosed company of little sisters, getting splashed mercilessly by a cooler of lemonade, and arguing with myself about whether it was worth it to merely hold it, or try to stand up straight in a bathroom three feet across both ways while flying over a bumpy road at well over 80 miles per hour.
I was tired. Actually no, I was dead. Revival came in the form of steaming hot cocoa made with real chocolate chunks (not the powder, I’m telling you this woman is for real) and milk, and heated in a pot over a stove, drank in a cup of glazed clay and larger than the average flowerpot. It was sooooo sweet. Ah. I was in love. And I told her so. (I got a smile and a refill for the honesty ^_^)
I made random note here and there but for the most part the first time there’s been actual record other than the memories of everyone who was present is right now as I type it.
Barring the objections of any family members who would claim I am incapable of accurately depicting any one of them without exaggeration of character or inconsistency, I will move on to the first day in California.

What’s this? A bed? You mean an actual bed with a mattress and everything! YEAH!
I, as did the majority of my family, slept the first day. That was also when I lost track of what day it was so I’ll stop noting those as well.
I know only that we spent quite a few days there and several significant events remain in my mind. The first was the one that happened… well, first. The Ultimate Fighting Championships championships were on. (Yes I meant to write championships twice.) The UFC is an organization where a bunch of regular guys can go into a ring and beat the living crap out of each other until someone is either knocked out, admits defeat, or is stopped by the referee on the grounds that if one of them doesn’t stop soon, someone is going to die. I had never seen such a thing televised before in my entire life. Tonight the UFC championships were on, viewable for only 39 dollars. Scott, my uncle, didn’t want to miss it and imagined it would be a prime opportunity to culture their backwoods Missouri relatives.
So it was basically what we did in wrestling practice everyday. Just… less blood.
Two guys, in an octagonal arena, killing each other… on TV.
The second day was when we had intended to go riding four-wheeler ATV’s in the Sierras (mountains) all day. That day, it snowed like dickens up there, and the excursion had to be called off.
The third day was San Francisco, and Alcatraz. I’d seen movies long ago involving San Francisco, I’ve seen movies involving Alcatraz (otherwise known as The Rock). Actually walking around in both places- it was weird. Kinda like the first time I went to New York. Just not as cold, at least not that day anyway.
The city! Whee! Finding a place to park was the first adventure. Finding out where we were after parking was the second. It was a four-hour drive to San Francisco from my Aunt’s house. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it should have been. Four hours in an air conditioned van does not compare to three straight days carving through Death Valley in a cramped little truck with the windows down.
The first stop was to Alcatraz, past the street performers, past the bush-guy, past all the little shops and retailers, and past the giant cruise ship just floating casually in the harbor next to a sail-boat. We arrived at the dock, and the boat that took us to the island of Alcatraz. While sailing, my dad struck up a conversation with two German fellows who had a terrific time trying to understand English and my dad had an equally entertaining time trying to butcher his way through german (a language in which he knows perhaps… two words?) The island itself was creepy. We got to wander all over places that would have earned a bullet forty years ago. This place was the premier prison in America. The hole reserved for convicts that kept breaking out of other prisons. Being that it was an island surrounded by gun towers made keeping taps on prisoners a pretty easy task.
We bought the tour with audio guide which means you put on a pair of headphones and wander around the facility lead by a voice only you can hear. It’s very easy to get lost with these things on. I went into the cafeteria where the prisoners ate. Went into the cells where they slept (the toilets had been filled in with cement to protect idiot tourists from themselves) and even into the solitary confinement chambers for particularly bad apples.
We saw the cell of Al Capone, the biggest gangster in American history. The cell for the Birdman of Alcatraz who I really know very little about, and some other famous cells.
I tried to draw a picture of the place but I fouled it up and my brother acknowledged its quality by throwing it away for me. Honestly it needed to go. I really am not much of an artist unless I set my mind to it. And on that day, I was more interested in keeping seagull poop out of my hair. (They were pesky that day.)
We returned to the mainland and the city just in time to come across a breakdance show in the streets. Just street performers. It was amazing some of the stuff these people did with their bodies. I watched very carefully and thereupon decided that I would have to learn to do that. And I will. It will give me something to do when I’ve got a lot of energy and not a lot of places to put it.
Then we saw two guys painted silver and pretending to be statues. What their purpose was, the world may never know.
The bush guy was hilarious. He sat on a bucket on one side of the sidewalk holding a bush just big enough to completely conceal him. He faced down the sidewalk so that everyone across the street could see him, and everyone coming towards him on his sidewalk could see only a bush. He’d wait till a group of tourists (normally women) would come along, and right when they were just about to pass him- he’d jump out through the bush and yell “YAH!”
The guy made so much money. Husbands paying him after they scared the daylights out of their wives. Wives paying him after scaring their husbands. There was this group of punk kids with Mohawks and tattoos and piercings strutting down the sidewalk like they owned the world and nothing could touch them. Bush guy jumps out and they all screamed like 8-year-old girls and one of them even fell over! It was awesome!
We went into an old game emporium with all these ancient arcade toys. Like the ones that tell your fortune or arm-wrestle you. I did the one that rates your sexiness level when you hold onto a small metal knob. Cold fish at the bottom to uncontrollable at the very top. I know I know… the machine can’t really tell anyone anything, it’s just a machine. Even so, it was fiendishly uplifting to see the Uncontrollable light bulb ignite and the bell start ringing.
The following day there was an arts and crafts festival taking place in Grass Valley, the small town in which my Aunt Jill lived. It’s the town that my dad grew up in as a small child. It was kinda funny driving through it hearing my dad gasp and call to us in the back of the van. “Hey guys- I had a wreck right here! Right in this intersection.”
A few minutes go by.
“I had one right here too! This is so cool! Hey guys I had a wreck at this intersection too!”
“Congratulations dad.”
“Wow I cannot believe this. I mean that looks different and I remember that and hey is that who I think it is and yadda yadda yadda-
The upside was that with Aunt Jill around we heard all the unsavory stories about my dad’s childhood that he had obviously slipped his mind when retelling the glories of his younger years. Things like the day he got a dart set with full metal tips and told aunt jill at the age of four to run back and forth while he threw them at her. She did, the poor girl, he stuck her right in the leg.
“Was that before or after he duct taped you to the tree and left you?”
“Oh that was a few years before. Wasn’t the first time though.” Aunt Jill would reply.
My dad turned several shades of embarrassment before the ordeal was through.
The festival took place in the old main street. That was where I discovered the origin of my Aunts indulgences with art. There was such a collection of handcrafted, custom made, personalized, authentic, native, pick-a-word-it-applies stuff that I felt like I was wandering through a Mexican tourist market!
It was there, in a specialty shop just beyond the sidewalk that I found the perfect gag-gift for my friend Arby.
Casimire! You’re getting what’s coming to you! HAHA! (Maniacal laugh)
Finally, the worlds longest covered bridge. It was when my dad was growing up, it still is today. Apparently Grass Valley is home to the planet’s longest bridge with a roof. It was built only God knows how long ago. We went and had a picnic there and took a myriad of photos and then after basking in the sun for a while, we went home.
I was in the house one day and the radio was on, and that song- wisemen, came on and I said, “Oh hey know this song.” And Aunt Jill is like “Isn’t it a good song?” I said- “Its one of my favorites? Who sings it?”
I now own a James Blunt CD. Back to Bedlam. Wonderful CD.

We left Aunt Jill’s house early one morning with a score of goodbyes and thank you’s and have a great trip’s and such. Back into the truck and the miserable camper and all the world left to see. Where the journey would lead next- heehee, only I know.
I’ll post pictures if I can next time. The suckers are huge so they take a while to upload, but I’ll get them dang it, I’ll get them.

(And no Jess, I never assumed you were gay. (Rolls eyes in laughter) you nutter.)