Allen Simco - Random Thoughts On A Driving Walkabout

Random Thoughts on a 3,000 Miles Driving Walkabout - by Allen Simco (Buddy Allen Simco)
Email: budrickvonallen@yahoo.com
Random Thoughts on a 3,000 Driving Walkabout

By Allen Simco
All the way, from San Diego to Seattle in late April 2005, from the Mexican border to
the Canadian border, the cost of gasoline was within a nickel of $2.51 per gallon. The
first significant price variation for fuel was in Wyoming. After turning east in Seattle,
having first visited British Columbia, I drove through Oregon, Idaho, Montana,
Wyoming, Colorado, and then on to eastern Kansas. In Topeka, regular gas was $2.00 per
gallon in Early May, about the same as Wyoming fuel prices.
The cost of living is lower in Topeka, as compared to San Diego, in terms of
rents. Real estate prices range from one-half to two-thirds less than California prices, and
20% less for gas, but groceries are much higher. A sandwich in Topeka costs 10-20%
more than similar fare in California, at least at the southern end of the scale to which I
have become expert. Higher food costs probably represent additional shipping costs,
considering that Kansas is the geographic center of the lower forty-eight. Also, the global
new world order corporate controller types have devised methods to ensure increased
profits to their oil-based interests by shipping produce from South America to California,
and then on to Kansas where today, in late May, I can purchase a single orange in Topeka
for 70 cents! Meanwhile, California citrus groves have systematically been destroyed in
favor of parking lots and malls. This has the ultimate effect of allowing the privilege of
purchasing an orange for nearly a dollar instead of a few cents, an oil-inflated price
Page 1 of 22
resulting from being shipped half way around the world. One is lucky to find the orange
not desiccated when peeled, from too many days in transit, an experience not uncommon.
Few things are as disappointing as a juiceless orange – at any price.
The drive from San Diego to Vancouver, British Columbia was probably as near
perfect as there ever will be. It was divided between day and night driving during mid-
week. I set the cruise control at 59 mph and stayed in the right lane. Other than exiting for
gas or for rest stops, I probably touched the brake pedal no more than three or four times
in over a thousand miles. There was the additional benefit of discovering the joy of
driving without shoes and with legs fully extended, with small pillows strategically
wedged between me and the door, on top of the arm and elbow rest, behind the lower
back, and behind my neck. I was driving the living room couch and viewing the
landscape through a picture window.
In central California I encountered rain near Stockton, which continued until well
past Sacramento. I cruised downtown Stockton after stopping for gas and was surprised
that it appeared to be reasonably lively and livable, which was not what I expected. Back
on the freeway I elected to stay inland on Highway 5, and bypass San Francisco and the
coastal region.
Prior to passing through Stockton I paused briefly in Fresno, impulsively exiting
the highway as I was about to bypass the city. I was curious about some of the places I
had visited almost fifty years ago, specifically 805 Weldon Avenue. This was the
residence of a former stepfather - Bob Robinson. He had moved his real estate business to
Fresno in the 1950s - with his father, George Robinson - from Topeka, Kansas via Palo
Alto, California. Bob was the only real father figure in my life, if only for a brief period
between 1945 and 1949. Still, these were formative years for me. Like a duckling, I was
imprinted. Eight years later, as a young marine, I found myself stationed in Southern
California in 1957 and 1958 near the El Toro Marine Corps Air Base in Southern
California, I occasionally made the trip north to Fresno and stayed for weekend visits
with Bob at the Weldon Avenue apartment. Later I married the girl from “back home”
(Billings, Montana) before going overseas to duty stations in Japan, the Philippines, and
Taiwan. I visited for a few days following reentry into civilian life in late 1960, then we
lost contact.
I surprised myself by quickly locating Weldon Avenue after only ten minutes, by
chance. The old residence has been well cared for, fifty years on. The coin-operated
laundry across the street, which Bob also owned, has been converted into small
apartments. I don’t know if Bob is still alive. He is not listed in any current Fresno
directory, and since nothing turned up in Internet searches, I suspect that he has by now
passed from this world, or else he is elsewhere in retirement.
Downtown Fresno gives the impression of being tired, more in a state of decline
than rehabilitation. This generalization is probably unfair, but still – an impression. By
contrast, Stockton, which I had imagined to be a more desolate city, appeared more
vibrant, progressive, and alive. Stockton appeared to be a community in ascension,
whereas Fresno appeared to be in decline.
Otherwise, other than the occasional rest stop I didn’t stop again until Redding,
California, and later again at Mount Shasta City. This was a particularly pleasant period –
just after sunrise, with lifting mists and rising pheasants from fields and roadside, when
disturbed by my passing. Several hundred miles of meditative, blissful awareness and
Page 2 of 22
little thought of anything except being tuned to my senses of the road and shifting
panorama. At each new segment the beauty of the land impressed me, and I found myself
thinking how nice it might be living here should an opportunity present itself. This
pattern kept repeating and escalating as I penetrated farther north through Oregon and
Washington.
At Mount Shasta City I stopped for a bit of a walkabout in the crisp morning air in
the downtown area, a pleasant collection of shops and businesses. After a short tour
through some of the residential areas, I was back on I-5 headed north.
A word or two about designated rest stops: I give thanks for them to the Powers
That Be who were responsible for their construction! These useful and generally well-
maintained way-stations at intervals rarely more than fifty or seventy miles apart for the
entire I-5 San Diego to Canada route, although less frequently encountered throughout
the interior states. These were places to pull over and sleep, with the added security of
fellow travelers and truckers, not to mention the convenience of usually heated facilities
and a place to brush one’s teeth. There was a time when I regarded such amenities as
places for sissies, but no longer. I now appreciate them. Perhaps I have become a sissy. If
so, I don’t mind.
I recall the ways of the open road in the era of Route 66 and tee-pee style motels,
when a water bag dangling from the front bumper was considered standard equipment
when venturing through the desert. I recall a period when I always seemed to be required
to stop at a particular garage in Blythe, California, when traveling from Phoenix to Los
Angeles – always with a radiator problem. This happened on three successive trips, and
was the reason I acquired a Volkswagen. No radiator to contend with, and very few
mechanical problems. Nowadays we have different issues; however, being stranded by
the side of the road today is usually less dire and of shorter duration than in bygone times.
I cannot even imagine making a transcontinental trip with a covered wagon,
although I would be more inclined to do so on horseback and with pack animals. It
staggers my mind when I contemplate that when Lewis and Clark first explored the West,
the first Europeans to see the West Coast, it was less than the span of three of my
lifetimes in the past.
Onward, to Canada: Portland seems to be an interesting, thriving metropolis, as
does Seattle and, as I later observed after returning from Canada, Spokane. However,
considering that it was nearly midnight when I arrived in Rain City, I decided to press on
the 180 miles past Seattle to the Canadian border and then to Vancouver, B.C. – stopping
just south of the border for a brief nap, and then crossing into Canada just after sunrise.
Changing US dollars to Canadian currency had been a concern since San Diego.
The teller at my San Diego bank said it would be a two-day wait for currency conversion,
which was understandable, but I was leaving on the following day. The teller had never
heard of traveler’s checks. Therefore, I withdrew $1,200 in cash and proceeded, with the
intention of making a currency exchange at a bank near the Canadian border. As it
developed, this was not convenient to do so due to the time of my passage, and I learned
from a clerk at a gas station north of Seattle that US currency is accepted throughout
Canada. It would have been prudent to exchange currency at a bank because I discovered
that although the US/Canadian exchange rate was then 1 to 1.25, the Canadian retailers
usually skimmed 10% for themselves.
Page 3 of 22
The Canadian border official didn’t appear happy to see me. On the contrary, he
was rather rude in a specific way. He asked about my destination. I said that I was going
to a retreat located at Sechelt Bay just north of Vancouver, via the Langdale Ferry. He
almost spit the word “retreat” back in my face. His voice was laden with sarcasm.
“Retreat? What is the purpose of this retreat?” I considered my options before replying.
With a tone-of-voice that implied the unspoken words of “would you believe,” I replied
that the purpose of my trip was spiritual rejuvenation. It would have been too obvious and
perhaps escalating an unpleasantness to have simply said “to retreat,” and comment that
the general purpose of a retreat is to have no purpose.
After a considerable pause, he typed at his computer. Following a cursory glance
at the heap in the back of my car, which consisted of two suitcases, a guitar, a laptop
computer, and some clothing and bedding, he asked if I would be taking everything with
me when I left Canada. I replied in the affirmative. This was not entirely true because I
had forgotten about the bag of Fuji apples in the trunk, which I had purchased in San
Diego. (The host at my destination was incredulous that I had entered Canada with San
Diego apples - when I offered her one; we immediately ate the evidence). The border
guard returned my passport and allowed me entry into Canada after I promised I would
take everything with me when I left, apparently deciding that a 65 year old white male
driving a newish Ford with California plates did not pose a considerable threat to the
citizens of Canada – at least not on that day.
A couple of days later I was discussing this with a Canadian citizen, a shopkeeper.
She said that Canadians themselves were occasionally denied reentry into Canada - and
they were citizens! I asked why. She said it could be for any reason, such as they were
not sufficiently meek, or because they may have looked the “wrong way” at their
gatekeeper. I asked what recourse did Canadians have in such circumstances. She said to
try again – another time and place. It was just a way of life.
I gathered, from overhearing some of the locals - old timers, mostly farmers -
talking together over morning coffee, that all is not well in Canada in terms of the
Canadian government’s relation with some of its citizens. It seems to be even more
adversarial in some ways than in the US - generally in relation to tax matters and making
ad hoc arbitrary demands regarding proofs and additional documentation associated with
revisiting business activities in prior years as a means of generating additional tax
revenue.
I happened to read a newspaper story about a store in North Dakota located fifteen
miles south of the Canadian border. In years past this specialty store traditionally did
about a third of its business with Canadians who drove the fifteen miles south of the
US/Canadian border. The Canadians were finding it too difficult these days to cross the
border; the news article didn’t specify which direction of travel was more difficult. The
Canadians said it now isn’t worth the hassle to drive the few miles into the US for
shopping as had long been the custom, resulting in significant impacts to many
businesses south of the border.
[Mount Soapbox: Begin Rant – Summer: 2005]
This is not the Canada of the 1970s. Recent agreements between the US and
Canada ensure that there is no longer an alternative or safe haven available for anyone
Page 4 of 22
from the US who cannot abide the new-world order of preemptive wars predicated on lies
and deception. There will be no escaping to Canada in the coming draft when middle-
aged National Guard members refuse fifth and sixth tours of duties.
Recruiting results are in decline in part due to thousands returning with
disabilities ranging from missing limbs, to exposure to toxic residue associated with the
depleted uranium used in offensive explosives, a condition generally referred to as Gulf
War Syndrome. A little discussed fact is that approximately 30% of those who served in
the first Gulf War are now deceased or permanently disabled as the result of chronic
illness and injuries.
One brave woman, Air Force Captain Joyce Riley, a nurse and veteran of the first
Gulf War, has labored tirelessly on behalf of veterans ignored for years by the VA. These
vets complained by the thousands of symptoms and conditions denied by the VA until
sufficient numbers of them died and others found themselves deteriorating physically and
financially – unable to work, unable to live.
Captain Joyce Riley spent years in the documentation of thousands of cases of
these vets, assembling facts and statistics, and probable causes of the Gulf War
Syndrome. After over a decade of work, the VA doctors finally acknowledged that there
“may be” some concern after all. What was formerly dismissed as psychosomatic and
malingering is being reconsidered in the face of thousands dying at an early age after
returning from the Gulf War, having been discharged, ignored, and forgotten. Captain
Riley struggles on, a dedicated health professional and continuing advocate for the
voiceless veterans poisoned by exposure to radioactive weapons (of mass destruction),
the deployment of which – in the first place – should be regarded as crimes against
humanity. Captain Riley, during a recent radio interview, that she recently found her
name on a terrorist watch list on a government watch site! She, an officer, a veteran, a
professional, without a criminal record, has been anonymously added to a government
terrorist watch list. Does anything believe this is anything other than payback for asking
the wrong kind of questions about unpopular issues?
I recently saw a news interview of government official responding to a question
by a reporter with the statement, “You’d better watch out. (Because you ask questions
such as you just asked) Your name may be added to a list.”
Question authority in the interest of justice and correcting wrongs, oversights and
just plain stupidity and you may be labeled an unpatriotic coward, a psychotic, or a
terrorist. A nameless, faceless, spineless functionary with the ability to add a name to a
secret list may render anyone unable to board an airline flight in a timely manner. Why?
Your opinions are not “approved” by someone who is never identified nor called to
account, often resulting in nothing more than politically motivated tactical harassment.
If someone is deemed a serious threat to fly as a passenger, then there should be
sufficient cause to arrest and charge such persons accordingly - or immediately deport
them. Otherwise, if no crime has been committed and no warrants for arrest have been
issued for specific persons, all passengers should be treated equally in terms of screening
and boarding and travel. Taken to an absurd and illogical extreme, if someone on a list
cannot be allowed to fly from point A to B, why should they be able to take a train, bus,
drive a car, or even walk – or remain “free”?
Let us not forget those who suffer from their experiences as witnesses and
participants of torture and violence on a scale not natural to being human. If they protest,
Page 5 of 22
they are branded as cowards. One forty-five year old sergeant in the army was forced to
be strapped down on a gurney and flown to a psychiatric unit after he reported what he
perceived as unlawful conduct by others in his unit (without due process or discussion).
To justify the invasion of Iraq, the president repeated the mantra “weapons of
mass destruction” - shouting it repeatedly like a man possessed, month after month.
Meanwhile in Africa, hundreds of thousands are beaten to death with rocks and clubs,
other highly effective forms of weapons of mass destruction being much in evidence, but
to no apparent concern to the US, Europe, Asia, the UN and/or regional powers. He never
mentioned prior US support of Iraq for many years in recent history, when the US
provided Iraq with many weapons in the then stated interest of regional stability. At the
time it was convenient to do so. Even so, after this tactic proved to be less than effective,
it has resulted in providing a theater for radicals where none existed before.
Fundamentalist religious crazies now have a place to focus destructive activities
in pursuit of their anticipated rewards as promised by those who have convinced them of
their delusions. Note: those “teachers” of dark, dastardly deeds usually have no intention
of doing what they advise others to do. Let someone else do the dying; they prefer their
virgins here and now.
On Memorial Day, 2005, our leader speaks of toppling two “terrorist regimes.”
No more WMDs to shout about. Never mind that Iraq had no strong ties to terrorists prior
to the invasion and, in fact, was an adversary of our current number one bad guy
(Sammy, i.e., Osama), who was then supported and supplied by US policies vis-à-vis the
USSR in Afghanistan. Never mind that many other nations harbor more active terrorists
whose sworn national enemy is the US – such as Saudi Arabia, Yemen, North Korea (an
abbreviated list). If Iraq proved to have weak or no links to terrorists prior to the invasion,
that can no longer be said. Terrorists subsequently flocked to Iraq to prosecute their
demented visions.
There is no shortage of those who hate the US. The situation is exacerbated by the
fact that our country has bases in dozens of countries worldwide, and has for over fifty
years. How would we feel if our country were occupied by a foreign power - for
generations on end?
Murders and assassinations are now routine government procedures – some
carried out by unmanned drone aircraft, out in the open, and recognized as legitimate
activities by a government which no longer discerns any distinction between the means
and the ends. Personal rights won by the hard-fought sacrifices of our parents and
grandparents are systematically being rescinded in the names of security and order, at the
cost of the overused but apparently little understood words of liberty and freedom
(another overused and little understood word is “intelligence”). The values of the post
World War II generation as once taught in our public schools are no longer recognized.
Instead, they are regarded as quaint, such as once commonly shared views about torture,
as expressed by the US Attorney General when referencing long accepted world
standards such as the Geneva Accords.
When these issues are raised for discussion, the responding mantra is they are all
lies. Credibility is denied anyone who cites evidence of torture, abuse, and unlawful
detention of significant numbers of people who have never been terrorists, but have no
access to due process to plead their case. If innocents are rounded up with the bad guys,
that’s too bad. Anyone who thinks or says otherwise is accused of being unpatriotic. You
Page 6 of 22
must not dissent. If you do, you are unpatriotic. You may not be able to fly on an airplane
(but we won’t arrest you because you have not been charged with a crime). You may not
be able to work. You may not be able to eat. You might at some future time be given a
ticket to one of the various detention centers kept in readiness for malcontents and other
elements of the great unwashed, because “someone” has placed your name on a list as
being a terrorist – no matter if it is truth or fiction. Nothing has to be proved. No matter
that possibly up to half to two-thirds of those detained are thought to be entirely innocent.
No more of this “innocent until proven guilty” nonsense. These proponents of the New
World Order wrap themselves in a flag, pretend to value liberty and disdain big
government, but act contrary to their stated values and purported objectives, probably
more often in ignorance than fundamentalist fervor or greed. They make the nation and
world a more dangerous place as the result of their shortsighted actions, and act as if the
Constitution of the United States was a quaint idea.
The president thought the war could be fought and won on the cheap – with
troops being greeted by flower-throwing citizens of Iraq. Surprise! He even assured the
conservative Pat Robertson that there would be few casualties. Yet, US forces were
unable to secure perimeters to protect and secure weapons depots, or national treasures –
resulting in providing adversaries with additional means to prosecute their agenda. They
were able to take possession of munitions caches and valuable museum artifacts – as
good as cash to purchase more munitions.
You do not extinguish a fire by throwing gasoline at it. But that is what is
happening. Many of those passing themselves off as our so-called leaders are doing much
the same as this. They will say anything as long as they have an opportunity to assume
power and make money with a privatized open-ended war effort and to promote
undeclared agendas of service to the corporate world-state. Usually this is done while
invoking words such as freedom, patriotism, and national security while restricting
freedom with counterproductive legislature and ceding unlimited power to one
individual. In so doing they are making a mockery of national security, the Constitution
and the Bill of Rights in acting in ways that erode the ideals upon which this nation was
modeled. This must please our enemies to no end.
I believe that Ralph Nader was correct when he stated there is very little
difference between Democrats and Republicans. It was under former president Clinton
that his attorney general Reno could not serve a routine arrest warrant for weapons
violation on David Koresch during one of his many shopping trips away from his
“religious” compound. The local sheriff said he could have easily done this, many times,
and without incident. Instead, the federal authorities found it necessary to escalate a
conflict with tactics befitting the Gestapo, with loudspeakers, tanks, and media
restrictions – eventually resulting in the horrible deaths of scores of innocents.
Likewise, under this same Democratic administration, the FBI was exonerated
when one of their snipers shot and killed (murdered), without warning, the wife of one of
their suspects – again someone accused of violation of a weapons law – Randy Weaver.
Mrs. Weaver was shot while holding her child in her arms, while standing on her porch,
unaware of the FBI sniper hidden several yards distant. Somehow the FBI and the courts
upheld this action as being justified. It baffled me then, and still does. Most people are
unaware, being too preoccupied with the current baseball, football, basketball scores, the
sore muscles of millionaires athletes, the latest Star Wars movie, or whatever carefully
Page 7 of 22
packaged consumer-oriented distraction dribbles out of the infotainment box babbling in

bank lobbies, elevators, post offices, homes and offices – disguised as news. [Stay numb;
stay dumb; move along; there is nothing to see here; do you believe us, or your lying
eyes?]
It was a Democratic Secretary of State, Madelyn Albright, who answered in the
affirmative in response to a question from a newspaper reporter when asked if she
thought the sanctions against Iraq were worth it. The sanctions were thought to be
responsible for the deaths of thousands of Iraqi children and other innocent civilians. Yes,
she said, she thought it was worth it. At the time, I thought this was just like pouring
gasoline on a fire. How thoughtless! How stupid!
There was recent extensive coverage about Libya’s capitulation in terms of their
involvement with those who were responsible for the destruction of an airliner over
Scotland several years ago. Most everyone is familiar with at least the cursory facts of
this incident. What is rarely mentioned, however, it that it was originally thought this
event was a response to the unprovoked shooting out of the sky of a civilian airliner some
months earlier. Specifically, an unprovoked incident when a US warship in the
Mediterranean shot down a civilian airliner which had just taken off from a civilian
airport in Europe. Five hundred civilians were killed. Most of the victims were Muslims,
men, women and children. The US compensated the families of the victims for this
unprovoked incident. It was never made clear as to why it happened in the first place. The
ship was, I believe, the USS Vicente. It was cruising the Mediterranean at a time when no
hostilities or wars had been declared. There were no unusual international tensions other
than the long-ignored situation in Yugoslavia, when NATO sat on its hands for several
years and did nothing in the face of atrocities and deterioration in that country. The only
explanation provided was the commander of the ship thought the civilian airliner taking
off was some kind of a (unspecified) threat.
The first casualty of war is said to be Truth. In this day of managed news,
consolidated media, dismantling of anti-trust regulations, muzzling of reporters,
embedded propagandists/journalists, or whatever they are called these days – there is
nothing more clear than, “Out of sight, out of mind.” With so many “mini-Reichtstag
fires” in the news it is sometimes impossible to sort things out – at least from traditional
sources. (“Trust the Force, Luke…”)
I’ve noticed that most of those who beat the drums most loudly for war as the
party line are those who themselves have never been in harm’s way. They have found
ways to exempt themselves because they had “more important” things to do (politics and
power). But they do not hesitate to send little girls to battle, and squander National Guard
resources on repeated tours of duty in phony national emergencies, sending someone else
with inadequate equipment and training while trying to fight the war on the cheap. These
creeps who do not even allow the returning deceased to be photographed or accessed by
the media. They dishonor those who make personal sacrifices in service to these
posturing pretend leaders.
(Yes, I know this is a generalization, but this is the feeling of the moment. There
are many exceptions; there always are. Still, in the main…)
Isn’t freedom wonderful? You are now free to move from one side of your cell –
or designated area – to the other. The dimensions of confinement vary from about three
feet to three thousand miles, give or take. And you had better stand up straight and smile
Page 8 of 22
and shuffle your feet at the designated frisk and checkpoints, comrade, except when your
photo is being taken (no smiling allowed then, a new order from the new world order).
The penalty is denial of (fill in the blank – employment, money, food, liberty, life). The
citizen of a nation is now regarded as a consumer of the corporate new-world order with
treaties superseding local democracies; the consumer’s responsibility is to shut-up, be
quiet, consume, and then die - and don’t make a fuss about that, either.
I found myself recently looking over an article in the Monday, January 5, 1948
edition of The Topeka Daily Capital. The article was by Arthur Capper, the publisher of
the newspaper, and former US Senator. The subject was that America should not give up
freedom in order to aid Europe (“Can assist without Europeanizing”). Part of the article
discusses a New Year’s card entitled, “There’s No Way Like The American Way” –
because:
I can go to any church I please.

I can read, see and hear what I choose.
I can express my opinions openly.
My mail reaches me as sent – uncensored.
My telephone is untapped.
I can vote for what and for whom I please.
I have a constitutional right to a trial by jury.
I am protected against search and seizure.
Neither my life nor my property can be forfeited without due process of law.
The article is about much more than the above, which was referenced to make
another point. The newspapers of Topeka, Kansas in the late 1940s were more robust,
thoughtful and thorough than those of today, particularly considering recent media
consolidations and the metamorphosis of news’ gathering, analysis and reporting to that
of entertainment and propaganda. With regard to the items noted above, how many are
applicable today, a mere fifty years on? “Something tells me that we are not in Kansas
anymore, Dorothy.”
Nowadays, not too many people seem all that concerned that most measures
implemented in reaction to perceived threats are irrational and have little to do with the
real bad guys, and that usually the remedy is worse than the identified malady. It is the
ordinary citizen, now usually referenced only as the consumer, who is inconvenienced,
suspected, and disrespected as the result of knee-jerk reactionary regulations. Regulations
which have been implemented as riders to bills passed by spineless legislators who do not
even read them, passed as deals in exchange for quid-pro-quo considerations, usually
done in the dead of night with no debate or comment. Even well intentioned measures are
often counter-productive. They further the objectives of the true adversaries of freedom,
whose intent is to erode and restrict freedom and liberty, often done in the name of the
defense of liberty and freedom by incompetent bullies and cowards who wrap themselves
in flags, and hide within gated communities. It is insane.
Sometimes it is the well-intentioned do-gooders who are operating out of their
depth as they aid and abet the objectives of the declared adversaries by the disruption and
dismantling of the infrastructure of liberty and freedom, done in the name of the defense
Page 9 of 22
of same. First, you change the language. Call black white and white black. Say if often
enough and soon it is fact.
Never mind that Senator Ted Kennedy is known by sight to an airline employee
as being who he is. The facts are clear to the airline employee. Senator Kennedy’s name
is on a list. Even though Senator Kennedy is known, he cannot fly from point A to point
B because his name is on a list. That is so because his name was appropriated by a low-
life whose sole intent is to sow discord, confusion, disruption, all of which is
accomplished because intelligence and common sense are not allowed. Never mind the
facts of the matter – which include the absolute knowledge that Senator Kennedy is not a
threat to anyone by flying on an airplane from point A to point B. This is irrelevant. His
name is on a list. That is all that matters, because that is what it says on the list. No one
knows how names get on the lists. No one knows how names are removed. And who
benefits?
Oh yoohoo, Alice? May I accompany you, down that rabbit hole? The letter of a
foolish law must be obeyed by the gatekeepers, while the spirit of the law is frequently
disregarded, all of which advances the objectives of those who wish to promote fear-
based reactive and restrictive measures in the erosion of the social components of a free
society. But, again, I digress.
[Dismount Soapbox. End of Rant.]
My apologies to the reader if the above may have been a little strident in some places. I
can only say it was heartfelt, and cathartic. Additionally, it is, IMHO, reasonably
accurate. Still, I must say, for the record, that I am aware that we live together in a
diverse world – a diverse universe. There are many concurrent and coexisting “realities,”
as defined and lived by one and all. That being the case, allowances should be made for
the fact that there is something for everyone. It is all happening at the same time. If one
focuses on death and destruction, to the exclusion of all else – as the saying goes: “As ye
sow, so shall ye reap.” Conversely, intelligence, joy, and serenity, coexist, along with
everything else – potentially in all places (yes, I believe this). That on which we focus,
we tend to manifest – depending on energy intensity and duration of focus. It is not all
doom and gloom, although it can be if so desired – or not. It is up to each individual to
make selections, refine values, and focus interests and intents in terms of how to spend
one’s time and energy in the days of our lives. Our moment to moments extend forever as
a series of infinite now-points, in effect being eternal. Additionally, some of us believe
there are over-arching interests and agreements on many levels (beyond immediate
daytime consciousness) which also factor into our world-views and what we choose to
focus and manifest. For my part, I believe one would do well to “be loose,” be joyful,
strive for excellence, intelligence, discernment, and seek to ally with those who wish to
pursue happiness as a reality, and not a “quaint” idea.
**
Oh, Canada! My initial impression of Vancouver, B.C., was that in many ways it
resembled San Francisco. However, after driving for an extended period through the city
it became apparent that Vancouver is much larger than San Francisco. Much! Although I
Page 10 of 22
cannot state why, exactly, and even though the cityscapes, parks, languages and various
groups of people were nearly identical to that to which I am accustomed, I felt as if I had
been inserted into an alien landscape, almost a cartoonish characature of a metropolis.
Most likely this feeling was the result of having just spent the better part of three days
and nights driving at a meditative and leisurely 59 mph on cruise control, with legs fully
extended, shoes off, and assorted supporting cushions. I drove for extended periods in
isolation and with limited or no traffic and an almost percussive explosion of wildflowers
and green growth for hundreds of miles as the result of an unusually wet spring, the likes
of which I have never seen before.
I followed directions to the ferry to Sechelt (pronounced See-Shalt) Bay, a $40
Canadian ($32 USD) roundtrip fare. The ferry runs every two hours. My timing was good
and we departed shortly after my arrival. The vehicles were directed to drive onto three
decks quickly and with military precision by an efficient crew. I settle into an upper-deck
lounge area for a 30 to 40 minutes crossing to The Sunshine Coast. Two older women
were seated nearby. I learn they were nurses. We had a pleasant conversation for the
duration of the crossing. I learned that had I timed the crossing for a Tuesday, there
would have been no charge for seniors, even for a non-Canadian. By the time we were
ready to disembark I felt I was in the company of old friends.
Most of the people I encountered were friendly and helpful, as is usually the case,
whether here or there. Usually it is a matter of extending oneself in a friendly, genuine
manner. I recall one conversation I had with a young Canadian woman, age twenty, and
her comment to me that, unlike some other people she had been meeting lately, that I was
not “duplicitous.” She trusted me. We spent a pleasant afternoon together as we explored
fractal geometric images with a computer program. We had a pleasant conversation,
totally in the moment, with no expectations or motives other than a polite and respectful
exchange of views and opinions on a variety of subjects.
When I first approached the residence and grounds of the sanctuary via short
private road serving private residences and bed and breakfast establishments, I saw an
earth-tone tiger kitten walking through the tall grass at the edge of the road. I had a
feeling that this was a special feline, and most likely associated with Inner Sanctuary,
which proved to be true. Shanti, the house kitten, became a special friend to me, and a
frequent napping companion. It had been a long time since I had heard a kitten purr, and
this was just what I needed.
When I arrived at Inner Sanctuary, Christina received me warmly. She had
expected me two days later, but it didn’t matter. I settled for a week plus two extra days. I
had no definite schedule, and allowed myself up to six months if that seemed appropriate.
I was open to be moved by Spirit, one way or another.
The retreat is a large, two-story residence on an acre in the midst of trees and a
garden overlooking Porpoise Bay at an elevation of a few hundred feet. At regular
intervals each afternoon, a seaplane arrived and departed.
The central part of the village was situated less than a mile away, at the bottom of
the hill. It didn’t take much effort to get to know the town. Two or three small stores and
gas stations, restaurants, and assorted shops and bakeries served basic needs. Of course
there was the ever present McDonalds (with a fireplace), and one large central
supermarket. Upon visiting the supermarket I was again reminded of how little real food
can be found, although there are plentiful aisles and shelves for all manner of cardboard
Page 11 of 22
facsimiles of food and household items, and acres of junk food. I was again reminded of
how much we should treasure and support local markets - especially farmer’s markets.
Later I discovered a local Chinese-owned produce shop, with reasonably priced grapes.
The owner seemed to have one or two of just about everything, but not much more. His
English was not good. I believe he was an immigrant from China. But with money and
gestures, communication was not a problem.
My original plan was to spend at least a month in Vancouver. At the Inner
Sanctuary I was assigned the to Zen Room. The single window opened to a shaded area
next to a small hill. The leaf-filtered natural light was always dim, entering through the
single widow, and the natural light was insufficient for reading in this room. The room
itself, although comfortable enough for sleeping, had limited electric lighting, and no
table or chair. Although there were a few outside deck and lawn chairs, the interior of the
entire house consisted of floor cushions and ceiling and wall draperies and carpets. Still,
no tables or chairs were available for indoor use. The large living room was well lighted
by day, and it provided a grand view of the bay.
One day I spotted a stranger in the yard, a black rabbit seated in the center of the
lawn. It appeared to be taking in the view while pausing for refreshment, then it
disappeared into the shadows of the undergrowth bordering the lawn. Otherwise, Shanti
the house kitten was the lioness of the manor and yard and gardens, with numerous cat-
access portals into the house. Crows and eagles contributed to a peaceful setting. The
general auditory environment consisted of the frolicking crows and periodic arrivals and
departure of a seaplane in the bay a few hundred feet below. On occasion there could be
heard a faint growling noise of a gravel-processing plant located a few miles away on the
opposite side of the bay.
Late in the afternoon of my first day at the sanctuary, I sat alone in the living
room on floor cushions, stretching and relaxing after three days in the car. I began to play
some chord progressions on my guitar – the Guild G-37 maple arch-back I purchased
new 30 years ago in San Francisco, to replace the Gibson ES-125 stolen from my
apartment on Capp Street. I found a musical groove in a progression from D minor to B
flat and F, having lifted the chops several years ago from a Larry Coryell album. I slowly
repeated the progression, articulating each note, allowing them to ring true to attenuation.
After a while I was joined in the room by a weekend guest, a beautiful woman named
Rebecca. She was with her four-year-old son and infant daughter. Rebecca seated herself
nearby and began to sing – blending her beautiful voice perfectly with the progression I
was repeating. This continued for about three minutes while Rebecca nursed her infant
daughter, her face in the streaming sunlight, her son playing nearby. She was beautiful
and radiant - her voice flawlessly and perfectly complimented the guitar. These golden
moments eventually ran their course and the demands of Rebecca’s son were asserted.
Rebecca was facing the window looking over the yard, trees and bay. I was seated
with my back to the window. Rebecca said that an adolescent eagle was perched on top
of a tree in the yard, and from her line of sight it appeared to be perched on top of my
head. Without hesitation I pulled down the collar of my shirt to reveal the tattoo of an
eagle high on my left shoulder – now almost 50 years old, and said it seemed appropriate,
somehow. These few moments were priceless, well worth the drive from San Diego to
Vancouver. I would do it again for another three minutes of bliss.
Page 12 of 22
I spent some time playing kick the ball around the living room with Rebecca’s
son, a free spirit chasing another free spirit. He had a cold, but it didn’t slow him down.
The following day I visited for a few minutes with another woman who was visiting for a
while; she lived elsewhere in the village. After we conversed she excused herself and said
she had to go home to bed because, as she explained, she was really sick. It was never
clear to me why, feeling so sick, she should take a break to visit with friends and
strangers.
The following day I felt a tickle at the back of my throat which I recognized as the
early warning symptom of a respiratory infection beginning in the larynx, having
experienced this a half dozen times in my life. Sure enough, the tickle rapidly developed
into a moving infection of my sinus, and then to a condition of bronchitis. I hadn’t even
had a cold for over three years, but I intuited that I was in for a spell of heavy weather;
this proved to be the case. Really heavy weather! I sincerely believe that we can and do
manifest – individually and collectively – everything in our lives, including our health. I
endeavor to maintain this perspective, but there are times when conscious efforts and
awareness are superseded by energies beyond our immediate abilities to manifest
otherwise. There may be reactive periods to more subliminally assertive energies and
there are time delays related to our overarching conscious and subconscious intent.
Metaphorically speaking, when your boat has been swamped by a freak wave in a sudden
storm, one had best reach for a bucket to bail, and weather the storm.
Although I was at least fortunate in not having this flu-like respiratory infection
cycle through my lungs, tonsils, or throat, it did settle into a persistent bronchial infection
of some duration and intensity. I don’t believe I developed a fever, but it was three weeks
before I was finally free of coughing and lingering effects.
I intuited that the state of my health was going to take a hit. I am accustomed to
riding out the occasional bad weather in solitude, and I rapidly assessed my personal
circumstances. It was not my wish to impose my respiratory infection on anyone else at
my newly arrived at living environment – even though this was where I first encountered
sickness in others and then my personal symptoms. In addition to these considerations
was the lingering “road buzz” body vibrations of many hundreds of miles of driving and
the almost peristaltic urge to continue on the road. And then, finally, there was the
discomfort of living without adequate light – in my room – and the absence of a table,
chair, or couch. After a few days of living on floor cushions and sleeping on a ground-
level futon, I longed for a regular chair, table, and adequate light for reading. Although I
do not require much to be happy, these constitute the bare minimum.
Concurrent with these considerations was my communication via the Internet with
the manager of an apartment complex in Topeka, Kansas. I had been in contact with her
some months earlier. Topeka is where I lived from the age of about five to nine. In recent
years I have had three vivid dreams about traveling to and being in the Topeka area. The
dreams were associated with pleasant emotions and feelings. As I tend to act on my
impulses more often than not, I acted when it developed that an apartment was then
available. Following an Internet (VOIP) phone call, I mailed checks for the deposit and a
month’s rent prior to leaving Canada. I had a place to which I could point my car 1,800
miles southeast, knowing I could gather myself in a personal domain without first having
to find a place to land. I was relieved that my Canadian associates would not be subjected
to my frequent coughing and exposure to my bronchial infection. I anticipated that I
Page 13 of 22
would probably be more comfortable spending three days seated upright while driving in
the car during the long drive instead of supine on the floor in a dimly lighted room. After
arriving at my new apartment, I would not have social considerations with which to
contend, until I felt sufficiently recovered.
Thus, after only a week in Canada, I was on the road again, at a steady pace, with
59 mph set on a cruise control rarely disengaged. The miles easily slipped by. After
reentering the US at Vancouver – happily, with no difficulties or attitudes to contend with
(although I did have to remove my sunglasses to demonstrate that I did not appear to be
stoned, apparently) – I turned east at Seattle for the long trek across Washington. I would
cross northern Idaho, Montana, then drop south through Wyoming and most of Colorado
before turning east at Denver and proceeding to eastern Kansas, to Topeka.
I was bypassing the high mountain passes farther south in Colorado, still
potentially dangerous at this time of the year – in the first week in May. I was surprised
to see that the elevation was only 5,500 feet when crossing the continental divide. I regret
not making note of the location, but I recall it was only a few hours east of Seattle, in the
Idaho panhandle. I intended stopping for a few hours in Missoula, Montana, but
somehow I passed it by; I recall seeing no signs to exit the highway for Missoula, but I
must have skirted it - unaware.
The small city of Livingston, Montana appeared to be “real.” I stopped for the
first restaurant food of the entire trip, and to do my laundry. Livingston is one of the few
places I encountered anywhere without the usual jumble of fast food franchises and
cookie cutter retail outlets now sprinkled across the country and throughout most of the
world. The town appeared to be a little shop-worn and dog-eared, but it was uniquely
itself.
After doing the laundry I had lunch at a restaurant located at the railway station.
The two waitresses working the counter called me “honey” and “sweetie,” as if they
really meant it. One of them, of course knowing that I was a road-weary stranger,
seemed to be sending signals that she might be available if I were inclined to make
another appearance and demonstrate some interest. She was a kindly soul, not
unattractive, but romance was not a priority. I certainly did not want to expose her to my
still developing respiratory infection.
It was easy to identify the regulars at various tables, and who was just passing
through. I was the only one seated at the counter. It was a fine, sunny day. An old timer
who appeared to be about ninety was seated in a wheel chair outside the front door,
dozing in the sun. He literally was on his last leg; one had been amputated. Inside, one of
the waitresses said she thought she should go outside and wake him, to give him a pill.
This is the kind of town where people look out for each other.
Livingston is less than a hundred miles west of Billings, where I spent three years
as a teenager, just before enlisting in the Marines. On the road again, about fifty miles
outside of Billings, I encountered the first rain since leaving California. Thunder,
lightning, and heavy wind gusts followed me to Billings and throughout the rest of
Montana and Wyoming for the next several hours. I passed a sign advertising 20 acres
parcels of land for $80 per acre! I was thinking that $1,600 seemed reasonable for a place
where one could go and sit and spit (and pay taxes) for part of the year, even if the land
was only scrub. I shook off this thought and focused on the road ahead, knowing that at
Page 14 of 22
this stage of my earthly sojourn it is unlikely that I’ll become a Montana rural property
owner.
The lightning flashes increased and the sky darkened as I literally blew into
Billings with mighty gusts from the storm which, after a while, diminished to intermittent
showers. At first nothing was familiar. This was my first trip back to Billings in almost
50 years. The freeway signs said take the next three exits for Billings. When I was last in
Billings, there was no freeway. I took the first exit and promptly got lost and spent an
hour on rural roads west of town, but because of the thickening rain, long rural roads, no
signs, and no people, I had no idea which end was up.
Eventually the rains abated and it became sunny again. I made my way downtown
after I recalled it was sited near the rim rocks, and finally seeing them, I angled in that
direction. The near night had become a bright, sunny, late afternoon. I finally got my
bearings and soon found myself driving past my former school – Billings Senior High
School, and the adjacent football field where in my sophomore year I put on the pads and
hit the practice sleds with lunge blocks while being timed by coach’s whistle. The school
appeared unchanged.
I quickly located my old neighborhood, but the apartment building where we
lived with a quarter acre garden in front, tended by Claude Forker, the owner, with his
heaps of scrap metal in the back of the property, was gone. It its place now stands a
building, looking new: an Elk’s Lodge.
However, three blocks south, I found the house where Sharon, who later became
my first wife, lived with her mother and stepfather after they moved to Billings from
Pierre, South Dakota. Her stepfather, Al, was a geologist for Shell Oil Company. At the
time I was 14 years old; Sharon was 15. Her old house is not yet derelict, but it has not
been maintained well, as it was when she lived there. But it has been 50 years. The apple
tree in the back yard, under which we spent a few evenings in summer, is still there –
although much grown. The tree triggered some memories – including singing together,
Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me.
Sharon’s house is on a corner. Across the street from it is a building that was a
small grocery store in 1954, but no longer. It now appears vacant. I sat in the car and
gazed at the wall of this old building and recalled a strong visual shadow image one night
in the spring of 1954. I had just left Sharon’s house after seeing her home. We had been
to see a movie – a musical; I believe it was Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain (or else
Fred Astaire in Daddy Long Legs). After saying goodnight to her at her door, and a kiss, I
started to walk home pass the grocery store across the street. It was late a night, nearly
midnight, and the shifting triangulation of a street lamp and my passing created a vivid
shadow of myself projected onto the wall of the store. The shadow rapidly changed
shape, morphing from one of regular dimensions to that of a muscular, hulking figure,
quite different from my 5’10” 135 pound slender frame. The contrast between the bright
wall of the grocery store - well lighted by a nearby street lamp - and my hulking black
shadow was remarkable. I thought so at the time, even though the visual event only lasted
a second or two. It made a strong impression, amusingly so, as over the years I have
recalled that evening and shadow image on several occasions. Now, over 50 years later, I
found myself at the same wall and recalled again this visual image from long ago. What a
trip – literally, and figuratively.
Page 15 of 22
After a minute or two I rouse myself from my reverie. I point the car southeast, in
the general direction of Wyoming, and soon I am past the edge of town. I have seen my
old school, have ascertained that the old apartment is no longer, and visited the home of a
first love. My business in Billings is concluded, and there are miles to go.
East of Billings I stop for gas. I ask and receive directions to Highway 28 from a
grizzled cowboy wearing spurs as we water gas our mechanical ponies from adjacent
pumps. As is almost always the case in the northwestern states, and especially in
Montana, most people are helpful and friendly, a natural way of being. A couple of states
back I had pulled into a drive through coffee stand in downtown Spokane. The college
age young man spoke naturally and easily, as if he had known me all his life. He noted
my out of state license plate and guitar and clothes in the back. He asked how the trip was
going, and if I would be pushing on until daybreak, and agreeing that he would do the
same, when I replied in the affirmative. Then adios, see you later.
There is a significant difference between Pacific Rim states and the states farther
east – especially Montana and Wyoming. Smoking indoors in restaurants and gas stations
and truck stops is not permitted in Pacific Rim states. But in going east it is different.
Truck stops are blue haze death zones. Everyone inside is smoking at the same time, and
the air is universally bad. There is no escaping the stink of stale cigarette smoke. It
seemed that at one truck stop the clerks were all coughing themselves to death. I held my
breath for as long as I was able, then left as quickly as possible. If ever there is an
incentive to pay at the pump with a credit card, this ranks high. Until now I have
preferred cash and go. If I should ever go on the road again, frequently, I will start using
the card instead just to avoid going inside these zombie zones. You have to stand in line
for five to ten minutes behind people loading up on chips, and smokes, and all manner of
junk food - everything except gas, and they are all puffing away at the same time while
the sales clerks are all hacking with their coughs. And I think to myself, “What’s wrong
with this picture?”
In such moments I hold my breath for as long as I am able and recall the good old
days when getting gas was fast and generally a pleasant experience. The attendant at the
island fueled the car and collected payment at the pump. I was surprised to find that in the
state of Oregon it is mandated by law that there be full service at all stations at all times. I
was told that the state of New Jersey is the only other state with a similar law. The
penalties are significant for both the motorist and the gas station for pumping your own
gas, with fines of thousands of dollars for each. However, I was quick to learn that “full
service” meant the attendant only pumped the gas. I checked my own oil and cleaned my
own windshield. The air station is usually at a separate location. I’ve found that some
stations no longer offer water, although they do have beer and soft drinks; I suppose they
would make do in an emergency. One station had a silly scheme where the attendant
pumped the gas, but he was not allowed to collect payment for the gas. He would give
you a slip of paper to take inside the station to pay a cashier. After standing in line behind
those buying junk food, eventually the cashier collects for gas when it is your turn; at that
time the cashier stamps the slip of paper to take back to the attendant at the pump who is
standing by your car. The attendant at the pump collects the paper slip stamped by the
cashier and then discards it as trash, and allows you to take possession of your car. (Not
much of an audit trail.)
Page 16 of 22
I am reminded of how business is conducted in parts of China, as reported to me

by a former colleague who moved to Beijing with his wife to work for an American
business located there. Several people are often employed to perform a task that could be
performed faster and more efficiently be one person. In China, this frequently is a
deliberate strategy to create jobs. An example is the purchase of a single stamp at some
Chinese post offices: one person accepts payment for the stamp; another person issues the
stamp; a third person issues a receipt for the transaction. All very official and proper –
similar to buying gas at some stations in Oregon.
The rains increased in frequency, duration, and intensity as I left Montana and
crossed Wyoming from north to south through the night. Lightning was the rule, rather
than the exception; it developed for the next three weeks that I encountered more
lightning than I had cumulatively encountered during my entire lifetime to that point.
At the time I left Montana I was considering the problems I would be facing in
removing a considerable patina of bugs from the front of the car. This problem soon
resolved itself after moving through one severe storm cell of such intensity that I decided
that in the interest of safety I should discontinue driving until the storm abated. This I did
not do because the rest stops on Wyoming highways are less frequent than states farther
west. By the time I located a spot where I could pull over, the rains has ceased and the car
was bug free. I took the occasion to sleep for an hour or two and continued on at
daybreak.
In Wyoming I encountered odd situations in remote areas – the likes of which I
have never seen before. Specifically, very large drop-down road barriers, similar to the
ones at railroad crossings, but larger. They were located randomly on lonely stretches of
the interstate highway. There were signs at the base of each warning of a two years in
prison and fines of five thousand dollars for “violation.” For violation of what was not
clear, at least as I was not able to note specifics in passing the barriers and signs at speed;
perhaps small print provided additional information, which one would have occasion to
read while stopped at a lowered barrier.
I cannot imagine the purpose of these “Check Point Charlie” Brandenberg Gate-
style barriers located in the middle of nowhere. It seems unlikely that they are related to
road closures due to snow conditions. The elevations were non-mountainous, and two
years in prison and fines of thousands of dollars seem severe and out of proportion for
someone who has become stuck in the snow. I suspect there may be other activities
having to do with road movements (of whatever – fill in the blanks) not to be witnessed
by passing motorists. Who knows? Real information is difficult to come by these days.
[Begin Mini-Rant]
There is little incentive for an informed general citizenry, but plenty of incentive
for dog-and-pony shows, infotainment, and other distractions for people for purposes of
control and manipulation. Above all, there is an agenda to foster a consumer mentality in
the public; thus, “consumer” has replaced “citizen” in most media vocabularies.
Consumers should not question authority, incompetence, or insanity, all of which can
easily be hidden behind an official act of secrecy, usually in the name of national
security. As a broken clock provides the correct time at least twice in a 24-hour period,
one must allow that, similarly, secret acts can and do have their places and times. I
Page 17 of 22
suspect, however, that abuses abound, and that more often than not they function to keep
hidden the folly of fools. Not that this has anything to do with passing unknown road
barriers, not lowered, in the night in remote stretches of the high plains, with serious
penalties of imprisonment for “violation.” But the mind has a tendency to wander and
chatter unless brought back into focus, with a reminder to one’s self that thought is
definitely related to manifestation. Sometimes immediate, but usually deferred for a time.
Therefore, rather than becoming a one-trick-pony conspiracy spectator, it is prudent to
monitor one’s thoughts and speculations and to maintain focus on positive aspects of
society and creation unless otherwise compelled by events of the moment to do
otherwise. In any event, in this neck of the woods there were no alternatives in driving
hundreds of miles from point A to point B – north to south – and I kept moving while the
time for moving was available and uneventful.
[End Mini-Rant]
The miles continued to effortlessly slip by my window as I penetrated farther

south into Colorado. To the west I could see the Rocky Mountain Range shining in the
morning sun, heavy with snow. Except for a persistent and frequent expectorating
bronchial cough, I was feeling good. I had no fever. It was of some comfort to keep my
respiratory struggles a private affair.
I made the last leg of the journey through Colorado, then west to east across the
entire state of Kansas in a single day. The entire journey was amazingly free from traffic,
from San Diego to Vancouver, and from Seattle to eastern Kansas. I did spend one hour
negotiating morning commuter traffic in Denver, but the traffic dwindled to nothing as I
turned east, past the city limits. I almost always had the road to myself. Apparently few
people travel long distances during the month of May. Even commercial truck traffic was
light.
I considered that at this stage of my life I would probably be as happy as a trucker
as I would be doing just about anything else – for wages. Truck stops provide facilities
for showers and to do laundry for about $8.00. Most modern trucks have sleeping berths
as standard equipment. With cell phones, laptops, tracking devices, and all the rest, the
hazards of the road are less severe than in times past. The problem with this idea is that
despite my personal feelings of vitality and health, generally, I don’t believe many
trucking companies would want to take on a 65-year old driver. These are just the facts of
life. As the old joke goes, “When I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep, just like my
grandfather, and not screaming in terror, like his passengers.”
The final leg on the road passed quickly as I moved through Kansas, passing from
hot, dry air into humid heat and air with a liquid feel on the skin. I did not recall this level
of humidity from my early primary school days in Topeka, during the late 1940s. I later
learned, in conversation with an old-timer and life-long resident of Topeka, that the local
humidity dates from the early 1950s. Following major flooding in Topeka in 1951, a
series of dams and reservoirs were constructed in the surrounding area. Prior to this time
the humidity was rarely above 30% when not raining. Since then, however, the average
humidity locally has doubled as the result of the development of microclimates related to
the numerous reservoirs constructed as flood control measures.
Page 18 of 22
Once in Topeka, I discovered that our old house at 1125 Harrison is gone. The
entire block was redeveloped; this portion of the street is now a small park-like block
leading to civic buildings. The same is true for the old business of Capital City Realty at
1017 ½ Kansas Avenue, located a few blocks away. This entire block was redeveloped
for the site of a large, four-story government building.
Polk School, the elementary school where I attended from kindergarten through
third grade (circa 1945-48) is still standing, modern looking and functioning - having
been reconditioned once or twice. These were happy years for me, 1945-48. They were
innocent years. Topeka then took pride in their schools, and they are still a priority.
Topeka High School was constructed in 1934 and it was the first high school in the entire
country to cost more than a million dollars to build. It is still, today, one of the best high
school buildings I have ever seen, with a nice campus.
I happened to arrive in Topeka in the early evening of a Saturday, May 7th, and
drove past Topeka High School just as graduates were arriving for their Senior Prom. I
was stopped at a red light in front of the school. Dozens of boys, all in black tuxedos, and
girls in their formal wear, in a group, crossed in front of my car to assemble on the front
lawn of the school for group photographs prior to the dance. The light changed again, and
several remained to wait for the next light. As I proceeded through the intersection, one
of the girls, wearing a close-fitting pearl colored gown with a single, white orchid, looked
me in the eye with a smile and somewhat quizzical look, like, “Don’t I know you from
some place?” I thought, What if… What would it have been, to have zigged rather than
zagged in this crazy zigzag time-line of a life, to have remained in Topeka and to have
graduated from Topeka High School? To perhaps be this girl’s grandfather?
I spent five months in Topeka, until flooding from a heavy rainstorm entered my
garden apartment, rendering it uninhabitable. I then returned to San Diego to reclaim my
possessions from storage. I then moved to the State of Utah where I was able to spend
some time near my aging mother, who was then in her mid-80s, and who passed from this
life a few months later.
**
Summer in Kansas was quite an experience. Hot, HOT! I know hot. I spent a few
months in the Philippines and Taiwan while in the Marines, following military schools at
Jacksonville Naval Air Station in Florida, and training in radar operations at Keesler Air
Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi and Yuma, Arizona. But Kansas in July was, by far, the
most heat I have ever experienced, with frequent rains and very high humidity. There
were also periodic tornadoes – with neighborhood tornado sirens and designated shelters.
I adjusted my schedule to accommodate the heat, usually avoiding the heat of the
day in my garden apartment. It was pleasant enough, to the extent that I didn’t have to
turn on the air conditioning to beat the heat. My brother had a good laugh when I told
him that my apartment complex was situated between a zoo (within Gage Park) and a
cemetery. However, the park was nice, and the residents of the cemetery were not
inclined to be rowdy.
Late in the afternoon and early evening I would take my guitar across the street to
the park and play for a couple of hours in one of the many gardens. I was usually alone,
but occasional passersby would linger and listen. I recall one gentleman who was walking
Page 19 of 22
in the rose garden with two children; after a few minutes he approached and said, “Thank
you.” It made me feel good. On another occasion - with very little light left - I was seated
with my guitar on the railing of a stone bridge, but not playing. A woman approached
with two little girls; she was playing some kind of “enchanted garden” game with her
girls. She asked if I would play a song for the girls. So I played Yellow Is the Color of
my True Love’s Hair, much to the delight of the girls – both of whom had yellow hair -
and their mother. Just my small audience and me in the company of fireflies in the dusky
gloam amid heady scents of various flowers. A peak experience.
Many days were spent within the cool confines of the Topeka Room at the public
library, a modern facility with free computer access to the Internet, or at one of the many
nearby restaurants or coffee shops with free wireless connections. When venturing out by
day I always kept the air conditioning running in the Ford Focus, although the AC motor
eventually gave up the ghost and ceased functioning in late summer.
I frequently drove the 35 miles to Lawrence, a college town, to buy books at The
Dusty Bookshelf on Massachusetts Avenue. This street was a real find. It reminded me of
a blend of Berkeley and Stanford – a very hip and happening kind of street. But HOT!
One day, I thought I would die before I could make it from the bookstore (air
conditioned, of course) to my car, parked three blocks away. After walking only one
block I was overwhelmed by what felt heat from a blast furnace. I sat - or rather collapsed
- on a bus bench, overcome with weakness and a real feeling that I was taking my last
breaths. I know that dying is generally a lonely affair, and I am not afraid of the
inevitable, but I was resistant to succumbing as a stranger on the streets of Lawrence –
although in retrospect, I don’t know why that should make any real difference in the
overall scheme of things. In any event, I somehow willed myself to my feet and stumbled
across the street and into the confines of a cool, marble table populated cafe where I
ordered two iced lemonades. After a few minutes I composed myself, having concluded
that I would probably live at least another day, and was able to get to my car a block or so
away. The first thing I did was crank up the AC, one of the last times I was able to do so
before it went south.
Topeka itself was less populated and less lively than during my youth. At that
time – post WWII – housing space was at a premium and – until the great flood of 1951 –
this was a growing, vibrant city – but no longer. I explored the city thoroughly in a few
days, then settled into my personal routine of reading, research, and working on personal
recording projects.
Most of the people I met were friendly enough, although I made no real friends.
One unexpected observation was that of continuing racial tensions in the Topeka area. I
had, perhaps naively, thought that our nation had made significant advances with regard
to race relations. Unfortunately, it became evident that there are still simmering tensions
in the Topeka area. Although “Brown versus the Board of Education” was adjudicated in
Topeka a half century ago, in some ways it seemed as if it had been only a few weeks.
This fact was referenced by the owner of a bookstore (of historical records) in Topeka, a
thoughtful gentleman who referenced this sad state of affairs, as an ongoing fact of life in
Topeka. I noted a quite a bit of “attitude” (e.g., hostile staring) from time to time – in
response to a friendly greeting from me or directed toward another white male walking
by. I also noted that during events where primarily black folks would gather in the park
Page 20 of 22
for picnics, the police were busy checking cars in the parking lots, one by one, an activity
not otherwise observed when white folks gathered in the park.
Another observed anomaly, was that of an extreme fundamentalist Christian
church operating out of Topeka. They are known to picket at funerals of war dead
carrying signs with messages stating – essentially – all the world’s problems - wars,
hurricanes, whatever - are related to their belief that (their idea of) God is angry about
gays in America. They are vocal, visible, hectoring and pesky. I was reminded of the so-
called “reverend” Jim Jones – a real control freak, and paranoid to boot – who operated
out of San Francisco about 25 years earlier.
**
My first puppy love was in Topeka. I was eight years old. Dolores was seven. We
met in church, after I had delivered a three minutes talk entitled “The meaning of a
Miracle,” written by my mother about relativistic attitudes related to what might be
regarded in some ages as miracles, as limited by lack of knowledge of technological
advances of future ages. Dolores and I adored one another. When leaving Topeka,
knowing that I would never again see her, I had an aching heart. I may have been only
eight years old, but I have never longed so deeply as I did then.
**
During my five-month sojourn in Kansas I revisited many youthful memories and
tripped down various memory lanes. A final anecdote in conclusion to this mid-2005
multi-thousand mile drive and walkabout: a recollection from an event in 1946, at Polk
School in Topeka: It was during a recess play period. I was in the first grade. The boys
were all playing softball and the girls were jumping rope and playing hopscotch.
The boy’s softball game was proceeding with the established rules of rotating
team positions in the field with each new inning. It was my turn to be the pitcher. Three
successive events occurred, but at intervals so close together that they almost constituted
a single event in time. It was closer than a bang, bang, bang sports-play. It was a single
bang: three events in one.
I pitched the ball, moderately fast and within the strike zone. The boy at bat was a
strong, athletic type, even at the age of six. He swung with all his strength and connected
squarely with ball, the sweet zone of the bat connecting with the meat of the ball with a
resounding THWACK at the crack of the wooden bat. It was a slugging sound typically
associated with a baseball hit for a home run. The ball was hit directly back to me.
Without any conscious thought or effort on my part – because it happened so quickly, no
thought was possible - my body reacted as if independent from my conscious awareness.
I stuck out my bare right hand and caught the ball. Thwack (again) with pain and such
force as to create a blister a few moments later. Those were the first and second events:
(1) Thwack: ball hit with force; (2) Thwack: ball caught one-handed, with pain and
amazement, and with no thought or effort. The third event was simultaneous to the ball
striking and sticking to my outstretched hand: The recess bell rang and all the children,
including the batter - who didn’t register that I caught the ball, nor did anyone else –
turned around and ran back to the classroom. I was left standing with pain, pride,
amazement – and the awareness that nobody other than myself knew I had caught the ball
Page 21 of 22
with one bare hand, and not an ordinary hit ball under ordinary circumstances. That ball
was slugged as hard as anyone of that age could have hit it – and I was very close to the
batter.
As I think of this event, now almost 60 years later, this “three in one” event seems
to have been an apt metaphor for what was yet to come for my then first grade self, for
what has frequently transpired in the intervening years. That is pretty much how things
have been in my life. Still, there is the knowledge that the deed(s) was/were done.
My faithful and constant companion has been solitude, although others come and
go. Moral of the tale: Look not to others for approval. Be your own leader. Look within,
gather strength, and persevere.
Allen Simco, June, 2005

budrickvonallen@yahoo.com
Page 22 of 22

Allen Simco - Random Thoughts On A Driving Walkabout

Enviado por

Dados do documento

Título original

Direitos autorais

Formatos disponíveis

Compartilhar este documento

Compartilhar ou incorporar documento

Opções de compartilhamento

Você considera este documento útil?

Este conteúdo é inapropriado?

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Allen Simco - Random Thoughts On A Driving Walkabout

Enviado por

Direitos autorais:

Formatos disponíveis

Random Thoughts on a 3,000 Miles Driving Walkabout - by Allen Simco (Buddy Allen Simco)

Random Thoughts on a 3,000 Driving Walkabout

[Mount Soapbox: Begin Rant – Summer: 2005]

packaged consumer-oriented distraction dribbles out of the infotainment box babbling in

I can go to any church I please.

[Dismount Soapbox. End of Rant.]

I am reminded of how business is conducted in parts of China, as reported to me

The miles continued to effortlessly slip by my window as I penetrated farther

Allen Simco, June, 2005

Você também pode gostar