Into Africa

After traveling most of Saturday and all of Sunday, I am now at the end of my third full day in Kenya. We are staying in Isiolo and have, so far, visited two of the villages benefitting from GHNI's village development program. There will be full reports coming I posts after I return ~ when I WILL also post about the late May - early June trip to Uganda. Stay tuned for updates!

Serious Heat

Jonny Venters and Craig Kimbrel, relief pitchers for the Atlanta Braves, can deliver a baseball to opposing batters at speeds on the far side of 95 mph. In baseball parlance, this is considered serious heat. While baseball is, for me, strictly a spectator sport, I have had some run-ins recently with serious heat, these in the "It is hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk" sense.

Upon landing in Palm Springs for a visit with my mother on her 90th birthday, we received a southern California desert welcome, delivered in the form of a 115°F breeze. I had not experienced anything like that since the last time I opened an oven to take out my pizza. But it was, of course, a dry heat. Like that mattered. It was serious heat! And in a move I think was just showing off, the humidity soared to over 50% on the morning of our departure, simply moving the sensation from oven to sauna.

Speaking of saunas, can you imagine how this practice could have started? I mean, were there a bunch of cavemen sitting around in northern Finland, wondering what they were going to do until the sun came up - in six months? And after pondering this issue, one of them says, "I know, let's light a fire in that hut. We'll build it on a pile of rocks and when they get REALLY hot, we'll douse everything with water and sit around in the steam until we can't stand it anymore. Then, we'll run outside and roll around in the snow." And, instead of thinking that was just nuts, another of the group adds, a bit too enthusiastically I'm guessing, "Wow! Great idea. And after rolling around in the snow until we are blue with cold, we'll beat on each other with birch branches to get the circulation going again!" Seriously!

Sunday's bike ride was cut short due to some serious weather. About 10 miles away from home it started to rain with a vengence that convinced us to head back. There was a bit of a problem in that we were at the top of County K and all choices involved a descent. After deciding to start down to the west towards home, it really started to rain. As in, "I can only see my front wheel with the white line on the side of the road stretching out ahead until getting swallowed up in the swirling tempest about three feet ahead." Taking it slowly seemed the right thing to do, but wet brakes and the steep hill did not cooperate. It was an exciting ride.

Now that last bit may not seem to have much to do with the subject of serious heat. But I can get there. Trust me. Today's weather was different. Hot and humid to the point of pulling heat advisories out of the National Weather Service. You know what I mean. The ones where they say, "Limit your outdoor activity and confine those you must do to the early morning or evening hours." So of course, I set out on my bike at about 1 p.m. to get some of the miles the rain had denied me. And I can tell you, it was seriously hot. My plan was to simply ride to Stoddard and back, an easy 22 miles with no climbing required. As I got onto the open highway that runs along the river, I was riding into an 18 mph breeze. This helped a bit, in spite of the extra work required. But it was a hot breeze. My thermometer rose to 102°F, so I decided to turn around at the 7 mile mark. Returning with the wind at my back allowed riding with considerably less effort, but, there was a downside. Moving along at about 20 mph with an 18 mph tailwind means you are pretty much stuck in still air. Some serious heat.

Upon returning from Uganda in early June, I was greeted with La Crosse's first attempt of the year to simulate southern Louisiana weather. I thought then, "I'll simply go back to Equatorial Africa where it is cool." That thought has returned in the latest heat snap. Now you can forget going to Google. You can have a cold snap, so I'm sticking with "heat snap."

And WHAT A COINCIDENCE! I have tickets for a trip to Kenya this Saturday. The occasion is a visit to the village of Ola Nagele, about 4 hours north of Nairobi. I am one of 100 sponsors who are supporting Global Hope Network International's program for Transformational Community Development. GHNI brings some serious heat with these projects. And I am looking forward a really cool experience. Seriously!

Too Too...

It is one of the basic tenets of engineering*: "You can never be too good looking nor too well equipped." This is seriously applicable to biking. I mean think about it, the multi-colored jerseys, stylish socks, cool tan lines. OK, but still, there is the equipment thing. Not just the bike, but the accessories.

Take for example, the bike computer. In its most basic form it shows you how fast you are riding, how long you have been in motion and how far you have gone. Now by "basic," I mean, BORING. Seriously, what good is it to have gone on a long ride and not know at the end how much climbing you have done, the highest grade you've gone up, or the maximum speed you achieved? My VDO MC 1.0 tells me all of this and more.

But can I see the route I just rode on a map? Or get a chart showing the ride profile (elevations)? Or have a virtual rider that I can share the road with? Nooo… So what other choice did I have but to go for an upgrade? That would be my new Garmin Edge 800. Now, when I look down at my handlebars, this is what I see:

One Bike, Two Computers

The Garmin is the larger device on the aero bars while the VDO is mounted on the stem. This is SO much better. Although the situation does bring to mind another fundamental truth:

"A man with one watch always knows what time it is.
A man with two watches is never quite sure."

And what are the stats for my ride today? I don’t have a clue.

* If you believe everything you read in Dilbert anyway. As far as this one goes, I tell myself, "One out of two isn’t bad."

Weighty Matters

It seems that serious bicycling is a weighting game. The more weight you carry, the more you have to work the pedals. This is true even on flat roads, but is most painfully obvious while climbing. On Saturday, I took off on what would turn out to be a 35 mile ride with climbs up Bliss Road and the considerably more challenging County YY. Now I am aware that I am not a great rider and less so a climber, but my trip up YY, while anything but yarely, left me feeling much worse than I felt it should.

Looking over the situation, I figured it was the extra weight I was carrying. A few weeks ago, I became the proud owner of a new Garmin Edge 800 GPS cycling computer. It is a great toy tool, telling me how fast I'm riding, how high I'm climbing and displaying a map showing me where I've been and where I'm going. And, when the ride is over, I can save all of the information in an online riding journal. Here is an example from my ride last week to Houston, Minnesota and back:

A Ride Map Courtesy of My Garmin Edge 800

But all of this information comes at a price. The device adds a whopping 98 grams to the weight I have to carry. That's every bit of 3.5 ounces. It's no wonder the climb up YY took so much out of me.

While we are on the subject of extra weight, I came back from Uganda packing a few things I did not leave home with. There was Ugandan coffee, a book on poverty in Uganda, some sundry gifts and a towel. Now, about the towel; I bought it from a man who was selling a variety of fabrics and such that he carried on his person. We were sitting outside in a bar, waiting for repairs to be completed on our rental car (there are SO many stories in this vein, but they will come later) when he approached us. He was weighted down with his wares and I felt he just looked like he needed someone lighten his load. So I did.

Fabric Store in Tororo, Uganda

And it became clear on Sunday that I had carried home just a little more than recounted above. The symptoms were pretty clear to me, as I've been here before: giardiasis. This probably had more to do with the fatigue after Saturday's ride than the 3.5 ounce GPS , I suppose. Anyway, I learned in 2006 that the lab test to confirm the diagnosis is fairly expensive while the treatment is cheap. Hence, a chance for a two-for-one. You take the medicine and if you are better at the end of the treatment, then the diagnosis is confirmed AND you are well again.

But there is a rub in the choice here. Taking the medicine will likely get rid of the pesky parasite that has hitched a ride, but, I cannot drink beer for the seven days I am taking the pills plus one day after I finish. On the other hand, if I do nothing, I can drink beer AND will lose weight at the same time.

So, if you will excuse me, I have a weighty decision to ponder.

I Was Thinking...

A friend asked me once, "What do you think about when you are riding?" It runs the gamut, from rolling along in in a state that closely resembles brain-death to pondering really deep issues. Neither of these is to be recommended, though, as paying attention to the road is usually a good idea. Yet my mind did wander on the ride to Houston, Minnesota and back last Saturday as I tried to process everything that happened during my 10 day visit to Uganda. It was a successful trip. When I sort out all of the details, I'll set out a series of posts from my journal. But, for now...

As I sped rolled along on Highway 16, headed back to La Crosse, an odd sensation broke through my African reverie. Something wasn't right and it quickly became apparent that my rear tire was going flat. It's ALWAYS the rear tire, by the way. While flats never make me happy, they usually aren't too difficult to deal with and I soon had a new tube installed and pumped up. I got on the bike and it was déjà vu all over again. Something wasn't right and it quickly became apparent that my rear tire was going flat.

While I had checked the tire before putting in the first replacement tube, this time I took the tire off, turned it inside-out and ran my finger around the inside, which was now outside thanks to the above mentioned inside-out turning. This time, I found the tiniest piece of tire cord, just barely extending above the surface. I put in quite an effort before I finally got it out. I was carrying two spare tubes, so I was able to repair the flat for good and made the remainder of the trip home without incident.

It isn't often that I have two flats on one ride, but I suppose in this case, I had the same flat twice. As I rode on towards home, I thought about what had transpired and what came to mind, of course, was the well-known first line of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." So it is with tires. Inflated tires are all alike; every flat is flat in its own way. I've had flats from a large staple, a small nail, belted tire wire and even what looked like a rose bush thorn. There is no end to the ways in which you can get a flat.

And, it struck me, that the mission trips to Africa are like that. Successful trips are all alike: people we visit are helped, those of us who go learn something important and we all grow a little bit. And so it was on this last trip.

But there is no end to the ways that trouble can creep in. This time, there were two auto accidents (no serious injuries except to our rental cars), a flat tire, a visit to a service center for an oil and filter change, late delivery of bikes, an extra trip to the rural school to sort out issues with the book order and even an emergency landing in Iceland (this happened to Samuel on his way home yesterday - I don't know the details yet, but he is back, safe and sound).

Unlike the binary condition of either happy OR unhappy families, the trip was successful AND sprinkled with moments of drama. Again, there will be reports...

What a good trip looks like

It was the Best of Rides...

...it was the worst of rides. The trip south to Stoddard the other day was at once exhilarating and terrifying and also one of those rare times when I was riding at Tour speeds and still looking for a higher gear. I'm pretty sure I've never ridden quite so well.

Yet every turn of the crank brought a twinge as I drew ever nearer to the point where I would have to turn around and fight against the wind that was now pushing me to such impressive speeds. And THAT was terrifying.

-----------------------------

Now, breaking news. I had other plans for this post about wind, but, as happens from time to time, real life stepped in. In mid-afternoon, we were treated to a variety of warnings. And this time, they really meant it. Severe weather ripped through our neighborhood between 3:00 and 4:00 pm. Power went out at about 3:15 during an unbelievable wind driven torrent of rain that lasted for maybe 5 minutes. After things settled down, we went out to a local restaurant for dinner, only to be met by cars backed up, fire and police vehicles on the move and clean up crews making their way through scores of downed trees and power lines. The nearby K-Mart lost part of its roof and a Pepsi facility was severely damaged. Two schools are being prepared for shelters. All of this within a few blocks of our house.

As reports came in, you could see a very clearly defined path cutting through a three mile section of the south side of La Crosse. There are, so far, no reports of serious injury. Our power is back on now (after about 5 hours) and all of our large trees are still upright. Others nearby were not so lucky.

Windy rides are quite a challenge, to be sure. But this latest display was, shall we say, beyond category.

Presentation Skills

Quite often on the way in from late afternoon rides, I stop at the local Subway for my regular chicken-on-Italian-herb-and-cheese sandwich. On this evening, there was a young girl enjoying dinner with her mom. As I waited for my sandwich to come out of the toaster, the girl glanced at me and said to her mother, "Look. That man has on TIGHTS!" For the record, I was in my shorts, it being warm enough to dispense with cool weather clothing. But, still, you could see where she was coming from. Interestingly, her mother was horrified. She quickly responded by telling her daughter that, no, they weren't tights. They were biking shorts. I'm sure that cleared things up. Then, she looked at me and with every ounce of sincerity she could muster, she said, "I'm sorry. She's only two." You know, as if she thought I was somehow offended. Which I wasn't. I told the young girl that, yes, they were pretty much like tights and were very good for bicycle riding.

It reminded me that if you are going to dress as I do when riding, you need to be pretty comfortable with your masculinity, what with the tights and gaudy jerseys and short socks. There's a fine line…

Today's encounter brought to mind another incident that happened on our Alaskan cruise several years ago. Early one morning I was enjoying coffee on one of the upper decks while making a sketch in my journal. A couple walked by and the wife said to her husband, "See. HE'S keeping a diary." As they went by, I heard him reply, "It's not a diary. It's a ship's log." Yes. That one.

So, it's all in the presentation, you see.

Packing it In

Giveaway Winner! Let's make that TWO Winners! Cindy and Vicki were randomly selected from the commenters to receive a copy of Duane Elmer's book, Cross Cultural Servanthood. If you send me your contact information (jack0063 at aol dot com), I'll send the books on their way!

Getting ready for the trip to Uganda gives me pause to consider the weighty subject of packing. Where and how you go makes a difference of course. Most trips these days include air travel where you have to deal with the airlines' inability to reliably deliver checked bags and the fees they charge just to try. The Darwinian response to the threat to belongings and cash reserves is to commit everything needed for the trip to carry on bags. This is quite a feat for some, as it seems that 47% of all their worldly possessions are going to be needed for the few days they are away from home.

There are a few who buck the trend though and pack light. You know who they are: the ones who get on the plane, go right to their seats and sit down. No wandering around looking for empty overhead bins or blocking the aisle while trying to stuff a bulging rollaboard into a space designed for a light jacket. For example, there was this encounter reported in my February 12, 2009 post: A young lady boarding the flight from Dallas to Chicago, after struggling mightily, and unsuccessfully, to get her bag stuffed into the bin, said, to no one in particular, "This is an odd sized case, it NEVER fits." Really?

It's a simple concept: pack enough. Not too much, just enough. I'll have a chance to practice in just a little over a week as I set out for my fourth visit to Uganda. It's a long way from Kansas. I'd be well advised to not pack like as if I was trying to close the gap.

Packing for Africa, 2010 Style

The "what to take" thing is pretty well taken care of. But the secret is in knowing what to leave behind. It is natural to think that if our motives are right, then whatever we do will be OK. And to think that any solution we see to a problem will be seen in exactly the same light by those with whom you are with. You'd be surprised at how far from the truth this ideas are. And these are the things that are best not packed.

Duane Elmer has written an excellent book entitled Cross-Cultural Servanthood. I would recommend it to anyone considering undertaking a work of service. It does specifically address interaction with other cultures, but in my opinion, there are principles that work in just about any situation. I'm tempted to go on about the lessons in his book. But let me say that if this is a topic that interests you, it is well worth getting the book and reading it yourself. Look for the story of the monkey and the fish. And pay attention to the phases of learning he talks about. Learning about. Learning with. Learning from.

We've more or less been through the first and second phases. It's that last one that's harder to get to. And more difficult to pack for.

OK. About that giveaway: I will select at random from comments left before noon on Monday, May 16 someone to get a copy of Duane Elmer's book. So, comment away...

Hail of a Ride

It’s been back on the roads of late as the Wisconsin weather has begun to cooperate a bit. But you can’t rest easy around here and today was proof enough of that as the weather played the leading role.

First, it was warm this afternoon. Really warm. For the very first time this year I set out on a ride with no tights. No base layer. No leg or arm warmers. Just the basics, shorts and a short sleeve jersey. Thus unencumbered, I was off for what I had planned as a fairly easy ride.

But I had no sooner turned to head south when it was announced that I would need to challenge a strong wind coming up the river. Now if you have not pulled a long distance into a headwind then you might not appreciate the toll such riding extracts. When you should be rolling along on flat ground, making good time, you are, instead, struggling to maintain a minimum respectable speed. And you know there is no end, at least until you turn around. I decided I wasn’t going to fight the wind all the way to Stoddard, so I turned to make the climb up Mohawk Valley Road. It’s strange, I know, choosing a climb instead of the wind, but that’s what I did. At the top, there is another road that loops back to the south on the other side of the ridge. I was going into the wind, of course, but I was also going downhill.

As I neared Stoddard I noticed that sky was ominously dark to the west. Now earlier today there had been a forecast chance of strong thunderstorms after 4:00 p.m. However, when I checked in at Weather.com before I took off, the report had been revised to having the weather later in the evening. Anyway, when I got to the river road, it seemed as if the weather was still to the west and a little south. I would be riding north and now with a very strong tailwind. I was pretty sure I could expect a quick, rain-free 10 mile ride home.

But, as you may have already guessed, it did not work out exactly that way. Sure, I did maintain a very high pace ahead of the wind and it all looked as if it would be just as I had expected. Until I rolled into the south end of town, just about 3 miles from home. As I turned off of the highway into a residential area, it started to rain. And it seemed to have just come out of nowhere. Not a hard rain, so still, no big deal. Then thunder. And lightning. And pea-sized hail. I was riding north, but things were going south. As I rode along the street - still easily making 22 mph with the wind - I noticed people standing in their drives, looking and pointing up at the sky. There’s almost no way this is a good sign.

Yet the sky actually lightened a bit and the rain and hail stopped. I figured I was going to roll on in with no further incident. What I hadn’t considered was that weather was just relaxing before unleashing a furious rain storm. I hadn’t considered it, but that’s just what happened. In the course of less than a quarter of a mile, the rain returned and increased in intensity to a point where I could barely see where I was going. I knew I needed to get out of this deluge and pedaled madly for the shelter of the concessions area at a nearby ball field. Just as I pulled up onto the sidewalk, I was pummeled with a couple of REALLY LARGE hailstones - the advance group for what was to come. I got under the shelter just as a torrent of golf-ball sized hailstones rained down on the metal roof. Unbelievably, the storm raged on even stronger with some of the hail hitting the ball field reaching, appropriately, baseball size. I was seriously concerned that the roof would not hold up.

After just a few minutes, the hail stopped and rain tapered off so I took off for home, now only 1 mile to go. As soon as I got onto the road, I found that wind was now coming out of the north. And it was COLD! The overall improvement continued, however, and when I crossed the last busy street between me and home the sun was out. The roads near home were under a foot or more of water and cars where pulled over, waiting for the storm drains to catch up.

Warm. Headwind. Far-off storm. Tailwind. Rain, Hail. HAIL. More rain. Cold. Sunshine. It was, to be sure, a memorable, weather-shaped, hail of a ride.

Down, But Not Out

There could well be a trend developing here. Not too long ago, I wrote about Breakdowns. And since then, there have been a few more, in the same vein. Starting with the latest first, the opportunity for the third ride of the year presented itself this afternoon. And I took it. It was cool, but it was a damp cool. Meaning it was less comfortable than I had expected. But I chose one of the many scenic routes along the river, up the bluffs and along the ridge that make this area so very good for cycling.

As good as it was, there is always the chance that something will go wrong. For instance, when you find one of these in your rear tire:


you can be pretty sure it’s not going to come out well. Not only did I have to stop and change out the tube on the rear wheel – why is it always the REAR wheel? – I was on the highest, most exposed part of the ride, up on the ridge above the river. There was a stiff wind and I was decidedly uncomfortable. But, I reflected, I had the tools I needed, a spare tube, a pump and the know-how that comes from (just a little too much) practice. Nothing to get upset about and it wasn’t all that long before I was on my way, enjoying an early spring ride in scenic rural western Wisconsin.

And there have been other disasters to consider. In Japan, of course. And in Africa. It is my privilege to be part of a group that is providing support to the Kenyan village of Ola Nagele, a project of Global Hope Network International. One of the first things accomplished for this village was the provision of clean water, piped into a 5,000 liter tank sitting on a platform built for that purpose. Regrettably, the platform collapsed under the weight of the full tank, resulting in a sort of major-league flat(tening), as you can see here:


Now I can’t be sure, as I wasn’t there, but I’m guessing this minor disaster was met with not-too-much drama, similar to my experiences with breaking-down vehicles in Uganda. There is already a new platform being constructed, this time with rebar reinforced cement, and the new tank is already at the site, ready to be put into place.

As I said, it is a privilege to be part of the support team and, if we aren’t careful, we might just learn a thing or two. Such as, a flat tire isn't anything to get worked up about, it's just something to fix so you can be on your way.

See more about the Ola Nagele project on the Village Blog.

Cowering

Growing up in cities as I did, my experience with wild animals – you know, cows, horses, pigs and the like – was somewhat limited. What I did learn came mostly from observing road kill. It wasn’t until I was ten that I figured out wild animals were usually three-dimensional. Biking through the rural areas around here and even in the grand national parks out west have convinced me that very few small mammals die of old age; rather they end up as dark spots on highways. There is this observation that sums it up pretty well, I think: the chicken crossed the road to prove to the possum (and raccoon) that it COULD be done.

Of course now, what with all of the experience that comes to someone of my advanced age, I am more knowledgeable about fauna in general and, as it turns out, acquainted with a few species on a rather more intimate basis. Specifically, warthogs and cows. As you might guess, close encounters with warthogs, such as the one documented in the picture below, happened during my visits to Uganda. What I learned from these meetings is that, considering I am still here with all of my limbs, warthogs are even dumber than I am.

One of my Ugandan warthog friends

It is much more likely that I will have a run-in with a cow, living in the Dairy State as I do. Recall the story of an encounter on County Road X during a ride a few years ago, which I entitled, Shall We Dance? So you would think, with this experience, that my meeting with the cows in the mountains of the Dominican Republic would have been pretty much a non-event. And if that’s what you’d think, I’m afraid you’d be wrong. Honestly, I’d like to keep this story under wraps. But, in the interest of open disclosure, here it is...

Early on Sunday morning I had gone down to Gracesqui and Ramona’s house at the camp. Because Ramona always had a pot of coffee ready and, for me, a really big cup.

Looking down on Gracesqui and Ramona's house at the camp

Ramona has coffee on the stove!

Don Rafael enjoys a cup, too.

Church services wouldn’t be until after noon, so there was no rush, but as the morning wore on, I began to wonder where Carmen was. She had the large building all to herself and Jeff commented that he thought there was a chance that the door could be locked from the outside. I went up to investigate.

It turns out that Carmen just took advantage of the chance to sleep in; she was up and not locked in, so I turned to head back down to the house. And that’s when I saw them, standing right in the gate I had just come through. Two large cows (they looked large to me, anyway) with a calf trailing behind. They were just standing there. Blocking the gate. Looking at me. I looked back, then took a couple of steps towards them, making what I considered to be a shoo-cow noise. They just looked at me.

This could be a problem...

So, what would they do if I tried to squeeze by them? Rather than find out, I picked up a small pebble and tossed it against one of their flanks. I’m surprised the cow even felt it, but this display of my superior intelligence - and firepower - did result in their turning around and ambling back down the hill. I followed them. At a safe distance, of course.

We had only gone a few yards when one of the young boys who always seemed to be around came up and starting shouting at the cows and waving his arms, causing them to turn around and head back towards the gate. I was pretty impressed that they understood Spanish and that this young boy held such sway over them. They moved sheepishly back up the hill and through the gate. Where they were, apparently, expected to go in the morning.

I’m not proud of the incident and I am sure there are two cows and one young boy in the Dominican Republic who even now are having a chuckle at my expense. But I figured I’d tell the story before they had a chance to and perhaps put my actions in a poorer light than I deserve. If that were possible.

Breakdown

The flat I experienced riding the trainer the other day got me thinking about breakdowns. I’ve had my share of flats while biking the roads around here, but all in all I’ve been lucky, not ever having a really major, ride-disruptive breakdown. It hasn’t been quite like that on the mission trips to Africa, though. Every trip has included multiple issues with our vehicles. And no, not all of them were driver-induced, thank you very much. Here are a few thoughts about some of the problems we had during our 2010 visit in eastern Uganda:

You know it’s going to be a long day when the spare tire falls out from under your Toyota van on a rough road in Kampala only minutes after you’ve set out for your destination in eastern Uganda. And this was after a belt broke on the same vehicle the night before as we were driving in from the airport in Entebbe. Then, a week later, as we were just starting a journey to northwestern Uganda, our Land Rover stalled just as we got into a roundabout. A popular roundabout it seemed on this morning. There were so many cars trying to get through that if you lined them up end-to-end, they would… well, I guess they WERE all lined up end-to-end, weren’t they? Anyway, we were sitting there like a rock in a stream, fluid waves of cars flowing around us.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said “Life is a journey, not a destination.” I like that. But, with all due respect to the esteemed Mr. Emerson, we do need to have destinations. Without them our wanderings, no matter how exciting the journey, are aimless. If you allow me one more quote, then consider this from Alfred A. Montapert, “Do not confuse motion with progress.” Progress is an allusive concept until we have a destination towards which we can direct our travels. Only then can we measure how far we have come, judge where we are and prepare for what we have yet to do.

OK, Another quote, but this one is mine. I think. “A mission is a journey with a destination.” A meaningful destination adds excitement and a sense of urgency to a journey. And it puts things that happen along the way in proper perspective.

One of the things I noticed when the miscellaneous mechanical mishaps befell us was that we – the bazungu – were the only ones who seemed even the least distressed. For everyone around us, it was just another fact of the trip. Before we even got out of the car, people would suddenly appear to help. It was as if we had pulled up short in the middle of an auto-mechanics convention.

When the spare fell off, a young man came up and engaged in serious inspection and discussion before going off to get a sturdy rod to use as a tool to re-wire the tire onto the frame under the rear of the car. And a goodly number of young men were soon gathered around our stalled car to push it around and through the traffic in the roundabout. We then parked in front of a few shops and waited an hour or so for a replacement vehicle. Again, we were probably the only ones actually aware of the time.

I have to admit, I saw the breakdowns as interruptions in our mission trip. But now I see that they were, perhaps, integral parts of the journey.

Dear Sedona

Well overdue is this collection of observations and thanks to everyone, everything and every place that made the recent visit to Sedona a memorable one.

To the soldier at O’Hare,
Camouflage fatigues, a small, pink roll-a-board in tow, wearing a Hello Kitty backpack. Now that was a demonstration of bravery and execution of duty that went above and beyond. Thank you. For everything you and your fellow soldiers have done. I hope you had a great trip.

To National Car Rental,
You know, I just may have forgotten to pick up the car at the Phoenix airport save for your “friendly reminder” email. Makes me wonder how far I would have gotten on foot before I realized it.

To the Cozy Cactus Bed and Breakfast,
The Cowboy Hideaway Suite was great. Movie cowboy pictures and the little rug that looked like a pair of cowboy boots were nice touches. But I was not won over – it is still the pirate’s life for me. Not Roy Rogers or Gene Autry or Tom Mix; no, just call me Jack. Captain Jack.

To the Tlaquepaque Arts & Crafts Village,
Tlaquepaque? Not that this in an issue, you understand, but what if I had to stop and ask for directions? My midwestern, nee southern, speech patterns could not begin to deal with “Tlaquepaque.” I’m glad you were right on Highway 179 coming into town.

To Red Robin,
Your commercials are, well, annoying. But I have to give it to you, the burgers are really good. “Reeedddd ROBIN!”

To Rene,
How ever did you come to be located in an as-far-from-France-as-you-can-get place named Tlaquepaque? Nonetheless, what a nice restaurant.

To the lady singing from atop the red rocks,
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound... What a pleasant surprise, to hear that sweet sound wafting down from the red rock formations. It just made my morning. I trust you were blessed by the experience, as well.

To the Quil twins,
You got me through Day and Ny(te). It’s no fun being sick while you are away from home, but I’ll have to say, you guys helped.

To the guitar player at Rene,
You had me at the Adagio from Rodrigo’s Concerto de Aranjuez. It is haunting, moving and all-in-all, one of my favorite pieces. A nice touch to a pleasant evening at Rene

To Masked Rider wine,
You were chosen for the label. Just so you know.

To northern Arizona,
Nice touch, what with the rain and sleet and snow and wind and closed highways. Just like winter. But, as I have noted elsewhere in this blog, for that, I could have stayed in Wisconsin. Just so you know.

But weather not withstanding, it was an interesting three days in a beautiful place. With any luck, there will be another visit. And this time, we WILL make it to Jerome.

For This I Could Have Stayed in Wisconsin

You live in Wisconsin. When it comes time to take a break, you generally think, "South!" So, we were off to Arizona for the week between Christmas and New Year's day. In all fairness (I do want to be fair, you know), the first two days in Oak Creek were just gorgeous. Let's pause here for a minute and consider what I just said. The Oak Creek thing. I know I've talked about Sedona, but technically (means "in reality"), we stayed in the small town of Oak Creek, about 5 miles south of Sedona. Anyway, as well ensconced in the south as we were, it was quite a surprise to hear the weather forecast on Tuesday evening. Full of words like cold, snow, sleet, wind, blizzard, chains, road closings. Things were going to go north in a hurry.

Wednesday dawned, I think - it was so foggy that it was really hard to tell for sure - to a wet, blustery beginning and only got more unpleasant as the day wore on. Now I will have to say, much like the seacoast on a stormy day, there was a certain rough character to the countryside as it stood up against the winter onslaught. We took it in, often from the comfort of the rental car, but it wasn't what we had come for.

Nonetheless, the entire short week was a blast. The Red Rock area is spectacular and we were appropriately cozy in The Cozy Cactus bed and breakfast. And, even with all of the weather warnings and road closings (I40, I17 were closed north of us), we had no problems getting around and making our way back to Phoenix on Thursday. We did miss going up to Jerome, though, so I guess we'll have to go back sometime. I'm OK with that.

Here are some, if not rare, at least unusual pictures of a cold, damp, snowy Sedona area.




And THIS is what Arizona SHOULD look like:

Let The Sun Shine

Glorious would be a good description for Tuesday in Sedona. Bright sun lit up the towering red rocks and mild temperatures were just right for walking the trails. Just after breakfast, I took off into the area behind the inn, which borders the parkland. It was a most pleasant walk, once I figured out that if I was going to look up at the rocks, I needed to stop walking. And if I was going to walk, I needed to keep my eyes on the local flora, as virtually every plant was armed and dangerous. The highlight of the walk, except maybe for not getting run through by a cactus, was the musical accompaniment. Here in the quiet of the morning, the strains of Amazing Grace floated down from a rock formation, a woman's voice, vocalizing the melody. She would go on for a while, stop for a few minutes, then continue. It was quite nice.

We visited several areas between Oak Creek (where we are staying) and Sedona where we could park the car and walk around in the park.Yes, glorious would be a good description for Tuesday in Sedona. Here are a few pictures:

There's a Bike Shop Here

"Here" is Sedona, Arizona. We drove in late yesterday afternoon and I spied the shop on highway 179. Perhaps a jersey? Even though I won't be riding. I COULD ride around on the trails, in and out of the red rock canyons, over the rough trails, avoiding the cacti. I COULD. But, since I know I could, I don't really have to. That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.

Perhaps it is because there are so many other things to do and see around Sedona. Not sure what we'll find, but here is our introduction when we arrived. These pictures are from the back patio of the Bed and Breakfast we are staying at, The Cozy Cactus.





Occupying the Cowboy Hideaway Suite, it seemed that this was the proper choice of wine, don't you think?

Dad

Ernest ("Jack") Sauls   Dec. 9, 1921 - Dec. 18, 1988

My father looked up from the paper and said, “OK. If you’re careful, I don’t see why not.”

What a surprising answer.
So surprising that I didn’t know how to reply.
If he had he said “No way!”
I had an answer ready and waiting.
But “OK?” Totally unprepared for that one.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.
My father had said surprising (to me anyway) things before.
And profound.
He was like that.
Quiet. Even unassuming.
Hard working. He grew up poor in Alabama and Georgia.
Served in the Navy in WWII.
Was determined things would be different for his family.
My mom, brother and me.
He never told me that. But I see it now.

Eight years old, I think. My first flight, courtesy of an airline pass.
His job at TACA Airlines.
He said I should dress neatly, be courteous.
We were guests on this Braniff flight.
Polite, Courteous. A southern gentleman.
In that unassuming way.
The stewardess came by.
She was a stewardess. Flight attendants wouldn’t be invented for decades yet.
Chiclets. Standard fare for the un-pressurized DC3.
I just thought, “Hey, a treat!”
If we felt the need for oxygen, we should let her know.
Climbing into the clouds for the first time.
Could I have been any more excited?
Then, a strange sensation in my ears.
I’d not felt that before. Maybe I should be worried?
Don’t let it show, though. Let dad see you nervous.
But, I had to ask. Did I need oxygen?
Dad said it was OK. Chew the gum. Yawn.
He knew all the tricks. I felt better.
My ears, too.
Looking back, it was a humorous situation.
But he didn’t chuckle, tease me. Or tell me to sit still, keep quiet.
He said it was OK. He knew what to do.
That’s what he was there for.

My father taught me that grownups could be shaken.
Men might even cry.
A terrible plane crash. Managua, Nicaragua.
A new TACA Vickers Viscount. A flock of buzzards.
Two friends, the pilot and co-pilot, gone in an instant.
My father’s face. Hard to describe. Impossible to forget.
Grownups can be shaken. Men can cry.
Both are OK.
I learned that from him, though you’d not have known it until a few years ago.

I asked him one day, “Why?”
The football coach was on my case all through practice.
I was doing OK. Not what coach Harris thought, apparently.
Good grief!
I unloaded this on my father as he drove me home.
He’d back me up, mouth a few complaints about this unwarranted criticism.
“You should feel good about that,” is what he said.
“I should WHAT?”
He explained in his quiet way.
“Coach Harris cares. He thinks you are good. He knows you can be better. He’s helping you. When he stops being on your case, it means he has given up on you. You should be feeling good.”
Just like that.
Driving home from football practice.
Wisdom, in his quiet way.

My father would scold me, as fathers do.
For good reason. Except once.
Sick in bed, I was kept awake by the sawing, hammering.
I called out, “When will you be done?”
He came in and said to be quiet.
He’d gotten a few friends to help him put in a new stairway into the crawl space under our house.
They were doing us a favor. We shouldn’t seem unappreciative.
I was sick. I only asked a question.
The memory of those few moments is fresh; whatever hurt long since gone, though.
He was human. As are we all. Another lesson.

My father got sick.
A simple skin cancer. But then a small tumor in his neck.
Radiation. Disfiguring surgery.
We’d visit. “I’m OK. Doctor says things are going well,” he’d say.
Always positive. Encouraging me.
December. Back in Atlanta only a few weeks since our Thanksgiving visit.
Six months, the doctor said. What was I going to do during that time?
How often could I visit?
He was confused, the cancer now in his brain.
A sneak attack. The doctors watching the shrinking tumor in his neck.
Now, nothing to do but wait.
Six months.
He died two days after I arrived.
It was OK. He knew what to do.

Our last summer before we headed off to college.
Larry, Morris and I had a plan.
We’d go to the islands! Nassau. Fly from Miami.
How to get to Miami, though?
I could fly for free, but not Larry or Morris.
We’d drive. But look at our cars!
The three of them together wouldn’t be able to get us there.
But we’d just gotten a brand new, 1966 Volkswagen.
Now that’s the car we needed.
Reliable, economical.

Larry and I worked at the same engineering firm during the summer.
For a month we considered all of the possible ways that my father could say “no” to our request.
And we came up with the perfect counter-argument for each.
Finally it was time to ask.
“Dad. You know it would be a lot safer and cheaper if we could use the Volkswagen to drive down to Miami.”
This was it. All of my well thought out responses were ready and waiting. Which one would I need the only thing left to decide.
“OK,” he said. “If you’re careful, I don’t see why not.”

Quiet, Calm.
Hard-working.
Caring.
Knowing what to do.
Wise.
Human.
Teaching me in this surprising response, the only one I hadn’t considered in planning my comebacks.
Teaching me responsibility. And that sometimes you need to take risks.
He was willing to do that.
Even now he is here, in the lessons taught.
In his calm, quiet way.

Cold, Gray Seas

Steely skies fuse with cold, gray seas;
the horizon indistinct in the distance.
Walking down the beach, I pull my jacket a bit more tightly
against the damp chill of the fall afternoon
that envelopes the eastern seaboard.
A brisk wind carries in the sea's salty scent and
pulls a light mist from the tops of approaching breakers.

The waves, energy all but spent
on their voyage to the shore,
tumble over onto the firm sand
with a loud swoosh.
Then, unable to extend farther into the realm of dry land,
they slide slowly back down the sandy slope
with only a whisper to mark their return
to the deeps from which they'd come.

My footprints on the beach are distinct
but for a moment.
Edges quickly crumble as damp sand fails
to hold the impression,
all sign of my passing erased.

Squawking gulls survey the scene from above,
nervous sandpipers scamper at water's edge.
They are oblivious to sights and sounds
save those
that might lead to a meal.

As daylight wanes, I walk up the slopes into softer sand,
pause at the edge of a dry sea of tall grass
rustling in the wind.
Slender blades bend and sway in the breeze, pointing away
from the ocean, as if telling me that it is time
to go.

Looking back one last time, I reflect
on the grandeur of the sea and sky,
the maneuvers of the shore birds.
My brief journey here has ended,
but the ebb and flow of water
and life
will go on.

Home.
Though now unseen, I know this:
sky will meet sea, birds will search for food and
footprints will be erased;
but not my memories of time spent
under steely skies by cold, gray seas.

Tie One On

There is not a single card left at the Hallmark store and it is only December 5. It's a popular holiday, I know, but this year it seems as if everyone is going all out in celebration. But what's not to like about parading around in gaudy costume? Oh, what? You don’t think it's proper to celebrate Christmas that way? Good. I don't either. But we are talking about National Tie Month. I thought you knew.

And I have ties. Not that I wear them much anymore, but they are still in my closet. Here are a few that I brought out for the festivities:

My favorites are the Yellow Submarine and Calculator ties. However, the orange one is perhaps the most meaningful as I wore it at both daughters' weddings. And the one in back on the right is a "Magic Eye" tie. That one got a lot of people staring at me with their eyes crossed!

My life in ties, much abbreviated, went something like this:

When I was younger - that covers a lot of territory, of course - we could fly for free as my father worked for TACA Airlines in New Orleans. At the time, TACA only flew into Central America so we would use "Interline" passes for travel to places to which we actually wanted to go. We would dress up for these flights, since we were guests, most often on Braniff Airlines flights. And, as a guest, you put on your best. And behaved yourself. And were generally appreciative of the offer of free passage. Rules articulated before each trip by my father. Now I was SO young, that dressing up did not include wearing a tie. But my father did.

Eventually I got old enough to wear ties while traveling and did so for many years, including quite a few after it was nearly mandatory. Now it seems anything goes, up to and including tank tops and flip flops. There ought to be a law. But I finally gave in to going tieless, although I try to keep it at no more informal than “neat casual.”

The first tie I remember getting was when I was in seventh grade. We had just moved to Jacksonville Beach and my mother thought it would be a good idea to sign me up for the cotillion. I would learn to dance and meet people. What’s not to like about that for a seventh grader who’d been contemplating the idea of spending all day, every day of the summer on the beach?

The high school years are a bit fuzzy when it comes to ties. I suppose I wore one at some of the more “formal” social functions, but there isn’t some tie-related event that comes to mind. Same with college except for my senior year. When it came time for job interviews on campus, I went to the Rich’s store in downtown Atlanta (something you can’t do anymore, thanks to Macy’s). I got a suit, a tie, and a job. Must be something to the dressing up thing.

I probably had a few ties when we moved to Connecticut for my first job with Pratt & Whitney. This was the domain of white shirts, dark ties and pocket protectors and calls to mind an entry on the list of the shortest books ever written: Fashion for Engineers. But rebel that I am, it seemed that an attack on the system was warranted. So Shirley began making ties to order – wide enough to use as a lobster bib and in all manner of colors and patterns. One in particular that I remember was a red-white-and-blue number. Take THAT, establishment!

But time passed and I moved on, ending up here in the upper Midwest; Wisconsin, to be exact. And I brought my advanced East Coast style concepts with me. Things here were, of course, years behind and it fell upon my well-garbed shoulders to get them up to speed. How did I accomplish this? Well it was with a green and cream plaid leisure suit, worn with a dark shirt and bow tie. I won’t even mention the shoes, but I will tell you that I will be forever grateful that these is no photographic evidence of what I have just revealed. You should be too.

Of course we all know how this story comes out. Every day ties are rare indeed these days. The transition wasn’t easy for many, but there are few holdouts. Politicians and executives seem to need to “power up,” but for the rest of us, casual and comfortable work just fine. There are special occasions though. And just to prove I can still do it, here is a photo of me at a recent conference in Germany:

And no treatise on ties, at least not any that I write, would be complete without this story. And let me say that this will be the LAST time I relate this. It has been my great privilege to know and have been taught by O.Univ.Prof. i.R. Dipl.-Ing. Dr.techn. Laurenz Rinder of the Technical University of Vienna. And let me say he deserves every one of those titles. Here he is at the conference:

Years ago, Professor Rinder came to La Crosse for several months to help us understand some of the intricacies of designing screw compressor rotors, something we had just begun working on. One Saturday I was planning on laying sod around our newly finished addition and I asked Laurenz if he’d like to come over and help. He agreed. So, bright and early on Saturday, he showed up wearing a lab coat. Over his white shirt. And tie. Which he kept on during the entire morning of sod-laying.

So why is this the last time telling this story? There is a now-traditional (I’ve been attending this conference since 1987) post-conference dinner hosted by friends Professor Knut and Dörte Kauder at their home. A few of the regulars were missing this year, but there were some new faces around the table. So, during the witty repartee that only engineers can sustain, I announced that I had this story about Laurenz. He looked at me and said, “The one about the tie?” I guess maybe I’ve told it one too many times.

Here we are enjoying ourselves at Knute and Dörte's. This was BEFORE I told the story.

Just so you won't be left hanging, this is the Rest of the Story about the leisure suit. I wore it in San Francisco while there on a business trip. In the evening, a group of us were walking to Chinatown in search of a restaurant. To get there, we had to run a gauntlet of bars and strip clubs, each with a hawker out front, calling to us to come in and check thing out. One of them looked at me and said, "Nice suit." And that, my friends, was the last time I ever wore it. No. I will not tell you about the shoes. Every time I think about that outfit, I feel the need to tie one on. It was that bad.

Song of the South

I've been away less than a week and already there are so many people and places to thank for making this trip to the Southland a memorable one.

To Dunkin'Donuts,
One of the reasons I like to will go through O'Hare on my travels is that you have a presence there. It gives me a chance at a large coffee and an old fashioned doughnut. Now the doughnuts are OK there, but there is just a little too much "old" in them. How do I know? Well, there is also a Dunkin'Donuts here in Morrow, GA. And their doughnuts are, well, better. A lot better. Perhaps it is because at O'Hare, the products have to go through a full body scan first? If it isn’t that, but a pat-down instead, just don’t tell me.

To the NMC*,
That was a great event you put on in Lexington. OK, so it took me three days to figure out the layout, what with the booths scattered all over and on several levels. But I eventually found everything I was looking for. The services were uplifting and challenging. As usual, the best part was the call for those who had made the decision to GO to COME and start their missions work right there. See you in Atlanta in 2011!

*National Missionary Convention

To delegates at the NMC,
The convention is a great place to meet friends, I know. But standing around in groups of ten or twelve right at the bottom of the escalator is so not a good idea. They even had to put up a sign. Really?

To Abraham Lincoln,
I must say you gave me quite a start, appearing as you did at the convention. Now at first I thought maybe I'd missed the rapture but, aside from you, everything in the exhibit hall seemed pretty much normal. Now that the shock of encountering such a well known and, until now, presumed long dead, personage, I have to offer you a suggestion. It's true, you are respected for being honest, but perhaps you should venture, ever-so-slightly, into the realm of tact. You know, like that time Mrs. Lincoln asked "Does this dress make my backside look big?" Now don't deny it, because we have the technology - here, have a look yourself. Now, repeat after me, "Why not at all, dear. You look just lovely in it."


To Lexington,
Seems you really dressed up for the Equestrian World Games this year. I'm guessing your city looks mighty fine all of the time, but I did notice the newer, large, colorful displays at the airport when I arrived. One in particular stood out, a photo of a magnificent horse in a green pasture. On the right were the words:

Honor the Land
Revere the Horse

Now I couldn't help but notice that there was no reference to PEOPLE so I question, where do we stand on your list? Third, just behind the horse, or perhaps a bit farther down? Just wondering.

To AmericanAirlines,
On all 12 legs of the last three trips I have taken, we have arrived early. It is making me a little nervous. Are you holding back for a really BIG surprise? If I had one complaint, it would be that we apparently surprised the ground crew in Atlanta and had to wait for them to punch in, finish their warm-up exercises and whatever else they do to get started for the day. But, since we still arrived at the gate ahead of schedule, I guess I'll just have to say, "Well done." And, "Keep it up." I have one more trip scheduled for this year yet.

To Atlanta,
This is WINTER? Man, you've got the right idea. I've always thought that the degree to which one enjoys a vacation is in direct proportion to the difference in the weather between where you are and where you came from. I am SO enjoying this week.*

* 17 degrees, with the wind chill bringing it down to 4 in La Crosse; 74 degrees here. What do I have to say about this. See my note to American Airlines above.

To the Georgia HIghway Department,
Thanks for the warning at the bridges. You know, the ones that read:
  Caution. Bridge may freeze in winter.
In Wisconsin we have signs at the bridges, too. But ours read:
  Hang in there. Bridge may thaw in summer.
It's an upper-midwest thing. You should come visit us sometime and experience it for yourself.

To the Morrow Police and Fire Departments,
Hang in there, we will be leaving soon. And thank you for your service and assistance. We did not know about the new security system installed at the house. Really. And locking the keys, and an infant, in the car. Could happen to anybody, right? Anyway, you are on the ball and we do rest easier knowing that there are professionals out there, ready to serve when called.

To all the Southern Cooks,
Your work is special, for sure. Just the other night we ate at a buffet style restaurant where the selection included fried okra, baby lima beans, black-eyed peas, chicken liver, "poultry" gravy, catfish, hushpuppies, fried chicken and collard greens, just to name a few. It struck me that the spread exemplified Southern cooking at its most basic level: If it walks, flies or swims, fry it; if it grows, boil it; serve with corn bread and sweet tea, eat, nap, repeat.

I shared these thoughts in another venue and got this relatively pertinent comment, "If you're very quiet now, you can listen to your own arteries hardening!!" Ahh... Southern cooking.

To the Buffet Restaurant,
I noticed that a few - a very few - of your offerings were labeled as "Healthy Choices." In other words, pretty much out of place. One of these was, to my surprise and delight, the chocolate pudding. Even though I suspected chocolate pudding might be a healthy choice only on comparison to the other cholesterol delivery options, I welcomed the chance to try it. And, now how can I put this? That was chocolate pudding in the same way that Velveeta is fine cheese. Sorry, but that's the way I saw it.

To the Couple at the ATL Admirals Club,
We don't want to know. We REALLY don't want to know.

To my Legion of One or Two Readers,
We are looking forward to our 40th family Thanksgiving dinner here in Morrow, GA. Wherever you are this week, may God bless you as you are reminded of how very much there is to be thankful for.

Mid-Century Modern

Even though I risk having to fend off the paparazzi for the rest of my stay here, I'll tell you that I'm in Palm Springs for a few days to visit family. Walking around the neighborhood and taking a celebrity homes tour are not separable activities here. And it is not unusual to have to pull my cap down over my eyes and hang my head as a tour bus goes by. You know, so as not to be recognized. It's a real nuisance, trust me (OK, maybe not).

Seriously, within just a few blocks of here, I can stroll by homes that at one time were occupied by the likes of Edgar Bergen (yes, Candice and Charlie McCarthy both grew up there), Elvis Presley, Dinah Shore, Frank Sinatra and Liberace. What you see here are single story homes in the "mid-century modern" style. Most are behind low walls, are surrounded by palm trees and all manner of lush, colorful, tropical foliage and have flat or gently sloping roofs; snow loads are not an issue. In fact, not a lot of consideration is even given to rain. Stucco, stone, metal and glass are the primary building materials. All of this is in a desert setting up against a startlingly imposing backdrop of steep, rocky mountains that rise up quite literally at the edge of the city.


Views in the Neighborhood

While I would not have thought this before my first visit here, Palm Springs is not a gaudy, touristy place. Quite the contrary, the architecture and landscaping work well in this setting. There are a few exceptions, of course. Like Liberace's place. It looks pretty much like, well, what you might expect it would look like.

Alan Ladd lived in Palm Springs and while I'll not get into details, his former home is, let me say, "accessible" to me. When you approach it from the street it is, as with so many other places, seen only as an entrance in the wall that hides the house from the street.


Entry to the Alan Ladd House

Passing through the gate, you approach the front of the house which, except for the tease of a view through the living room out into the pool area, seems not altogether that special. A display in the entry introduces Alan.


Front Door and Foyer

As you pass into the living room, you begin to appreciate the light, open feeling that makes the place so appealing. The kitchen and informal dining are just behind the fireplace wall.



Living Room and Kitchen Area

The back walls of both rooms are almost entirely windows, providing views into the pool area.


Pool Area and Mountain Views

It isn't "homey" by any means. But if you are into mid-century modern and art deco, this would be the place for you. And, if you are interested, get in touch with me. I can help you work out a deal. Trust me. No, really. I can. Really.

And, if I may be afforded the luxury of shameless promotion (it IS my blog, after all), when you are in town, you might want to stop by my brother's shop, Dazzles on Palm Canyon Drive, where you can find all the retro furniture, home décor and jewelry you'll need for those hard-to-find-gifts-for people on your list.



Dazzles

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off to the Blue Coyote Grill for lunch. Please, don't breathe a word of this to anyone ~ I'm not up to signing a lot of autographs today. Thanks.

At the Blue Coyote Grill

Lunch

I should mention that the Blue Coyote has a margarita that challenges Rita's for top spot on my list. And, thanks for keeping quiet about my visit there. I wasn't asked for a single autograph. Whew!