We arrived and Bobbie Gentry got it right when she wrote about “the muddy waters off the Tallahatchie Bridge”, but not just the Tallahatchie River--every river and body of water seems to be muddy. Despite that, (though I don’t know where the drinking water comes from and that bothers me) Mississippi is a beautiful state. It is green, lush and floral with pretty blue skies.
Y’all knew it was hot and humid, so I won’t reiterate that, what’s 95° here is at least 105° everywhere else.
Friendly? Hospitable? Y’all can’t imagine. As we were packing up our motorcycle Monday morning to drive the final 188 miles to Jackson from Southaven, Mississippi, a nice man started talking to us. He was interested in watching us get “all those bags on the bike.” When he found out we were from Seattle he got this funny smile on his face, then asked more questions and finally said, “Well, it shore is differnt here than in Seattle.” He introduced himself as Skeeter Miller from Wiggins, Mississippi down near Gulf Port. When we got on the bike he was returning to the motel and hollered out, “If you have any problems on your way down I-55 I’ll be coming behind you shortly.” Turns out he came behind us and soon passed us by, but waved as he zoomed away. That was our first introduction to the friendly people of Mississippi. Since then we haven’t really met anyone without at least a 3 minute chat, but often the chats are up to 10 minutes. This applies from motel clerks to passersby to assistant manager of the bank and more.
Some quick observations about Mississippi...
After driving through the Bible belt with a church on every corner and a religious billboard between the corners, Mississippi has fewer religious billboards. They still have lots of churches, though they aren’t so obvious.
The plains from South Dakota through Iowa the parts of Illinois, Missouri and Tennessee that we saw along I-55 were devoid of evergreen trees, but once we got into Mississippi about 40 miles we began seeing pines and other evergreens.
Mississippi has more hills than we expected (though they aren’t very high).
We ate at a Chinese Buffet and Grill which had both Chinese and Japanese food as well as salads. They served sushi with cream cheese and imitation crab filling and another variety with either cheese whiz or velveta (I couldn’t tell which).
Jackson seems to be growing by leaps and bounds--or at least the Jackson area. The next census will tell the tale.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Mississippi Bound Musings
Exit Billings. Getting closer to Mississippi, but not that quickly. I’m a bit anxious about that. Arlo is anxious about this lengthy form he has to fill out for the new job. Cool temperatures as we left Billings, about 9:45 a.m., but I had layered plenty of clothes on to keep me warm and to peel off as needed. Because we were passing by, we stopped at the site of the Battle of Little Big Horn. As an historian, I was interested in seeing the location where the events I’d read about and taught actually occurred, but we didn’t have time to spend really investigating. Lots of tourists were there visiting and I began hearing some Southern drawls which refocused my thoughts on Mississippi.
En route to Sturgis, our next destination, facts floated to the surface of my wandering mind about Mississippi and Jackson. I’ve been researching and the contrasts between Seattle and my soon to be new home are like the differences between Disneyland and the Forbidden City. That’s neither good nor bad, depending on who you are.
For one thing all the national newspapers have released the fact that Mississippi has the most obese population of all 50 states. Why is that? I will be really sad living among really fat people because I will recognize all the limitations on their lives as a result of their weight. Washington isn’t the leanest state...that award is given to Colorado, but Washington is near the top of the pack.
One of the websites I visited looks at categories in which a state is at the top or at the bottom. For instance, Washington is number one in Total Refugees from Egypt from the years 2000-2004 as per capita figures expressed per 1 million population. That seems like a very random number one ranking. On this same website, Mississippi is listed as ranking number one in the total of Black people killed by lynching from 1882 to 1968. How is that fair? That number one listing is from 41 years ago. So, I needed to find a ranking that is from at least 2000 to have any meaning. So, here’s one--Mississippi ranks first with the percent of people living below the poverty level in the past 12 months, 2004. Put that with the bottom ranking for Mississippi in the category Median Family Income (In 2004 Inflation-adjusted) at $39,319.00 and contrast with Washington’s ranking in the same category as 15th in the nation at $57,478.00 and it’s clear there are some real economic differences. Check out the site yourself for more interesting rankings http://www.statemaster.com/index.php and imagine, no...realize that all these states are part of one nation.
Arrived at Sturgis. Not Harley Rally time, but still plenty of motorcycles cruising the roads.
En route to Sturgis, our next destination, facts floated to the surface of my wandering mind about Mississippi and Jackson. I’ve been researching and the contrasts between Seattle and my soon to be new home are like the differences between Disneyland and the Forbidden City. That’s neither good nor bad, depending on who you are.
For one thing all the national newspapers have released the fact that Mississippi has the most obese population of all 50 states. Why is that? I will be really sad living among really fat people because I will recognize all the limitations on their lives as a result of their weight. Washington isn’t the leanest state...that award is given to Colorado, but Washington is near the top of the pack.
One of the websites I visited looks at categories in which a state is at the top or at the bottom. For instance, Washington is number one in Total Refugees from Egypt from the years 2000-2004 as per capita figures expressed per 1 million population. That seems like a very random number one ranking. On this same website, Mississippi is listed as ranking number one in the total of Black people killed by lynching from 1882 to 1968. How is that fair? That number one listing is from 41 years ago. So, I needed to find a ranking that is from at least 2000 to have any meaning. So, here’s one--Mississippi ranks first with the percent of people living below the poverty level in the past 12 months, 2004. Put that with the bottom ranking for Mississippi in the category Median Family Income (In 2004 Inflation-adjusted) at $39,319.00 and contrast with Washington’s ranking in the same category as 15th in the nation at $57,478.00 and it’s clear there are some real economic differences. Check out the site yourself for more interesting rankings http://www.statemaster.com/index.php and imagine, no...realize that all these states are part of one nation.
Arrived at Sturgis. Not Harley Rally time, but still plenty of motorcycles cruising the roads.
Mississippi Bound Bye bye Butte, Hello Bozeman and Billings
Happily we mounted the motorcycle early to leave Butte. We were in search of new tires for the motorcycle which we figured we would find in either Bozeman or Billings. When you have only two tires to depend on, you want them to be in good condition. Given the anticipated heat which causes tires to expand and the probability of road construction and poor road conditions, new tires are a good call.
To get to Bozeman we crossed the Continental Divide and the temperature was that chilly 51° but fortunately, the sun was shining. No rain today!
My image of this portion of Montana, is two parallel plains, one of earth and one of sky. The earth plain has formations, hills and even tall peaks off in the distance while closer up is this great rolling land. The sky plain has mobiles of clouds suspended from very high up, and though the clouds are big and pouffy they don’t come near the earth plain. Between the two plains is emptiness and the plains go on indefinitely, never meeting.
At Bozeman we found a delightful coffee shop, Rocky Mountain Roasting Company where Arlo was able to make arrangement at a Bozeman Honda dealer for new tires. It seems crazy to think that two tires, mounted and balanced would cost $630. We weren’t the only ones getting new tires, either. Three other motorcycles were in that day, and one of them was owned by a guy from Corpus Christi who was driving to Vancouver, BC for his wife’s family reunion. Nice, chatty guy--like most Southerners--a long ways from home. Though it was costly, things went along smoothly. We had a nice lunch while we waited and then away to Billings...or maybe beyond.
Except...that in Hardin, Montana when we stopped to get gas, damn if the left side case latch mechanism was stuck--it wouldn’t release. Arlo said more than “damn” and we spent 45 minutes while he took everything apart (after buying some tools since the motorcycle tools were in the left side case), figured out how the latch release worked, jockeyed it open, and determined that he could jimmy it open fairly easily as needed...but we weren’t going to put anything we needed in that side. This episode also determined our next overnight location, Billings. So, we didn’t have a long day of riding.
The Billings Holiday Inn had a casino attached to it where I spent $10 to find out that video Deuces Wild poker is a really dumb game.
To get to Bozeman we crossed the Continental Divide and the temperature was that chilly 51° but fortunately, the sun was shining. No rain today!
My image of this portion of Montana, is two parallel plains, one of earth and one of sky. The earth plain has formations, hills and even tall peaks off in the distance while closer up is this great rolling land. The sky plain has mobiles of clouds suspended from very high up, and though the clouds are big and pouffy they don’t come near the earth plain. Between the two plains is emptiness and the plains go on indefinitely, never meeting.
At Bozeman we found a delightful coffee shop, Rocky Mountain Roasting Company where Arlo was able to make arrangement at a Bozeman Honda dealer for new tires. It seems crazy to think that two tires, mounted and balanced would cost $630. We weren’t the only ones getting new tires, either. Three other motorcycles were in that day, and one of them was owned by a guy from Corpus Christi who was driving to Vancouver, BC for his wife’s family reunion. Nice, chatty guy--like most Southerners--a long ways from home. Though it was costly, things went along smoothly. We had a nice lunch while we waited and then away to Billings...or maybe beyond.
Except...that in Hardin, Montana when we stopped to get gas, damn if the left side case latch mechanism was stuck--it wouldn’t release. Arlo said more than “damn” and we spent 45 minutes while he took everything apart (after buying some tools since the motorcycle tools were in the left side case), figured out how the latch release worked, jockeyed it open, and determined that he could jimmy it open fairly easily as needed...but we weren’t going to put anything we needed in that side. This episode also determined our next overnight location, Billings. So, we didn’t have a long day of riding.
The Billings Holiday Inn had a casino attached to it where I spent $10 to find out that video Deuces Wild poker is a really dumb game.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Mississippi Bound Uh oh it's raining!
July 6
We awoke early to the sounds of water on the road. Cars driving past made that dreaded shhulshh noise of tires fording water. This is not a big deal if you’re in a car, but not much fun on a motorcycle. And there were predictions of thunder and lightning. Avoidance is sometimes a good policy, so we hung out in our hotel room for an hour or so prolonging our departure in hopes of a weather change. No luck.
I put on nearly every item of clothes I brought and covered my legs with my pair waterproof rainpants. I feel like they should be bright yellow, but they’re black.
The Idaho panhandle is 75 miles across following I-90. As we wend past Coeur ’d’ Alene I remembered hikes at various places, bays where we waterskied, swam and sunbathed. Not in this rapidly dropping temperature, though. The motorcycle has a thermometer which read 62° as we climbed toward 4th of July Pass. The rain continued. The temperature fell. We passed Smelterville, a town I remember from my childhood as a neighbor had grown up there and I thought it such a funny name for a town. The neighbor, Joy her name was, trained her cats to jump through hoops and roll over. She used to put shows on for the kids in the neighborhood.
Speeding along, I was more than chilly as the temperature which was already cool dropped to 51° at Lookout Pass at the Idaho-Montana border. Also, we lost an hour. Montana is such stunning country--the pristine streams with deer at the edge.
You know you’re in Montana when billboards proclaim Lucky Lil’s Casinos and the annual Testicle Festival (check it out at http://www.testyfesty.com/)held at the end of July in Clinton.
For some reason Arlo is drawn to Butte, Montana which I find to be dreary. We stayed at the Finlen Hotel in a dark, poorly equipped room in the historic uptown portion of Butte. Sure, there are plenty of formerly elegant homes posted as being on the National Historic Registry, but that has a huge downside because once on that list, the building can’t be improved unless the renovations follow specific guidelines that comply with the design of the original time of construction. That is expensive. Therefore the homes and shops fall further and further into disrepair.
This entire day I have not thought about Mississippi once.
We awoke early to the sounds of water on the road. Cars driving past made that dreaded shhulshh noise of tires fording water. This is not a big deal if you’re in a car, but not much fun on a motorcycle. And there were predictions of thunder and lightning. Avoidance is sometimes a good policy, so we hung out in our hotel room for an hour or so prolonging our departure in hopes of a weather change. No luck.
I put on nearly every item of clothes I brought and covered my legs with my pair waterproof rainpants. I feel like they should be bright yellow, but they’re black.
The Idaho panhandle is 75 miles across following I-90. As we wend past Coeur ’d’ Alene I remembered hikes at various places, bays where we waterskied, swam and sunbathed. Not in this rapidly dropping temperature, though. The motorcycle has a thermometer which read 62° as we climbed toward 4th of July Pass. The rain continued. The temperature fell. We passed Smelterville, a town I remember from my childhood as a neighbor had grown up there and I thought it such a funny name for a town. The neighbor, Joy her name was, trained her cats to jump through hoops and roll over. She used to put shows on for the kids in the neighborhood.
Speeding along, I was more than chilly as the temperature which was already cool dropped to 51° at Lookout Pass at the Idaho-Montana border. Also, we lost an hour. Montana is such stunning country--the pristine streams with deer at the edge.
You know you’re in Montana when billboards proclaim Lucky Lil’s Casinos and the annual Testicle Festival (check it out at http://www.testyfesty.com/)held at the end of July in Clinton.
For some reason Arlo is drawn to Butte, Montana which I find to be dreary. We stayed at the Finlen Hotel in a dark, poorly equipped room in the historic uptown portion of Butte. Sure, there are plenty of formerly elegant homes posted as being on the National Historic Registry, but that has a huge downside because once on that list, the building can’t be improved unless the renovations follow specific guidelines that comply with the design of the original time of construction. That is expensive. Therefore the homes and shops fall further and further into disrepair.
This entire day I have not thought about Mississippi once.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Mississippi Bound On the road...
July 5
We left Seattle at 8:00 heading for Monroe, Washington, where we planned to hook up with a couple from our BMW motorcycle club who had arranged to “ride out of town” with us. We weren’t heading into the sunset--that would be west--but it’s much more poetic to say heading into the sunset than riding out of town which sounds as though we are one step ahead of being tarred and feathered. Anyway, a haze lay deep over the Seattle dales and depressions from the quantity of fireworks last night. It lent a surreal view of the towering construction cranes around Mercer, houseboats on Lake Union and Queen Anne hill off in the distance. Scooting up I-405, we arrived easily at Monroe where we met Bob and Marti, who also ride a Goldwing.
The four of us on two bikes merged onto highway 2 in route for Stevens Pass and Leavenworth. A lazy lunch, good conversation and bon voyage; Bob and Marti headed to Icicle Ridge Winery and we continued eastward to Spokane.
Driving highway 2 was a nice change from I-90 without the demands of steep Cascade Highway further north. Scenery morphs from exquisite treed Cascade mountains to coulees (dry falls) with their sheer vertical walls rising up from a millennium old river bed.
As we progressed the temperature rose. 94 degrees! Hot, hot, hot...the air felt like a shot of tabasco! We donned our cooling vests, but water evaporated quickly in intense heat and arid conditions. Fortunately, Bob seemed to be doing fine; no vertigo or anxiety.
Finally, in Spokane. We stayed at the elegantly affordable Montvale Hotel downtown. Our Spokane kids came downtown to have dinner with us. Walking through alleys to Europa Pizzeria, always a favorite Spokane restaurant, our 2 year of granddaughter Lexi ran heedless of danger but was frightened by a man with a long white beard at the restaurant.
We left Seattle at 8:00 heading for Monroe, Washington, where we planned to hook up with a couple from our BMW motorcycle club who had arranged to “ride out of town” with us. We weren’t heading into the sunset--that would be west--but it’s much more poetic to say heading into the sunset than riding out of town which sounds as though we are one step ahead of being tarred and feathered. Anyway, a haze lay deep over the Seattle dales and depressions from the quantity of fireworks last night. It lent a surreal view of the towering construction cranes around Mercer, houseboats on Lake Union and Queen Anne hill off in the distance. Scooting up I-405, we arrived easily at Monroe where we met Bob and Marti, who also ride a Goldwing.
The four of us on two bikes merged onto highway 2 in route for Stevens Pass and Leavenworth. A lazy lunch, good conversation and bon voyage; Bob and Marti headed to Icicle Ridge Winery and we continued eastward to Spokane.
Driving highway 2 was a nice change from I-90 without the demands of steep Cascade Highway further north. Scenery morphs from exquisite treed Cascade mountains to coulees (dry falls) with their sheer vertical walls rising up from a millennium old river bed.
As we progressed the temperature rose. 94 degrees! Hot, hot, hot...the air felt like a shot of tabasco! We donned our cooling vests, but water evaporated quickly in intense heat and arid conditions. Fortunately, Bob seemed to be doing fine; no vertigo or anxiety.
Finally, in Spokane. We stayed at the elegantly affordable Montvale Hotel downtown. Our Spokane kids came downtown to have dinner with us. Walking through alleys to Europa Pizzeria, always a favorite Spokane restaurant, our 2 year of granddaughter Lexi ran heedless of danger but was frightened by a man with a long white beard at the restaurant.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Mississippi Bound
4th of July
Independence Day was originally our departure date, however, we have postponed leaving until tomorrow. This is because Arlo began experiencing a vertigo on Thursday that lasted through Friday. It didn’t seem wise to get on a motorcycle which requires some balancing while suffering from the “spins”. Was it a sinus problem? The result of aspirin? Elevated blood pressure? Tainted food? Whatever the cause, he took some motion sickness pills and the condition has lessened. Today he feels ok, so, blast off will be tomorrow morning.
Despite Arlo’s condition, we were able to take care of a number of items yesterday including consigning our beloved BMW K1200LT motorcycle to be sold at Ride West. Whoever buys this splendid ride, I sincerely hope they enjoy it as much as we did. (I’ve had the same thoughts about every motorcycle we’ve had, though, as each bike transforms into a magic carpet ride for us.) We’ll be riding out on a GoldWing which is a smooth ride with more of an automobile feel than a daring bike ready to tackly the twisties. The reason for the switch is Mississippi has no BMW dealership for servicing our bike. BMW’s, actually ALL bikes, require constant and expensive servicing. It’s unrealistic tot think that we could drive 3 or 4 hours for work to be done. Harley and Honda dealers are everywhere, so we opted for the Honda. A good choice, I think. This is a stable bike with a lower center of gravity than the BMW. It lacks some things the BMW had, like a top rack which allowed us to pack more “stuff”, camping stuff usually, but we won’t need that on this trip and if we’d like we can have a top rack put on. Also, the seats aren’t heated--but, seriously, in Mississippi I don’t think we are going to need a heated anything. All in all, it’ll be a good ride.
Having mentioned the fact of no BMW dealership in Mississippi, there are a few other places which have little or no representation there. Is it fair to expect Mississippi (or any other place for that matter) to have a Starbucks every few blocks? Not really, however, the entire state has only 19 Starbucks! Given that a 5 mile radius in Seattle will offer up well over 19 Starbucks, my perception is skewed. Hopefully, one of the 19 will be close to where we live; or, perhaps another breed, another variation will have evolved which will be as enticing and satisfying. Mississippi has not a single Costco. We have Walmarts and Sam’s Club in the northwest, which are the dominant retailer and retail wholesaler in the south, but Costco is familiar to me and it only seems fair that there be a Costco, at least one, in Mississippi. Since there isn’t, I guess we’ll have to join Sam’s Club and buy from them. By searching on-line, I was able to find one organic grocer. Not high on everyone’s list, but important to us.
While we’re treading water in Seattle, the sun is shining, but the temperature is perfect; the city is resplendent in color (sky, water, trees, as well as red, white, and blue) and sounds abound (cars, seagulls, music, laughter). Seattle coyly whispers to Arlo, “Don’t forget me.”
Independence Day was originally our departure date, however, we have postponed leaving until tomorrow. This is because Arlo began experiencing a vertigo on Thursday that lasted through Friday. It didn’t seem wise to get on a motorcycle which requires some balancing while suffering from the “spins”. Was it a sinus problem? The result of aspirin? Elevated blood pressure? Tainted food? Whatever the cause, he took some motion sickness pills and the condition has lessened. Today he feels ok, so, blast off will be tomorrow morning.
Despite Arlo’s condition, we were able to take care of a number of items yesterday including consigning our beloved BMW K1200LT motorcycle to be sold at Ride West. Whoever buys this splendid ride, I sincerely hope they enjoy it as much as we did. (I’ve had the same thoughts about every motorcycle we’ve had, though, as each bike transforms into a magic carpet ride for us.) We’ll be riding out on a GoldWing which is a smooth ride with more of an automobile feel than a daring bike ready to tackly the twisties. The reason for the switch is Mississippi has no BMW dealership for servicing our bike. BMW’s, actually ALL bikes, require constant and expensive servicing. It’s unrealistic tot think that we could drive 3 or 4 hours for work to be done. Harley and Honda dealers are everywhere, so we opted for the Honda. A good choice, I think. This is a stable bike with a lower center of gravity than the BMW. It lacks some things the BMW had, like a top rack which allowed us to pack more “stuff”, camping stuff usually, but we won’t need that on this trip and if we’d like we can have a top rack put on. Also, the seats aren’t heated--but, seriously, in Mississippi I don’t think we are going to need a heated anything. All in all, it’ll be a good ride.
Having mentioned the fact of no BMW dealership in Mississippi, there are a few other places which have little or no representation there. Is it fair to expect Mississippi (or any other place for that matter) to have a Starbucks every few blocks? Not really, however, the entire state has only 19 Starbucks! Given that a 5 mile radius in Seattle will offer up well over 19 Starbucks, my perception is skewed. Hopefully, one of the 19 will be close to where we live; or, perhaps another breed, another variation will have evolved which will be as enticing and satisfying. Mississippi has not a single Costco. We have Walmarts and Sam’s Club in the northwest, which are the dominant retailer and retail wholesaler in the south, but Costco is familiar to me and it only seems fair that there be a Costco, at least one, in Mississippi. Since there isn’t, I guess we’ll have to join Sam’s Club and buy from them. By searching on-line, I was able to find one organic grocer. Not high on everyone’s list, but important to us.
While we’re treading water in Seattle, the sun is shining, but the temperature is perfect; the city is resplendent in color (sky, water, trees, as well as red, white, and blue) and sounds abound (cars, seagulls, music, laughter). Seattle coyly whispers to Arlo, “Don’t forget me.”
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Mississippi Bound
Tuesday
I’ve been reading as much as I can about Mississippi. One of the books we bought is a coffee table style book called Must See Mississippi - 50 Favorite Places. The introduction is by a Mississippi author named Greg Iles. He made some interesting comments which have caused me to stop and think. The most striking statement is this, “While most communities in America seem hell-bent on turning themselves into clones of the next city up the interstate, Mississippi remains true to itself.” Sam and I have noticed this as we’ve motorcycled through the western U.S.
It was sad to hear that Flagstaff had succumbed to the siren call of a Wal-mart Superstore to be built outside the downtown area. Everyone can predict the outcome--the demise of the mom and pop, the locally owned stores that can’t compete with the nationwide chains. Empty buildings, loss of identity, just another town rather than a destination. I don’t know where Flagstaff is on that continuum because we were traveling through several years ago. Strip malls with the same big box stores with the same store fronts---that’s the tragedy of expediency and efficiency. Rather like the “Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky” as the song from the 1960’s lamented, only now it is “big boxes by the highways”. Sometimes a small town is able to force a style on a major chain, like Leavenworth, Washington with its Bavarian theme which has a Bavarian McDonalds and Starbucks and other stores.
(For fun--a link to Pete Seeger singing the Little Boxes song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AN3rN59GlWw
In the western U.S. it’s tough because on any historical timeline our communities are relatively new and usually haven’t formed as dominant a “personality” as old locations. One of Seattle’s greatest features is Mt. Rainier, which I am looking at as I type. Giving up a daily view of Mt. Rainier (assuming the mountain is willing to show herself and not be cloaked in grayness and clouds) is going to be tough. Its magnificence knocks any sense of the mundane or pedestrian right out of the way. Mystical and magical, Mt. Rainier (called Tahoma by the Klicktatat and other native people) is really a source of inspiration. The poet Denise Levertov adopted Seattle and Mt. Rainier as home toward the end of her life. From the poem, “Evening Train” she lauds the mountain thus:
“...the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow tinted apricot as she looked west, tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun forever rising and setting.”
Between Seattle and Mississippi we will have the opportunity to see a great deal of the U.S. on our motorcycle. I suspect the towns we come to traveling on the Interstates will be preceded by strip malls and outlet malls, and succeeded by them, too. Smaller towns along the more scenic byways may perhaps retain an identity. Greg Iles’s commentary on Mississippi was made in 2007. In two or so weeks I will see for myself whether Mississippi continues “true to itself.”
I’ve been reading as much as I can about Mississippi. One of the books we bought is a coffee table style book called Must See Mississippi - 50 Favorite Places. The introduction is by a Mississippi author named Greg Iles. He made some interesting comments which have caused me to stop and think. The most striking statement is this, “While most communities in America seem hell-bent on turning themselves into clones of the next city up the interstate, Mississippi remains true to itself.” Sam and I have noticed this as we’ve motorcycled through the western U.S.
It was sad to hear that Flagstaff had succumbed to the siren call of a Wal-mart Superstore to be built outside the downtown area. Everyone can predict the outcome--the demise of the mom and pop, the locally owned stores that can’t compete with the nationwide chains. Empty buildings, loss of identity, just another town rather than a destination. I don’t know where Flagstaff is on that continuum because we were traveling through several years ago. Strip malls with the same big box stores with the same store fronts---that’s the tragedy of expediency and efficiency. Rather like the “Little boxes on a hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky” as the song from the 1960’s lamented, only now it is “big boxes by the highways”. Sometimes a small town is able to force a style on a major chain, like Leavenworth, Washington with its Bavarian theme which has a Bavarian McDonalds and Starbucks and other stores.
(For fun--a link to Pete Seeger singing the Little Boxes song http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AN3rN59GlWw
In the western U.S. it’s tough because on any historical timeline our communities are relatively new and usually haven’t formed as dominant a “personality” as old locations. One of Seattle’s greatest features is Mt. Rainier, which I am looking at as I type. Giving up a daily view of Mt. Rainier (assuming the mountain is willing to show herself and not be cloaked in grayness and clouds) is going to be tough. Its magnificence knocks any sense of the mundane or pedestrian right out of the way. Mystical and magical, Mt. Rainier (called Tahoma by the Klicktatat and other native people) is really a source of inspiration. The poet Denise Levertov adopted Seattle and Mt. Rainier as home toward the end of her life. From the poem, “Evening Train” she lauds the mountain thus:
“...the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow tinted apricot as she looked west, tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun forever rising and setting.”
Between Seattle and Mississippi we will have the opportunity to see a great deal of the U.S. on our motorcycle. I suspect the towns we come to traveling on the Interstates will be preceded by strip malls and outlet malls, and succeeded by them, too. Smaller towns along the more scenic byways may perhaps retain an identity. Greg Iles’s commentary on Mississippi was made in 2007. In two or so weeks I will see for myself whether Mississippi continues “true to itself.”
Monday, June 29, 2009
Mississippi Bound
Six days till we head out on the motorcycle. We’ve purchased two sets of lightweight microfiber type clothes each that can be washed out in the evening and will dry overnight.
The thing about motorcycle travel is that weight and space matters. We have two hard case saddlebags which (I looked this up) are 18 inches wide x 13 inches tall x 8 3/4 inches deep. One saddlebag sidecase carries motorcycle equipment and the other carries our personal “stuff”. We also have a top case which is supposedly 2.45 cubic feet or carries 5 gallons (which is a really stupid way to measure space because we aren’t going to be carrying gallons of anything up there). When you motorcycle you also have helmets, protective clothing, sun screen, hat or cap (for the serious helmet hair) and other items I’m probably forgetting. In the past we have brought camping equipment like tent, sleeping bags, therma-rests, cooking gear, etc., but that was a different bike for a different experience. For this trip across country we will be moteling all the way.
The packing list also includes toiletries and WATER. We have a hiker’s camel-bak water pack which we fill up and Arlo wears so that we can both get to the spout as we travel. Also to keep cool we bring bandanas which we get wet and tie around our necks and vests made of some material that holds water but allows air to pass through which evaporates the water and keeps the person wearing the vest cool. The vests were very helpful one summer as we drove through Death Valley, Arizona, and New Mexico in 100+ degree heat.
The thing about motorcycle travel is that weight and space matters. We have two hard case saddlebags which (I looked this up) are 18 inches wide x 13 inches tall x 8 3/4 inches deep. One saddlebag sidecase carries motorcycle equipment and the other carries our personal “stuff”. We also have a top case which is supposedly 2.45 cubic feet or carries 5 gallons (which is a really stupid way to measure space because we aren’t going to be carrying gallons of anything up there). When you motorcycle you also have helmets, protective clothing, sun screen, hat or cap (for the serious helmet hair) and other items I’m probably forgetting. In the past we have brought camping equipment like tent, sleeping bags, therma-rests, cooking gear, etc., but that was a different bike for a different experience. For this trip across country we will be moteling all the way.
The packing list also includes toiletries and WATER. We have a hiker’s camel-bak water pack which we fill up and Arlo wears so that we can both get to the spout as we travel. Also to keep cool we bring bandanas which we get wet and tie around our necks and vests made of some material that holds water but allows air to pass through which evaporates the water and keeps the person wearing the vest cool. The vests were very helpful one summer as we drove through Death Valley, Arizona, and New Mexico in 100+ degree heat.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Mississippi Bound
Friday, June 26, 2009
Just 8 days till we head out on the motorcycle for our first look at Jackson, Mississippi. Arlo (not my husband's real name--I changed it to protect his good name) and I have been doing research on Mississippi and I really want to like Mississippi. Working on my genealogy (a big thing in the South) I have discovered one line on my dad’s side that had several direct ancestors who were either born or died in Mississippi. My great grandfather was born in Sunflower County and that name itself makes me like the place. (I'm imagining sunflowers growing up to the sky with big beautiful blossoms of full golden petals and centers full of seeds.) His grandparents both died and were buried in Itawamba County (now Lee County) Mississippi. Lee County is where Tupelo, childhood home of Elvis Presley, is located. I’m grasping here at some sort of connection, but these airy illusory tendrils make it interesting. Putting aside the thought of Elvis, having the opportunity to do some archival genealogcial research sounds most thrilling to me. (If you are yawning at the thought of archival genealogical research, you represent the majority of people, and that’s fine.) Tied into genealogy is the excitement of Southern historical research in general. I won’t begin to touch the depth of knowledge, intuitive understanding, or unique perspective Southern historians have already plumbed. I will just work for my own pleasure and edification. For me, that will be worthwhile.
Another feature which makes Mississippi desirable is the low cost of living, especially when compared with Seattle where you must offer up your first born to buy a house. Here transportation costs, restaurants, entertainment--all things of life are muy caro. With technological advances even in Mississippi (oops, that would be a negative stereotype popping out like a bad zit) I have been able to check Craig’s List and store advertisements and read the newspaper, The Jackson Free Press and The Clarion Ledger, which allow me to see how much things are going for--let me tell you, LOTS less. Our pocketbooks will be happy with this new living arrangement as they won’t be parting with their contents so quickly or so completely.
Blues, oh man, I’m looking forward to some good delta blues. I’m looking forward to some gravelly voices and some blues chords that squeeze my heart. Maybe I’ll take up guitar again. One caveat has been warnings that the best blues clubs are a little dangerous. What does that mean? Dangerous like a snake pit? Dangerous like everyone’s packing a gun? I’m from downtown Seattle. We walk everywhere. We can go to most clubs without a care. (Some hip-hop and rap clubs get a bit snarly with an occasional shooting, but we don’t like hip-hop or rap so that doesn’t affect us except for the bad p.r.) I’ll really be singing the blues if I don’t feel safe going to a blues club when I’m living in the heart of bluesville.
A really big reason I want to like Mississippi is that I don’t want to be perceived as some Northwestern liberal who passes judgment on everyone and everything Southern. The idea that all Southerners are ignorant gun-toting racists, Antebellum wannabes, fundamental and evangelical Christian bigots, throwbacks to a less enlightened time and place is common. There. I’ve said what people have said to me. I’ve stated the dominant Northern and Northwestern prejudice of the South. And what are these prejudicial beliefs based on? Aren’t they based on events decades old? Aren’t they based on our own ignorance of the modern South? That’s what I intend to find out. I bought and read a book called, From Manhattan to Mississippi A New Yorker Falls in Love with the South by Daisy Karam-Read. Much to her surprise, Daisy fell in love with a “Southern gentleman”. They married and she moved to Biloxi. The book is full of idyllic descriptions of southern gentility, proud history, and elegance; of food, etiquette, and conversation; of laid back attitudes, southern drawls, and southern women’s beauty. So the book lacked depth. It didn’t reveal anything about the poverty of a large percentage of people. Nothing about the dismal education statistics. It didn’t consider any of the black population (at least that I could tell). It didn’t even talk about the blues (but maybe Daisy doesn’t like blues). Would I be able to ignore such seemingly “in your face” elements of this southern world? Maybe if I never set foot outside of a lily-white suburb or closed my eyes if I did go out of the perimeters of whiteness; or maybe there is a drink--the mint julep or something--that acts as an oblivion elixir. See, I’m getting edgy and worried and prejudiced. All the things I hope to avoid.
The other worry I have is the weather. Ok, so Seattle weather drips most of the time. I take that back--it drips some of the time. Yeah, we have clouds but we also have sunshine. Our “liquid sunshine” occurs frequently, but rarely does it deluge us day after day after day. Mississippi is experiencing a heat wave. Since I’ve been observing their weather, Mississippi daytime high temperatures have ranged from 85 to 100. That’s so much hotter than our 65 to 73 degree days. Not to mention humidity, though they are speaking of drought conditions right now. Sounds like life in an air conditioned environment to me. When they speak of “front porch” hospitality, they surely can’t mean in that heat! But what really worries me is the possibility of hurricanes. That Katrina bitch was out of control! Jackson is further North than the Gulf Coast, so maybe it’s not as seriously impacted by the demonic forces of hurricanes. I suppose someone coming to Seattle could worry about an earthquake or a volcanic eruption, but those are much rarer occurrences than hurricanes, which, if I remember my science classes in 6th and 9th grades have a season every year.
Laying a few of my concerns out kind of makes me feel better. Getting there, observing for myself--that will be the real test. Nothing like an honest experience, and I will try to keep my prejudices at bay. Besides, I need to focus on our journey, the motorcycle ride across much of the U.S. which will begin July 4, Independence Day.
Just 8 days till we head out on the motorcycle for our first look at Jackson, Mississippi. Arlo (not my husband's real name--I changed it to protect his good name) and I have been doing research on Mississippi and I really want to like Mississippi. Working on my genealogy (a big thing in the South) I have discovered one line on my dad’s side that had several direct ancestors who were either born or died in Mississippi. My great grandfather was born in Sunflower County and that name itself makes me like the place. (I'm imagining sunflowers growing up to the sky with big beautiful blossoms of full golden petals and centers full of seeds.) His grandparents both died and were buried in Itawamba County (now Lee County) Mississippi. Lee County is where Tupelo, childhood home of Elvis Presley, is located. I’m grasping here at some sort of connection, but these airy illusory tendrils make it interesting. Putting aside the thought of Elvis, having the opportunity to do some archival genealogcial research sounds most thrilling to me. (If you are yawning at the thought of archival genealogical research, you represent the majority of people, and that’s fine.) Tied into genealogy is the excitement of Southern historical research in general. I won’t begin to touch the depth of knowledge, intuitive understanding, or unique perspective Southern historians have already plumbed. I will just work for my own pleasure and edification. For me, that will be worthwhile.
Another feature which makes Mississippi desirable is the low cost of living, especially when compared with Seattle where you must offer up your first born to buy a house. Here transportation costs, restaurants, entertainment--all things of life are muy caro. With technological advances even in Mississippi (oops, that would be a negative stereotype popping out like a bad zit) I have been able to check Craig’s List and store advertisements and read the newspaper, The Jackson Free Press and The Clarion Ledger, which allow me to see how much things are going for--let me tell you, LOTS less. Our pocketbooks will be happy with this new living arrangement as they won’t be parting with their contents so quickly or so completely.
Blues, oh man, I’m looking forward to some good delta blues. I’m looking forward to some gravelly voices and some blues chords that squeeze my heart. Maybe I’ll take up guitar again. One caveat has been warnings that the best blues clubs are a little dangerous. What does that mean? Dangerous like a snake pit? Dangerous like everyone’s packing a gun? I’m from downtown Seattle. We walk everywhere. We can go to most clubs without a care. (Some hip-hop and rap clubs get a bit snarly with an occasional shooting, but we don’t like hip-hop or rap so that doesn’t affect us except for the bad p.r.) I’ll really be singing the blues if I don’t feel safe going to a blues club when I’m living in the heart of bluesville.
A really big reason I want to like Mississippi is that I don’t want to be perceived as some Northwestern liberal who passes judgment on everyone and everything Southern. The idea that all Southerners are ignorant gun-toting racists, Antebellum wannabes, fundamental and evangelical Christian bigots, throwbacks to a less enlightened time and place is common. There. I’ve said what people have said to me. I’ve stated the dominant Northern and Northwestern prejudice of the South. And what are these prejudicial beliefs based on? Aren’t they based on events decades old? Aren’t they based on our own ignorance of the modern South? That’s what I intend to find out. I bought and read a book called, From Manhattan to Mississippi A New Yorker Falls in Love with the South by Daisy Karam-Read. Much to her surprise, Daisy fell in love with a “Southern gentleman”. They married and she moved to Biloxi. The book is full of idyllic descriptions of southern gentility, proud history, and elegance; of food, etiquette, and conversation; of laid back attitudes, southern drawls, and southern women’s beauty. So the book lacked depth. It didn’t reveal anything about the poverty of a large percentage of people. Nothing about the dismal education statistics. It didn’t consider any of the black population (at least that I could tell). It didn’t even talk about the blues (but maybe Daisy doesn’t like blues). Would I be able to ignore such seemingly “in your face” elements of this southern world? Maybe if I never set foot outside of a lily-white suburb or closed my eyes if I did go out of the perimeters of whiteness; or maybe there is a drink--the mint julep or something--that acts as an oblivion elixir. See, I’m getting edgy and worried and prejudiced. All the things I hope to avoid.
The other worry I have is the weather. Ok, so Seattle weather drips most of the time. I take that back--it drips some of the time. Yeah, we have clouds but we also have sunshine. Our “liquid sunshine” occurs frequently, but rarely does it deluge us day after day after day. Mississippi is experiencing a heat wave. Since I’ve been observing their weather, Mississippi daytime high temperatures have ranged from 85 to 100. That’s so much hotter than our 65 to 73 degree days. Not to mention humidity, though they are speaking of drought conditions right now. Sounds like life in an air conditioned environment to me. When they speak of “front porch” hospitality, they surely can’t mean in that heat! But what really worries me is the possibility of hurricanes. That Katrina bitch was out of control! Jackson is further North than the Gulf Coast, so maybe it’s not as seriously impacted by the demonic forces of hurricanes. I suppose someone coming to Seattle could worry about an earthquake or a volcanic eruption, but those are much rarer occurrences than hurricanes, which, if I remember my science classes in 6th and 9th grades have a season every year.
Laying a few of my concerns out kind of makes me feel better. Getting there, observing for myself--that will be the real test. Nothing like an honest experience, and I will try to keep my prejudices at bay. Besides, I need to focus on our journey, the motorcycle ride across much of the U.S. which will begin July 4, Independence Day.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
NYC Midnight Madness Short Story Contest
Please enjoy the following short story that is my entry into the NYC Midnight Madness 2009 Short Story Challenge. Each participant is assigned a genre and a topic. My genre was comedy and the topic guns. Feel free to comment. Here goes…
BAB’S INHERITANCE
By
Janelle Kingsley
SYNOPSIS: Though Babs babbles, her partner Sukey doesn’t really sulk when they receive information that Babs has inherited something from her crazy old Uncle Bart. A visit to a psychic reveals nothing, but once the objects Babs inherits arrive, her creative juices begin to flow while Sukey risks her job to research the value of the inheritance.
Babs was literally dragging Sukey by the arm to the door.
“You promised, Sukey. You really did.” Babs hated to beg, but when Sukey got stubborn, she was nearly immoveable. In most respects though, Babs and Sukey were perfect partners.
“But I never figured you’d go through with it. I just don’t believe in the supernatural and you can’t make me.” Sukey wasn’t angry, but she could not comprehend how Babs could be so gullible. Babs was forever bringing home crazy schemes to make a million dollars or some natural remedy for a non-existent ailment or a numerology prediction.
“Ok, let this be a fun activity, like getting your nails done.” Babs coaxed and Sukey relaxed her resistance a bit.
“Ok,” Sukey replied relenting, “but you can’t expect me to believe anything some charlatan psychic has to say.”
“I don’t expect you to believe it,” Babs said quickly. “I know you won’t believe it, but I want you there really, to help me remember the session because sometimes psychics speak in cryptic riddles or messages. It takes real smarts to figure out what they mean.”
Sukey rolled her eyes at that statement but chose not to respond. Instead she asked, “And by the way, what is it you want to find out? Something about an old dead uncle?”
“Well, it’s really my mom’s uncle, this old, at least 100 year old coot who lives, I mean lived, somewhere in Arkansas or Kansas—I get those two places mixed up. He was like this eccentric old guy that the whole family was afraid of but supposedly had some secret that was worth millions.”
“And you think a psychic will connect with this dead guy. How much are you paying for this?”
The session with the psychic lasted just short of an hour during which time he revealed that Sukey only had 8 toes owing to a fetal defect in which her 2nd and 3rd toes on both feet had never fully separated. While the toe bones were separate, a webbing of skin connected them.
Sukey suspected Babs had somehow informed him of her condition. “When you made the appointment, what information did you give him?”
Babs, however, protested strongly. “Sukey, the guy doesn’t even know our names. How could he do any research on us if he doesn’t know our names?”
“Well, he could have used caller ID to get our names and do research from that.” They mutually decided to drop the subject.
Besides the amazing revelation about Sukey’s toes, they also learned that great Uncle Bart had died in a nursing home in Kansas. His spirit was very strong; he wanted Babs to have something. The message included the words knots and shots and his spirit, according to the psychic, would not rest until Babs had the “something” which had something to do with the knots and shots.
“Knots and shots,” Babs mused. “What do you suppose it means, Sukey? Uncle Bart was so insistent that this message get through.”
Sukey was driving them back from Mercer Island where the psychic lived in an upscale neighborhood with a beautiful view of Lake Washington, which, if she really thought about it didn’t jive with her concept of scheming dishonest charlatans. Or maybe it did, but just not charlatans of that type. She pulled into their Belltown condo’s alley and down the ramp to the garage.
Though Sukey wasn’t one of the newbie’s or the old-timers at Microsoft, her 12 years had afforded her a certain amount of financial security. Head of a design team, Sukey worked long hours. When she met Babs six years ago at a cultural festival at Seattle Center, they’d hit it off right away. Babs worked for the city organizing use of the Center House for cultural events. Shortly after they met Babs moved in with Sukey and they had been happily together ever since. Sukey tolerated Babs’ forays into “short term insanity” as she called it, when Babs became convinced in “the something”, like the healing power of dandelion tea or the predictive ability of palm readers, if Babs didn’t take it too seriously. Babs had been babbling (and it was unfortunate that her name was Babs and she did babble) about this Uncle and seeing a psychic for about a month since she had received legal notification that she was the sole heir of Bartholomew McGill and she would be receiving a box of his effects soon.
“Perhaps this mystery box will give us the answer,” Sukey replied as she pulled the BMW gracefully into her parking spot.
Late the next afternoon, when Babs returned from work she found in front of their door a box marked Barbara Adler. After she unlocked and opened the door, she bent down to pick it up, but for a small box it was very heavy. Finally, she maneuvered it onto the countertop of the kitchen. Holding her breath, she slit the taped center and sealed edges of the box and slowly opened the flaps. Inside was a rectangular shaped object, about 12 by 18 inches wrapped in skeins of yarn. Babs was still working on winding the yarn from the box into balls when Sukey got home.
“This is some serious wrapping,” was all Sukey said, as she set to work helping Babs wind yarn. It took another 30 minutes to remove and wind all the yarn, all the while Babs talked about what kind of yarn it was.
“Do you suppose the yarn has any value? I mean, maybe it’s really old and rare. Is there such a thing as antique yarn? What do you think is the most valuable yarn?” Babs rattled on; whatever came into her mind became a verbalized thought. But when the surface of the box began to appear she became quiet. The box was inlaid with mother of pearl. The design looked like an insignia or crest of some sort. The highly polished wood into which the mother of pearl was set looked quite exotic with many color grains. The box was locked.
“Where the hell’s the key?” Babs asked looking further into the box. The other items in the box appeared to be rocks which was why it was so heavy. She and Sukey removed each rock one by one, turning each over searching for a key that might be taped to one side. Sukey came upon a fake rock…a plastic rock that had a small button on the bottom. She pushed it and a drawer opened to reveal a tiny silver key inside.
“I found it,” she announced. Babs took it from her and inserted it slowly into the box’s lock.
“My stomach is in knots,” she said. “This box with all this yarn and rocks has convinced me, Uncle Bart was really nuts. What if there’s a shrunken head in here?”
“Come on, Babs, we’ve gone this far. Let’s see what’s in it.”
She turned the key, lifted the lid and looked down at two odd but also old looking pistols.
“What is this? What kind of stupid inheritance is this?” Babs was in a state of total disbelief.
“Looks like a pair of dueling pistols, but like really weird ones. They’ve got a scroll design on the sides which makes them kind of pretty, as guns go.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I HATE guns. You know that.” Babs pouted a bit. “I’ll take the damn yarn and knit me a sweater and you can learn to shoot the guns if you want.”
“Well, if they are antique, you don’t want to shoot them. That would bring down their value. Besides, they might backfire.”
“Ok, ok, but what am I going to do with this?” Babs was completely disillusioned. She looked into the box for something more. “This is just so disappointing.”
“Hey, you’ve got some yarn there. Listen,“ Sukey put her arm around Babs, “it’s not a big deal. I’ll look into the history of the guns. It might be interesting.” Babs seemed unconvinced. Sukey pulled her face close, “Really,“ she said, “you have nothing more or less than you had before, so don’t let it get you down.”
They stood together for a while looking at the box and then Sukey said, “Let’s go get our nails done, ok?”
Over the next week Babs decided to design something with the yarn. Gauging the weight of the yarn, she decided to use small needles to create a holster for the guns. “Why not?” she thought. “Who doesn’t need a knitted holster?” She measured the pistol’s barrel and the handle. She looked at some holster designs on line. They were all made of leather. Not a single knitted holster.
“There you go,” she said emphatically to herself, “an entirely new market.” So she drew up her plan. The knitted holster took less than 5 hours to make. She slipped one of Uncle Bart’s guns into the holster and she liked the way it looked and felt. Babs could see all sorts of possibilities with the design. Beadwork could be added for truly designer holsters. Monograms. The knit could be striped or intarsia or… gosh, the possibilities were limitless.
She fitted the first holster to a knitted belt she’d made for Sukey for Christmas a few years ago. When Sukey came home, Babs made her try it on.
“Wow. This is nice, babe. Lightweight. The pistol slides in and out easily. How’d you make that happen? It would be pretty funny to have some cowgirl trying to whip out her pistol but it snags and gets stuck,” Sukey said laughing.
“I thought about that which is why it’s so tightly knit,” Babs informed her. “Can you see the possibilities for this? I would love to market holsters at Nordstrom’s and Neiman Marcus. “ Babs had stars in her eyes imagining it all. “You know what I should do? I’ve heard this really works, too. You make a prototype, the very best item you can create, and then send it to a high profile celebrity. I’m thinking Angelina Jolie. Wouldn’t that be great if Angelina Jolie wore one of my knitted holsters, and, I suppose, she’d have to have a gun in it, to the Academy Awards? You know how they do that whole ‘look who’s wearing what designer’s clothes’ runway thing before the awards ceremony begins? And she’d step up to the microphone and announce to the world that she was wearing a Versace gown with a Babs Adler holster and oh…a squirt gun by Mattel, because I couldn’t possibly throw Uncle Bart’s guns.” Babs and Sukey began to laugh at the thought, but Babs was excited.
She became obsessed with designing knitted holsters.
After she’d used up all the yarn that had been wound around the pistol box, she trotted down to the yarn store for more yarn, for exotic beads and design inspirations. By the end of the next week Babs had created 12 holsters and had plans for a book entitled One Skein Holsters as Gifts. She’d photographed her designs with Sukey as her model. “These photos will look great on the website I’m going to set up,” she told Sukey. “The Babs Adler Holsters website.”
Though less consumed by her “mission” than Babs, Sukey had been researching the guns. These seemed to be both old and uncommon. Few people at Microsoft were gun aficionados, however Daniel Butler, a security guard Sukey had met, knew something about pistols. Microsoft had tight security with “idea theft” being what it was, but Sukey thought she could smuggle them in to get Daniel’s opinion.
Sukey wrapped the box in a blanket and put it in the trunk. She had no worries until while driving to the Redmond campus she suddenly panicked. “My God,” she said aloud, “are those considered concealed weapons? Am I breaking the law? Will they take me to jail? I can’t hold down a responsible job if I’m a felon.”
Crossing Lake Washington Sukey began to hyperventilate. By the I405 exit she was so light-headed she knew she had to pull over. With the car in park Sukey opened the door and put her head between her legs. She breathed deeply and slowly, focusing only on her breathing, which was why she didn’t notice the state patrol car pull up behind her. She didn’t hear the door open or see the trooper getting out.
“You ok ma’am?” the trooper asked bending down to look at Sukey’s face.
“I’m fine,” Sukey replied and promptly fainted.
When Sukey came too, she was being strapped onto a gurney and put into an ambulance. Various monitoring devices were attached to her.
“What’s happening?” she asked as her former panic-stricken state returned quickly. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ve got to…I’ve…” Realizing if she said anything about the guns she’d really have some troubles, Sukey decided to make the best of it, especially since her arms were strapped to her sides.
By the time she arrived at the emergency room of the hospital she had calmed down considerably. What she really wondered was where her car was? They wouldn’t leave it along the interstate would they?
It took four hours to convince the ER physicians that she was fine and only suffering from a panic attack during which time Babs got a ride to the Washington State Patrol office to pick up the car (which hadn’t been searched) and then rescue Sukey from the hospital.
“The thought that I might be carrying concealed weapons, that’s what got me,” Sukey explained as they drove home.
“Well, don’t worry about it. I don’t care what kind of guns they are or if they have any value. I don’t really like guns, but I do like holsters AND I’ve got a real potential buyer for my holsters!”
“You do?” Sukey asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I do. You know that great little shop down on 1st with all the antiques and handmade goods—Marjorie’s? She wants to take 10 of them on consignment. Isn’t that fantastic?”
Sukey smiled. “You know what? That Uncle Bart of yours was a strange guy, but he sure got you going, didn’t he? You would never have thought to knit a holster if you hadn’t inherited the guns.”
Babs blurted out, “Hey, wait a sec. Knit—knots gun—shots. That’s what the psychic said, remember?”
“I don’t know, Babs. You’re just giving some random words a meaning they don’t really have.”
“Yes, Sukey, but what about your toes? How did the psychic know about them? You’ve never adequately explained that to me.”
At home, Sukey took the box of guns out of her trunk and put them on the top shelf of the closet where she hoped no police officer would find them and consider them to be concealed weapons.
Babs continued to turn out knitted holsters even sending one off to Angelina Jolie hoping she’d wear it to some movie awards event.
BAB’S INHERITANCE
By
Janelle Kingsley
SYNOPSIS: Though Babs babbles, her partner Sukey doesn’t really sulk when they receive information that Babs has inherited something from her crazy old Uncle Bart. A visit to a psychic reveals nothing, but once the objects Babs inherits arrive, her creative juices begin to flow while Sukey risks her job to research the value of the inheritance.
Babs was literally dragging Sukey by the arm to the door.
“You promised, Sukey. You really did.” Babs hated to beg, but when Sukey got stubborn, she was nearly immoveable. In most respects though, Babs and Sukey were perfect partners.
“But I never figured you’d go through with it. I just don’t believe in the supernatural and you can’t make me.” Sukey wasn’t angry, but she could not comprehend how Babs could be so gullible. Babs was forever bringing home crazy schemes to make a million dollars or some natural remedy for a non-existent ailment or a numerology prediction.
“Ok, let this be a fun activity, like getting your nails done.” Babs coaxed and Sukey relaxed her resistance a bit.
“Ok,” Sukey replied relenting, “but you can’t expect me to believe anything some charlatan psychic has to say.”
“I don’t expect you to believe it,” Babs said quickly. “I know you won’t believe it, but I want you there really, to help me remember the session because sometimes psychics speak in cryptic riddles or messages. It takes real smarts to figure out what they mean.”
Sukey rolled her eyes at that statement but chose not to respond. Instead she asked, “And by the way, what is it you want to find out? Something about an old dead uncle?”
“Well, it’s really my mom’s uncle, this old, at least 100 year old coot who lives, I mean lived, somewhere in Arkansas or Kansas—I get those two places mixed up. He was like this eccentric old guy that the whole family was afraid of but supposedly had some secret that was worth millions.”
“And you think a psychic will connect with this dead guy. How much are you paying for this?”
The session with the psychic lasted just short of an hour during which time he revealed that Sukey only had 8 toes owing to a fetal defect in which her 2nd and 3rd toes on both feet had never fully separated. While the toe bones were separate, a webbing of skin connected them.
Sukey suspected Babs had somehow informed him of her condition. “When you made the appointment, what information did you give him?”
Babs, however, protested strongly. “Sukey, the guy doesn’t even know our names. How could he do any research on us if he doesn’t know our names?”
“Well, he could have used caller ID to get our names and do research from that.” They mutually decided to drop the subject.
Besides the amazing revelation about Sukey’s toes, they also learned that great Uncle Bart had died in a nursing home in Kansas. His spirit was very strong; he wanted Babs to have something. The message included the words knots and shots and his spirit, according to the psychic, would not rest until Babs had the “something” which had something to do with the knots and shots.
“Knots and shots,” Babs mused. “What do you suppose it means, Sukey? Uncle Bart was so insistent that this message get through.”
Sukey was driving them back from Mercer Island where the psychic lived in an upscale neighborhood with a beautiful view of Lake Washington, which, if she really thought about it didn’t jive with her concept of scheming dishonest charlatans. Or maybe it did, but just not charlatans of that type. She pulled into their Belltown condo’s alley and down the ramp to the garage.
Though Sukey wasn’t one of the newbie’s or the old-timers at Microsoft, her 12 years had afforded her a certain amount of financial security. Head of a design team, Sukey worked long hours. When she met Babs six years ago at a cultural festival at Seattle Center, they’d hit it off right away. Babs worked for the city organizing use of the Center House for cultural events. Shortly after they met Babs moved in with Sukey and they had been happily together ever since. Sukey tolerated Babs’ forays into “short term insanity” as she called it, when Babs became convinced in “the something”, like the healing power of dandelion tea or the predictive ability of palm readers, if Babs didn’t take it too seriously. Babs had been babbling (and it was unfortunate that her name was Babs and she did babble) about this Uncle and seeing a psychic for about a month since she had received legal notification that she was the sole heir of Bartholomew McGill and she would be receiving a box of his effects soon.
“Perhaps this mystery box will give us the answer,” Sukey replied as she pulled the BMW gracefully into her parking spot.
Late the next afternoon, when Babs returned from work she found in front of their door a box marked Barbara Adler. After she unlocked and opened the door, she bent down to pick it up, but for a small box it was very heavy. Finally, she maneuvered it onto the countertop of the kitchen. Holding her breath, she slit the taped center and sealed edges of the box and slowly opened the flaps. Inside was a rectangular shaped object, about 12 by 18 inches wrapped in skeins of yarn. Babs was still working on winding the yarn from the box into balls when Sukey got home.
“This is some serious wrapping,” was all Sukey said, as she set to work helping Babs wind yarn. It took another 30 minutes to remove and wind all the yarn, all the while Babs talked about what kind of yarn it was.
“Do you suppose the yarn has any value? I mean, maybe it’s really old and rare. Is there such a thing as antique yarn? What do you think is the most valuable yarn?” Babs rattled on; whatever came into her mind became a verbalized thought. But when the surface of the box began to appear she became quiet. The box was inlaid with mother of pearl. The design looked like an insignia or crest of some sort. The highly polished wood into which the mother of pearl was set looked quite exotic with many color grains. The box was locked.
“Where the hell’s the key?” Babs asked looking further into the box. The other items in the box appeared to be rocks which was why it was so heavy. She and Sukey removed each rock one by one, turning each over searching for a key that might be taped to one side. Sukey came upon a fake rock…a plastic rock that had a small button on the bottom. She pushed it and a drawer opened to reveal a tiny silver key inside.
“I found it,” she announced. Babs took it from her and inserted it slowly into the box’s lock.
“My stomach is in knots,” she said. “This box with all this yarn and rocks has convinced me, Uncle Bart was really nuts. What if there’s a shrunken head in here?”
“Come on, Babs, we’ve gone this far. Let’s see what’s in it.”
She turned the key, lifted the lid and looked down at two odd but also old looking pistols.
“What is this? What kind of stupid inheritance is this?” Babs was in a state of total disbelief.
“Looks like a pair of dueling pistols, but like really weird ones. They’ve got a scroll design on the sides which makes them kind of pretty, as guns go.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. I HATE guns. You know that.” Babs pouted a bit. “I’ll take the damn yarn and knit me a sweater and you can learn to shoot the guns if you want.”
“Well, if they are antique, you don’t want to shoot them. That would bring down their value. Besides, they might backfire.”
“Ok, ok, but what am I going to do with this?” Babs was completely disillusioned. She looked into the box for something more. “This is just so disappointing.”
“Hey, you’ve got some yarn there. Listen,“ Sukey put her arm around Babs, “it’s not a big deal. I’ll look into the history of the guns. It might be interesting.” Babs seemed unconvinced. Sukey pulled her face close, “Really,“ she said, “you have nothing more or less than you had before, so don’t let it get you down.”
They stood together for a while looking at the box and then Sukey said, “Let’s go get our nails done, ok?”
Over the next week Babs decided to design something with the yarn. Gauging the weight of the yarn, she decided to use small needles to create a holster for the guns. “Why not?” she thought. “Who doesn’t need a knitted holster?” She measured the pistol’s barrel and the handle. She looked at some holster designs on line. They were all made of leather. Not a single knitted holster.
“There you go,” she said emphatically to herself, “an entirely new market.” So she drew up her plan. The knitted holster took less than 5 hours to make. She slipped one of Uncle Bart’s guns into the holster and she liked the way it looked and felt. Babs could see all sorts of possibilities with the design. Beadwork could be added for truly designer holsters. Monograms. The knit could be striped or intarsia or… gosh, the possibilities were limitless.
She fitted the first holster to a knitted belt she’d made for Sukey for Christmas a few years ago. When Sukey came home, Babs made her try it on.
“Wow. This is nice, babe. Lightweight. The pistol slides in and out easily. How’d you make that happen? It would be pretty funny to have some cowgirl trying to whip out her pistol but it snags and gets stuck,” Sukey said laughing.
“I thought about that which is why it’s so tightly knit,” Babs informed her. “Can you see the possibilities for this? I would love to market holsters at Nordstrom’s and Neiman Marcus. “ Babs had stars in her eyes imagining it all. “You know what I should do? I’ve heard this really works, too. You make a prototype, the very best item you can create, and then send it to a high profile celebrity. I’m thinking Angelina Jolie. Wouldn’t that be great if Angelina Jolie wore one of my knitted holsters, and, I suppose, she’d have to have a gun in it, to the Academy Awards? You know how they do that whole ‘look who’s wearing what designer’s clothes’ runway thing before the awards ceremony begins? And she’d step up to the microphone and announce to the world that she was wearing a Versace gown with a Babs Adler holster and oh…a squirt gun by Mattel, because I couldn’t possibly throw Uncle Bart’s guns.” Babs and Sukey began to laugh at the thought, but Babs was excited.
She became obsessed with designing knitted holsters.
After she’d used up all the yarn that had been wound around the pistol box, she trotted down to the yarn store for more yarn, for exotic beads and design inspirations. By the end of the next week Babs had created 12 holsters and had plans for a book entitled One Skein Holsters as Gifts. She’d photographed her designs with Sukey as her model. “These photos will look great on the website I’m going to set up,” she told Sukey. “The Babs Adler Holsters website.”
Though less consumed by her “mission” than Babs, Sukey had been researching the guns. These seemed to be both old and uncommon. Few people at Microsoft were gun aficionados, however Daniel Butler, a security guard Sukey had met, knew something about pistols. Microsoft had tight security with “idea theft” being what it was, but Sukey thought she could smuggle them in to get Daniel’s opinion.
Sukey wrapped the box in a blanket and put it in the trunk. She had no worries until while driving to the Redmond campus she suddenly panicked. “My God,” she said aloud, “are those considered concealed weapons? Am I breaking the law? Will they take me to jail? I can’t hold down a responsible job if I’m a felon.”
Crossing Lake Washington Sukey began to hyperventilate. By the I405 exit she was so light-headed she knew she had to pull over. With the car in park Sukey opened the door and put her head between her legs. She breathed deeply and slowly, focusing only on her breathing, which was why she didn’t notice the state patrol car pull up behind her. She didn’t hear the door open or see the trooper getting out.
“You ok ma’am?” the trooper asked bending down to look at Sukey’s face.
“I’m fine,” Sukey replied and promptly fainted.
When Sukey came too, she was being strapped onto a gurney and put into an ambulance. Various monitoring devices were attached to her.
“What’s happening?” she asked as her former panic-stricken state returned quickly. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ve got to…I’ve…” Realizing if she said anything about the guns she’d really have some troubles, Sukey decided to make the best of it, especially since her arms were strapped to her sides.
By the time she arrived at the emergency room of the hospital she had calmed down considerably. What she really wondered was where her car was? They wouldn’t leave it along the interstate would they?
It took four hours to convince the ER physicians that she was fine and only suffering from a panic attack during which time Babs got a ride to the Washington State Patrol office to pick up the car (which hadn’t been searched) and then rescue Sukey from the hospital.
“The thought that I might be carrying concealed weapons, that’s what got me,” Sukey explained as they drove home.
“Well, don’t worry about it. I don’t care what kind of guns they are or if they have any value. I don’t really like guns, but I do like holsters AND I’ve got a real potential buyer for my holsters!”
“You do?” Sukey asked in disbelief.
“Yes, I do. You know that great little shop down on 1st with all the antiques and handmade goods—Marjorie’s? She wants to take 10 of them on consignment. Isn’t that fantastic?”
Sukey smiled. “You know what? That Uncle Bart of yours was a strange guy, but he sure got you going, didn’t he? You would never have thought to knit a holster if you hadn’t inherited the guns.”
Babs blurted out, “Hey, wait a sec. Knit—knots gun—shots. That’s what the psychic said, remember?”
“I don’t know, Babs. You’re just giving some random words a meaning they don’t really have.”
“Yes, Sukey, but what about your toes? How did the psychic know about them? You’ve never adequately explained that to me.”
At home, Sukey took the box of guns out of her trunk and put them on the top shelf of the closet where she hoped no police officer would find them and consider them to be concealed weapons.
Babs continued to turn out knitted holsters even sending one off to Angelina Jolie hoping she’d wear it to some movie awards event.
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