Road Warrior

Yesterday, the real estate office telephoned to warn me of some visitors on their way, as our little house is still for sale.

Typically, I clean up the place before they arrive.
Push a broom around, or a mop.
Then I drive my car down the street a bit, turn around, and watch.

Sometimes the curiosity of who's interested in buying our house just gets the best of me, you know?

So, I'm sitting in my car on my little street, watching my house yesterday. 
A car drives by.
Actually, it's an SUV, one of the suburban fixtures of the area.
The "clump-clump" sound tells me that there's a serious casualty in the making.
The vehicle has driven over a squirrel trying to cross the road, a direct hit.

As I watch the tail twitching on what certainly is the last act of this small life, I begin to think.

This little guy probably knew the neighborhood well in his short life.
All the trees, all the roof tops, all the ins and outs of the alleys and streets.
Just running around, completely familiar with the territory.
Or, so he thought.
Then, the unexpected comes barreling down the road...

...and flattens him.

I began to think if there was some kind of analogy here, as I watched this poor thing expire in front of me.

And then, the strangest thing happened.

First, his head began to twitch again.
His eyes opened.

This can't be real, I thought. 
This little animal was just crushed by an SUV, for crying out loud.

Then, even more incredibly, he rights himself.
Pulls himself back onto his feet, as it were.

Drags himself, as his back legs are no longer functioning, to safety at the side of the road.

Sadly, it appears that he may have a lasting injury to his backside.
But at least it doesn't seem to be the mortal wound that I once thought it to be.

While he is recovering on the side of the road, another car drives by.

Maybe the memory of the last drive-by caused a flashback of sorts in this creature.
Some sort of an animal kingdom equivalent post-traumatic stress reaction.

For whatever reason, now he is suddenly mobile again, back legs and all.

I am completely dumbfounded.

Only minutes before, I was thinking how fleeting this life is.
How, without always knowing it, we can get just obliterated by things we don't see coming.

And then, life ends as suddenly as it began.

Or does it?

Once in a great while, the incredible takes place.

We find, after shaking the stars from swirling around our head, that we can still move.

Maybe only a little at first, but gradually find we can we get ourselves back into gear.

Frequently that "gradual" is a lot more slow in developing, but sometimes we surprise ourselves.

I came home that afternoon, and told Joe of the experience of what I saw down the street.

She said that was a perfect analogy, a great story to tell.

Not necessarily about the squirrel, she said.


About me.

Blindsided and flattened by a force that I did not see coming, did not expect.

For quite a while, thinking I was dead.
Then maybe just paralyzed.
Then only partly so.
Then, finding that I am indeed mobile again.
Able to move, able to think.
And then....able to actually create and innovate.

Am I back?
Am I recovered?

Well, certainly I am not dead.

I still recognize the neighborhood, and all the characteristics thereof.

All the trees, all the houses, all the streets and cars and neighbors.

Of course, something happened in this series of events that I didn't anticipate.

I began to appreciate other things, other places.

Like other neighborhoods that don't have so many houses and trees in them.
Maybe aren't as fortunate or well-situated, if you will.

And people.

Like other people who don't have real names and faces.
Only blog postings.

Like other activities that don't require meetings and reports and next steps.
Only a cup of coffee - and an ear and a heart - to really listen.

So, yes, the trees and the houses and the bushes remain.
I am familiar with all of that.
Always will be.

But, so are the SUVs that occasionally make their way down the street.

I have a new respect for them, certainly, as I am sure my furry friend does now.

Maybe even a new thought that I don't belong on this street any more.

Maybe in a different neighborhood.

A different forest, even.

And in that new place, wherever it might be, I can celebrate something.
Something I didn't know I had while the big car was bearing down on my unsuspecting self.
Something I thought wasn't a part of me while I lay injured and in shock in the road.
Something for sure seemed to be gone forever, never to be enjoyed again.
Something that now has greater value than it ever could have before.

Resilience.

Southbound

By the time you read this, I will have blown by a few of these signs.

It is time to head for home again.

Home to warmer temperatures, home to gravy-free meals, home to people who walk with straight legs.

At least, once I clear the panhandles of Oklahoma and Texas, that is.

I have decided to head south on Highway 83, instead of take the Interstate.

First reason:  I am quite enamored with the countryside, of which the Interstate tends to feature very little.

Second reason:  I actually like to drive through some of those little towns, not just bypass them.

Take my sweet time to get back into urban environments, avoid the confluences of places like Wichita and Oklahoma City.

Just sneak in the back door to Dallas, if you will.

I have had a really good time up here - yet again - as you can tell from my recent posts.

Of course, I am still confused, still unclear about direction in the future, and more or less settled on the idea that this is all going to be quite transitory for a while.

...and becoming more at peace with that conclusion.

But, tomorrow is a travel day, friends.
Which I happen to enjoy a great deal.
Alone with my iPod.
My country music radio stations from Liberal then Guymon then Childress then Wichita Falls.
My precious Flamin' Hot Cheetos.
And maybe a last swig or two of Dr. Pepper or Arizona Ice Tea.

Just because I can. 
Just because I'm alone. 
Just because I do know there are better food and beverage choices once I land back in the suburbs.

And I do miss Joe.

So, wish me Godspeed, wish me safe travels, wish me good thinking time.

I will be back with you as soon as I am suburbanized again.

Which happens just about when Highway 287 starts to get too big for it's britches in North Texas.
Starts to add a few extra lanes.
Starts carrying more SUVs and less trucks.
No more hand waves from the steering wheels of rural Kansas and Oklahoma drivers.
No more hay and corn scraps fluttering in the constant wind.

Just McDonald's wrappers and Wal-Mart bags.

And then I arrive at home.
Give Joe a kiss.
Crack open an ice-cold beer.
Give Kenny a pet on his little golf-ball-sized head.

And be home.

Without forgetting where I've been.
What I've done.
What I've considered.
Whom I've met.

And where He wants me to go next.

See you when I'm back in another kind of saddle, folks.

Come and Get It (Cowboy Breakfast II)

So, okay, I just had to do it.

One more day up here, and I couldn't resist the temptation.

Drove back up to Nebraska to have breakfast with the boys again this morning.

I put on my old jeans, a denim shirt, and my worst shoes. 

I didn't shave.

I put a lot of "y'all's" in my speech, and tried to talk a lot about football.

Of course, I fit right in.

You just know I did, don't you?

I'm sure none of them noticed that I wasn't from these here parts.

The host remembered me (see my previous blog on this subject), so he introduced me to the others.

He said I had come up from Kansas for the occasion, which I guess is technically true for the moment.

So, these ol' boys were thinking that I was from below the Republican River, which flows through town here.

Actually, I am from below the Red River, gentlemen, if you really must know. 

They didn't.

When they brought out the food, I behaved.  I promise.

I didn't ask for Eggbeaters, or for a little extra avocado, or for some extra soy milk. 
Nor did I ask if this was Free Trade coffee I was drinking.

I did break down and ask for some Tabasco sauce, though; since I can't tolerate these guys with their propensity to put ketchup on everything.

I am surprised Nebraska restaurants don't have the stuff just slathered on their walls.

I didn't even complain about the weather this morning, either.

Which, by the way, was quite balmy by Nebraska-in-December standards.

It was 9 degrees outside.  (For my European friends, that's -12.8C)

So, here's the funny part:

We are all going to read a book together next month.

Kind of like a book club.

Me and the Nebraska cowboys are going to read a book together.

Yes, it makes me giggle a bit, too.
Even as I reverse the pronouns and place myself first in a sentence. 
Sorry, Joe (my English teacher/wife). 
I'm on vacation, okay?

It's one of those read-a-chapter-each-day things, kind of like The Purpose Driven Life was a while back.

It's not a bad thing for men to do this, regardless of your religious persuasion.

It helps us to figure things out, if we can do so together.

Now, mind you, I didn't help with the selection of the title.

I didn't offer anything from my Progressive Book Club, or The Nation, or something by Al Franken.

I know that those things don't exist west of Omaha. 

Trust me, Mr. Obama is not President of Western Nebraska.

If you want to know the truth, I think the actual President out here is probably Ben Cartwright.

And, religion out this a-way is more of the Christian Women's Temperance Union variety.

Nothing centrist about this, not by a long shot.

So, I also had to stow away the Budweiser jokes, or comments about the latest taste test scores from Cigar Aficionado on those fine Churchills that keep finding their way into North Texas.

A cowboy saunters over, looking like he needs to visit an orthopedic specialist immediately:

"Say, there, pardner, do ya like football?"

"As a matter of fact, I do!", I answer, beaming like the Southern California sun at the Rose Parade.

"Who's your favorite team?  Are you a 'huskers fan?"

"Why, yes!  I really like those guys.  I was watching them from the side of the road just last week!  They are really quite talented at putting all of that ground up corn stuff in their trucks!"

Silence.  Blank stares.

Finally, this poor person who would qualify for a handicapped bumper sticker in my home state, shifts his weight from his curved right leg to his equally-curved left: 

"So, then you're probably a Jayhawks fan.  What do you think of their chances next year?"

Another knowing look crosses this just-now-thawed-from-being-outside face.

"Well, with all these pheasants around this winter, there sure will be plenty to feed them."

If there was such a thing as a Nebraska cowboy bouncer, I probably would have been sitting in the 9-degree parking lot by this time.

But, I agreed to read the book after all. 

With them.

Together.

We will re-convene at the end of January to discuss our conclusions from the 31-day study.

In Nebraska.

They said they wanted to have a prime rib dinner, and that this restaurant here was the place to go.

I suggested another steak and chop house in Dallas, but got yet another round of those looks.

As if I don't know anything about beef.

Hey!  I grew up in the land of In-N-Out burgers, friend.

So, after some more rounds of conversation that weren't entirely unlike President Obama's recent trip to China (they being the Chinese, me being the Obama-type totally-out-of-place character), I tearfully bade my cowboy friends good-bye.

They all waved their hats in the air as I drove out of the frigid parking lot.

It was very touching.

They are really nice guys up here, after all. 

I really like Nebraska.

And all of those 'Huskers that are parked up and down the roads here.

As I looked in my rear-view mirror driving away, I saw their cowboy hats go up in the air.

Must be another one of their strange customs.

Hope You Guess My Name

"Ah, what's puzzling you is the nature of my game." 

I so well remember when this record was released.  (It was back in 1968, by the way.)

The evangelical community was aghast that Mick and Keith would dare to write about, well....him.

So much was attributed to those poor, unsuspecting rock n' roll boys that year.

Voices of the Underworld, harbingers of bad things, the true Evil Doers, they were.

If only the accusers knew at the time what was yet to come (think Goats Head Soup, Let it Bleed, etc.)

But, I digress.

In the midst of my recent puzzlement, I think about who might be responsible for all this inner chaos I am dealing with these days on the high plains of Kansas.

After all, it certainly can't be me. 

Since my subconscious is a virtual juke box of thousands of tunes that I have listened to, practiced, and played for so many years, you can only imagine what surfaces in my current state of mind...

"I stuck around St. Petersburg, when I saw it was time for a change..."

Having lived just around the corner from that place for most of two years, I can see the result of the Old Man's work there in the frigid Baltic countries. 

It remains to this day. 

If you don't believe me, go visit.

Trust me, he lingers.

I read Nancy's brilliant post this afternoon on the Decade of Excess, and I wonder:

"I shouted out, 'Who killed the Kennedys?', when after all, it was you and me."

Is our age of decadence (I may differ in that it has likely lasted far more than ten years), I wonder how responsible we might be for all of the chaos we have created for ourselves.

In our society.  In our country.  In our world.

It certainly is evident in our environment.

But is it also evident in our leaders?  Both the ones we have selected, as well as the ones we have cast out?

So, I sit here in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas, on an incredibly cold night, wondering....

Is this confusion a product of my own subconscious, or that of my wanna-be "friend" standing outside?

"Please allow me to introduce myself, I am a man of wealth and taste."

Maybe it's him standing out there, finger crooked and wagging, asking me to re-join his party.

"Come on", he says, "you have missed so much.  You deserve so much better than this."

Almost like that bad little boy who enticed Pinocchio to run away and visit the fair.  Remember?

Yes, the fair is attractive.  Even irresistible.

The problem is, it never ends.  You never really return to normal again. 

You aren't coming back to Gepetto's studio, friend.

"But what's confusing you is just the nature of my game."

So, I will stay inside tonight.

Crank up the heater a bit, since it's supposed to drop down to 12 degrees out here.

Open up a good book, and read.

Maybe even say a prayer or two.

Give me some wisdom here, please.

Some discernment, if you will.

Please help me be assured that I am answering a greater calling than that which seems to be emanating from outside the back door.

"So if you meet me, have some courtesy, have some sympathy, and some taste;

Use all your well-learned politesse,

Or I'll lay your soul to waste."

Tomorrow is a new day.  I think I am going to go back to Nebraska, one more time.

I have decided to have breakfast -again - with the Cowboys.

More about that later.

Just be careful who you listen to, friends.

"As heads is tales, just call me Lucifer,

'cause I'm in need of some restraint."

Hamburger Helper

This is a common sight along the highways and bi-ways of Western Kansas.

Not your typical eighteen-wheeler, since the cargo is actually alive.


Live stock, that is.


Heading to one of the local "processors" in Garden City, Dodge City, or elsewhere around here.


You can only imagine what happens after being dropped off at one of those locations.


Hence the title, which fairly well speaks for itself.


I have watched these trucks being loaded and unloaded while up here, and they make it a fairly user-friendly process, these cattlemen do.


Even for a steer (or a cow, or whatever they call them), it's pretty much a no-brainer to just walk down the chute, amble right up or down the ramp, and just follow along with the others.


Once you're in the truck, you can just hang there for a while, maybe sing a few songs.

Maybe play the license plate game with a few of your fellow travelers.


At the end of your field trip, you can then break into "I wish I were an Oscar Meyer weiner", since that is basically what you're about to become.


The cattlemen and truck drivers and processors probably won't have much of a party for you.

No gold watch, no fancy calendar from the factory you're presently about to enter.

Maybe not so much as a pat on the back.


After all, you had it pretty good - at their expense - for quite a number of years, you know.

Just hanging around with your classmates, having a snack from time to time.

Using the bathroom maybe a little more frequently than you really needed.

Walking around the "office" a lot, looking important, pretending that you had a lot of things to do.

Then, "retirement day" comes along.

You and your colleagues are congratulated, shipped out, and a new class of novices begin their training.

Yeah, it sounds familiar to me, too.

Sickeningly so.

I have a job interview this afternoon. With a major retailer here in the USA.

If I mentioned the name to you, you would know exactly who I am talking about.

The job description sounds interesting enough, as I read it.

The company's strength and solvency isn't in question, even in these precarious times.

The location is nice enough: Mild weather, major airports, good schools, lots of Sonic drive-ins around.

Why do I keep thinking that I am being sent down another chute?

Why do I wonder if I should start humming the Oscar Meyer Weiner song to myself now?

I will be fifty-seven years old this coming May.

Frankly speaking, the days of the gold watch and fancy dinner (laughs to himself) really aren't that far down the road for me, are they?

In animal terms, I am fairly well fatted, thank you.

I have had ample pasture time.

Taken plenty of bathroom breaks.

Walked around the offices of the world more than once, strutting like the old rooster that I am.

So, I think about the future these days. The junction in the road ahead.

Do I give myself over - yet again - to the wishes of the corporate culture.

Give them the remaining years of my "productivity", my creativity, my energies.

Then, when the (Oscar Meyer Weenie) whistle blows, take my piece of cake and just head out the door.

Thanks for the memories, Expat.

Next!

There I will be, thousands of miles, a number of years, far too many events and memories and happenings away from my family, my friends, my loved ones, my tamales, my Flaming Hot Cheetos.

But, you protest, isn't the pay and the benefits at these big companies worth considering?

Yes, they are. I do consider them. Seriously.

But, as I think about it, feed lots are pretty comfortable places to hang if you're a cow, too.

Like Fox News, I will have to remain fair and balanced about this decision.

I will do my absolute best in the interview this afternoon. I promise.

But I can't guarantee that I won't suddenly break into a long, drawn-out MOOOOO while I'm talking to the Human Resources Specialist.

Or start humming that song once again....



"Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer weiner....."

Rural Transactions

I went into "town" today.

That being the largest congregation of folks in this county. Population: 8000.

What that basically means is that if the people who live here were evenly spaced around the county, they could neither spit on, pee on, nor even see another person for as far as they could look in any direction.

It's enough to make an Angeleno hyperventilate, isn't it?

But I won't, thank you.
I always have an empty bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos around to rescue me if necessary.

Seems that the latest big news over in town today was the recent capture of a thief.

Poor guy. I mean, it turns out that he lives in this county, too.

What that means - right or wrong - is that everyone here knows him.
And his wife.
And his father.
And his mother.
And all of his friends.

He can't escape.

And, well, he didn't.

He was stealing farm equipment, allegedly.

Around here, farmers just leave their stuff out when it's time to go home after a day in the field.

All around the area here, you can see these things that churn, grate, grind, and rumble during harvest season. And when the day is done, they be done left.

Right where they are.

And, some of this stuff is very expensive. Like hundreds of thousands of dollars each.

That, good readers, is more than a Malibu hot tub.

With scented candles thrown in.

That's a lot of boxes of cereal, my friend.

So, this poor slob takes all of these left-behind implements, and stashes them in a big quonset hut-garage that he has on his property. He being a farmer and all, it just looked normal for him to have a big storage area like that out back.

Of course, sooner or later the harvester-bereft men of the earth start to complaining.

And then, the local police are summoned to assist with the search for stolen goods.

Both of them.

Not that people in this part of the country are unusually nosy, but they are pretty good when it comes to snooping around.

Doesn't take long, when they all pitch in and work together.

Before you know it, this poor schmuck gets caught with the goods.

The locals tell me that he was released on bond this week, after he was booked at the station.

He isn't a flight risk, apparently.

Which surprises me.

But the more I thought about it, I actually began to feel sorry for this guy.

A little, anyway.

How can he do anything when he's around here now?

Everybody knows him, knows all the members of his family, and all of his relatives and friends.

He can't go anywhere or do anything without arousing suspicion now.

At least in the city, we can sort of get lost in the crowds again.

Just kind of blend back in.

Since there aren't any crowds like that this side of Denver or Kansas City, the only thing this ol' boy can get lost in now is the corn stalks.

And they, if you have noticed my latest Farm Report, have all but been ground down into many tiger-laden cereal boxes.

I'm sure the locals will follow the ensuing trial with great interest.

Apparently all the stolen farm equipment was displayed at the local fairgrounds recently, so that the various farmers could drive by and identify their long lost Deere friends.

I am slowly getting into country humor, as you can see.

I also wonder what's going to happen to this unfortunate farmer-turned-felon.

What kind of sentence can they impose upon a man of the flattest earth on earth?

A Kansan man, no less?

Probably a sentence to some penitentiary in the mountains.

Where they will serve him corn flakes every day, so he can see what he's missing.

And with no gravy privileges.

Outside One's Element

As I was hurtling up the Interstate the other day, I saw a good deal of this activity.

Don't worry if you don't know what it is; I wouldn't have either, if I wasn't told.


Seems that growing up in Los Angeles, the only time I would ever encounter this would be in Aisle #3 of my local supermarket. Usually with a picture of a smiling tiger next to this scene. Oh, well.


This is the corn harvest, friends.


Guys drive around with, um, harvesting machines (sorry, that's the best I can do), and churn this stuff up through the big chute pictured here.


Then the stuff is somehow separated into, um, what-is-really-corn and what-is-really-not.


And somehow, maybe in the bottom of the truck somewhere, it all gets stuffed into little cereal boxes.


With pictures of tigers on them.


Something about being out of your element presents life in a new and intriguing way, doesn't it?


I know I don't belong here. The locals know I don't belong here.


And yet, somehow, we all enjoy the strange contrast.


I can sit and just stare at this countryside for hours. It's a lot like staring at the ocean.


Something just transfixes you.


I can sit and just stare at these funny corn harvesting contraptions, too.


I'm sure they don't mind my standing there on the side of the road, gawking.


Hawaiian shirt flapping in the winter breeze, goosebumps emerging all around my flip-flops. Flaming Hot Chee-tos blowing out of the seat of my car.


I suppose I could just stand there with a cereal bowl and a spoon and hope.


But, then again, I am out of my element, you see.


Yesterday I went to "Sunday Dinner" at a local Chinese restaurant.


Since I have partaken in such Asian extravagances in Asia, I am familiar with the cuisine.


Funny, though, here in Thomas County Kansas, it isn't exactly as I thought.


I think I was the only one in the entire area code that was actually using chopsticks to eat the food.


But, now that I think about it, it is difficult to eat what Kansans eat with aforesaid implements.


I mean, how in the world are you going to scoop up all of that gravy with these wooden sticks?


Anyway, I am enjoying myself up here.


Again.


It just doesn't seem to get old for me. And I've been up here a lot this year.


Not that I am getting used to it, and not that I ever will, mind you.


I just know when I am out of my element, and I guess I can enjoy the differences.


Hey, what's the fun in being the same as everyone else, anyway?


I guess that's why I am so perplexed at the options that are currently in front of me.


I could, conceivably, put on a shirt and tie and nice shoes and get back on the freeway somewhere in some big city. Selling things like in the cereal boxes that eventually come from the efforts illustrated above.


Or, I could, inconceivably, do something - strange, even - with these people up here.

Even without their chopsticks.
Even with their gravy.
Even with these funny vehicles that drive around the fields and swoop up all that has grown and fill up trucks with this stuff.


Life is funny that way.


And, since I firmly believe that life is to be enjoyed, I will prefer to not be normal.


Not any more.


Whatever your element might be, you might want to try to jump out of it.


Just once, just for the heck of it.


You never know, you just might like it.


You just might learn something new.


Like how your cereal is made.