Check This Out:

I was searching sites of interesting things to do in the southwest, for my cousins who will be visiting from Britain this summer. I thought I would clue them in on some of America's greatest assets- our roadside wonders. There is nothing like a trip on route 66 to make you appreciate how big and beautiful this country is. Here's the song, with some great footage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9OsmSoO8b0&feature=related

and here is the link to one of my favorite sights along Route 66:
www.meteorcrater.com/

How I Accidentally Ended Up Leading The Presidential Motorcade Not Once, But Twice In This Lifetime- So far!

Well, it's finally here, after 8 long years of hell under the current administration, we once more get to choose between the lesser of two evils. I'm definitly going to get out and vote, and I hope you do too. To celebrate the season I've finally written the account, for your enjoyment, of my unprecedented two time brush with destiny.

I know, it's hard to believe, but honestly, it happened to me.

The first time I meandered into the presidential motorcade was way back when, when I was a student in Marietta, Georgia. One day I was minding my own business, just meandering home from classes along a route I took every day. I was driving along listening to some tunes when I became aware that something was not quite right.

I looked to the left, and I looked to the right and what did I see? Nothing. I mean no one. I mean no cars. On the normally clogged with traffic expressway, I was totally alone. I was pondering the meaning of this. Had I been transported through some worm hole to an alternate universe where traffic jams did not exist? Was it much later ( or much earlier?) than I thought and possibly I had missed the traffic entirely? Had I fallen asleep at the wheel and I was now dreaming of a life where I, and I alone, owned the road? Had the bomb dropped and somehow it missed me and everyone else was vaporized, cars and all? Had I somehow driven right into The Twilight Zone?

I came around a curve in the road and was somewhat relieved to see people standing at the corner as I approached the traffic light. But wait! Something was still not quite right. The people had guns! What the heck! And there were police cars and guys with FBI vests and what the heck had I stumbled upon? Was it a SWAT event in progress? ( and yes, believe it or not, I have also driven right into the middle of a SWAT event! Just lucky I guess.)

I wanted to just put the pedal to the metal and high tail it right outta there but the light happened to turn red and I figured with all those cops and guns and cop cars it would be a bad and immature choice to go blasting through a red light so I geared down and stopped. Right at the white line. Full stop, no rolling. Perfectly legal.

I was still pondering the whole situation when a lady, obviously employed by the Georgia State Cops, ( I'm smart, I could tell right away by the uniform, bullet proof vest and that funny brown hat, not to mention the big old shot gun she was toting), came running up to the car screaming and gesturing in a wild manner. I realized she was probably not going to shoot because there were to many witnesses, so I turned the music down and rolled the window down.

" Can I help you?", I asked.
"What are you doing here?", she screamed.
"Um, driving home from school?" I asked.
"How did you get through the road block?", she was still screaming, (very excitable for a cop I thought).
"Um, what road block?", I asked.

Then she went on gesturing wildly and telling me the whole road system for miles around was blocked off for the presidential motorcade, which, apparently was due to arrive at that very corner in 3.7 Milli-seconds.

"Um, I never saw a road block?", I asked while I was thinking - what kind of dinky little road block could they have set up, if I didn't even see it while I apparently drove right through it!

At this question she started gesturing in an even more wildly agitated way and asked me where I got on the road. So I told her the entrance ramp I had taken onto the expressway and she started hollering into her walkie-talkie and I guessed, from the conversation, that the cops, the FBI and probably the CIA as well had made a little boo-boo. Their impenetrable net was hanging wide open and I was the little fishy that got through and swam right up in their faces. Good thing I wasn't some wild eyed, voice hearing, crazy militia type with a beef against society as a whole and the president in particular.

I did my best to radiate love and good will and all that crap while I was sweating bullets wondering if I was gonna be dragged from the car, cuffed and held for questioning. I was ready to pledge my allegiance to the flag, swear under oath I had voted for this president and beg for mercy.

I didn't have to do any of the above because my calm loving good-will to all vibe was obvious even to the wildly gesturing cop lady and she told me to turn left and do it quick. WOW! Permission to run the red light!

I put it in gear, hit the metal and swung around the corner just in time to see the motorcade fly by in my rear view mirror.

Well, I thought that was a once in a life time incident, but what the heck do I know?

Many years pass- moons wax and wane, seasons change following seasons that change, trees bud and go dormant, clock hands spin relentlessly. Presidents come and go.

I'm meandering home from the pool hall in my beat up Chevy ( Honest officer, I'm a patriot! I'm driving American made!) and I hear a funny noise. Not a funny Ha Ha noise, but a funny- oh no! That doesn't sound good noise. So I pull over and inspect the car and I find a flat tire! Well, no wonder the road felt a little bumpy.

So I'm standing on the side of the road trying to guess whether I have a spare tire and a jack, and looking for a pick up truck with a good looking brawny type guy to drive up so I can flag down some assistance, when I notice there is not another car on the road. How odd, I thought. No traffic. (I didn't get the hint right away). I figure I'm on my own so I walk around the back of the car and before I can pop the trunk a big black car pulls up on the shoulder of the road and stops really close to my car. I'm suspicious immediately. I ask myself to quickly review the possible weapons I have in the car, like a road map, several empty to go coffee cups, an extra pair of socks, a sweater and a pen. Damn! Where's the base ball bat when you need it?

The big black car vomits two big guys in identical suits. Now I'm really suspicious because I'm thinking - when was the last time your road side assistance came in the form of a couple of guys in tailor made suits, white starched shirts, Italian loafers and aviator sunglasses? Never- Right? So I start backing away and glancing around looking for the traffic that should have been around, but was not.

"Can I help You?", I ask.
" What are you doing parked here?" One says.
" I'm not parked here, I have a flat tire?" I ask as I wonder what wall street firm this brilliant guy works for.

They take a moment to ponder this and then say, " The presidential motorcade is on the way, you have to move this car".
I just laugh.
"Take a look, do you think it's going to move before I change the tire?"

So they ask me a few more questions like where have you been and where are you going while they look at the flat as a pancake tire. I give them permission to look in the car and they glance in the windows and announce they have to get this car out of here.
" Do you have a spare?" they finally get around to asking.
"Damn I hope so?" I ask as I circle around to open the trunk, which when I do, causes them to jump back gasping and fondling their holsters. Of course, in the trunk lies my big black pool cue case which I guess to a FBI indoctrinated mind looks just like a bazooka case. They get all fidgety as I explain it's just my pool cue case. It's obvious they are now on orange alert and are eying me trying to figure out if I'm wired to detonate the pool cue case from a remote location.

" Don't touch it", they yell as I start to lift it off the trunk floor which of course is the hatch to get to the spare tire and jack. I drop the case and they move in, quick to get between me and the threatening pool cue case. Now I want to laugh again but realize that might not be wise, so I give them permission to open the case. Which they do and are satisfied to see that indeed, it's a pool cue case.

By now they are at ease and start glancing at their identical watches and again start talking about getting this car out of here.

I stand along side the road, watching for the coming motorcade while these two guys in suits perform like a pit crew at the Indy 500. I have to say that FBI academy must have a real good course in changing tires because once they decided to take that action, that old tire was off and the spare on in no time. Taking their suit jackets off took longer than changing the tire.

Once they were done with the tire they instructed me to "haul ass to the nearest intersection and get off this street". I thanked them and did as instructed, watching in my rear view mirror, and again, as I turned I saw the presidential motorcade flash by in my rear view mirror. I was only moments ahead of them and thus, technically, leading the presidential motorcade for the second time in this life time- so far.

Runaway Buckboard!

The buck board had been piled high with supplies when I left the town a few hours (or was it a few life times?) ago. The sun was shining, birds singing. The horses sauntered along, the rhythmic clip clop of their hooves causing the relaxing alpha waves to enter my brain. I was awake, aware, but very relaxed as we sailed along across the expansive dry open desert. A luminous turquoise sky above stretched from one horizon to the other, suggesting the immensity of the ball of dirt, hurtling through space, that we call a planet. Wide open was what came to my mind, that feeling of growth and possibility and freedom - wide open.

I can’t say I know what spooked those horses, but spooked they became. One moment we were sailing like a boat on a calm lake and the next we were rough shot right out of a cannon and hurtling forward at a speed that felt like something Einstein imagined. I was holding the reigns as best I could, as I struggled to stay in the seat. I was sliding back and forth and bouncing up and down so fast I wasn’t sure what was up and what was down. I held those reigns but just, I certainly wasn’t in control of the wagon. The bushes and rock formations seemed to speed by, it was as if we were still and the world was moving way to fast. I guess a jolt of adrenalin will do that to you, change your perspective and maybe switch things around in your head.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw the load on the back of the wagon begin to topple. No wonder, we were plummeting down a narrow lane, bouncing every time we hit a rock or stand of sage brush. With every bounce, the wagon gave a shudder that became a bone rattling jolt, then, sighed like a forty year veteran of door to door sales. At any moment I expected to see nails start rocketing out of the wood rails of the buck board, shooting up like popcorn popping in a pan with no lid. At any moment I expected the wagon to wrench apart, boards screaming, nails popping, splinters flying, just like a big whaler on the open ocean caught in a category 4 hurricane.

As the load teetered on the edge and then fell, I saw my things flying off into the dirt, bouncing, and bouncing again, and rolling away. The dust was so thick and I was going so fast that I could just make out the shapes of my things, just for a moment, as they bounced away behind me, left on the trail for some future passer-by to pick up. My half finished children’s book, my illustrations for another book, my paintings of vacation spots I have loved. My yoga workout and my bike rides, my hours of reading mystery novels. My time to write interesting, entertaining, enlightening articles for the loyal readers of my blog. All, all, bouncing behind me down the lane.

Honestly my dear readers, I’m sure things are going to calm down here soon, I will get used to the new job, it will get easier and less time consuming as I go along, and soon, very soon, I’m sure I will have my life reigned back in to a meandering pace and I will re-claim my time to write.

Where Have I Been?

Did I tell Ya'll I just got a job teaching a holistic health class at a major University?
Yep, Imagine that.

Any hoo- I let them talk me into it at the last moment and classes started this week. I'm still trying to find my e-mail address and set up my program to communicate with students. Nothing is done on paper these days! I also have a smart room, which is really cool because you know I love that technological stuff.

Today I managed to get into the system with my new ID, got the room powered up and was all ready to show the class how to find Linus Pauling ( 2 time Nobel prize winning chemist who studied vitamin C and concluded it could kill cancer cells- ever hear of him? No, neither has anyone else... ) and the projector would not project! I changed settings and messed with buttons and finally picked up the Bat phone- Yes, IT has an emergency line much like Bat Man had. The bat phones are located in each smart room in case people like me can't get the projector to project.

I dialed the emergency extension which took me right to that super smart girl in IT. I explained that the projector would not project. She said "is the projector button on?"
Well of course, I'm not a total idiot I thought. "Yes".
"Is the source button turned to PC?" She asked "Yes " again.
"Is the cabinet open?"she asked.
"What cabinet?" I replied.
"The one the projector is in at the back of the room."

OK, maybe I am an idiot. Thank God I was early and the whole class did not see that.


Any-hoo, I have a few days off over this long weekend and plan to get something new posted here for you real soon!

That Stephen King Feeling

I've adopted bike riding as my sport for this summer. I found a nice old fashioned, nothing fancy bike with shiny chrome fenders and I started peddling. I think I might be naturally nosy, because I am enjoying riding around the town I live in, snooping into other peoples lives. I mean, driving in a car you really don't notice a lot of what is happening in your neighborhood, but on a bike, well that is a whole 'nother story.

I live in a town that has a lot of homes, in fact, most of them, built in the 1800's, including my own, built in 1895. All the main neighborhoods are that old, occasionally I go off into a side road neighborhood and they may be late blooming developments from the 40' and 50's, nothing more recent. Among the older homes are scattered homes from the 20's, a large sprinkling of craftsman style cottages and other past years infill building.

I frequently also ride through the main cemetery. Many of the headstones are worn smooth they are so old, and I have found birth dates back to the early 1700's. Anyway, I lose track of time and distance when I'm riding around engrossed in the neighborhoods.

Oh, number 26 has a big cat on the porch! That old junker in the backyard of 365 is gone..., I see "miss circa 1808" is getting a new coat of paint, I can't believe how much junk is in the back yard of that blue house. I wonder why it looks like no one lives in that place, and why hasn't the car at # 1902 moved in two weeks? I start to make up stories to go with the houses. Old Aunt Mildred lives here and does not want to open her curtains ever because she is afraid of the aliens living next door. Sometimes I just get a feeling from the house, I mean, you can kind of tell if a home is happy or not just by looking at it, right?

Example- Picture the home in Leave It To Beaver, or My Three Sons- got it? OK, now picture the home in Alfred Hitchcock's ground breaking classic movie Psycho. See what I mean? Ya kinda get a feel for what's going on inside. Any hoo, I don't have a run away imagination or anything like that, but I have to tell you, almost all the homes in my town look like the one in Psycho, only nicer. Some of them even have paint to rival San Francisco's famous painted ladies, but still, they are those kind of psycho style houses.

So maybe that explains what happened the other day, maybe at the heart of the matter is my life long fear of that movie Psycho, honestly, I still can't take a shower with out getting nervous.

But, as I was saying I was riding around town, being nosy and looking at all the houses and gardens and all and I had the feeling that something was watching me back. I was in the neighborhood with the three huge homes built by the first doctor who lived in town. He built a huge home on the top of the only hill in town, then, he built two homes for his two daughters, one on each side of his own. Guess he wanted them to settle nearby.

I got the feeling that those eyebrow trimmed windows were raised at me, and those houses were whispering back and forth about me. I wondered at the fact that most of the homes in this town are older than anyone who lives here. Really, it's their town. We humans are just passing through. We are temporary maintenance persons for the lumbering hulk of these Victorian and Gothic revival beauties; we are not that important except in our role to make sure they survive another generation. Then I got that creepy Stephen King kind of feeling. What if they were watching? What if they didn't like me snooping around all the time? What if...

My Meandering Tale of My Love Affair With Pool

I remember the first time I became aware of the sport of billiards. I was captivated from the start. I was only a child, in grade school. Our math teacher entertained us with a movie about geometry. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck played pool on a big green table. The commentator explained angles and fractions and all kinds of mathematical relationships illustrated by the loveable cartoon character’s billiard shots. There was something special about the way those beautiful colored balls could be sent spinning around from one rail to another and actually land where they were supposed to. It seemed like magic! I never forgot it.

My Love affair with billiards sprouted when I was a teenager. My best friend’s dad had an eight foot table in the play room. He and his sons would piddle around with the game. I suppose it was a male bonding thing. Meanwhile my friend, the only daughter, was excluded because they said, “pool is for men”. Of course this attitude just made us more curious about the game and we took any opportunity to mess around with the “men’s game” when no one was looking. We carefully replaced the sticks, chalk, and balls when we were done so her dad didn’t think we had become too masculine for his tastes.

When I went off to college, half way across the country, my friend went with me, just so she could escape from home. We got an apartment just blocks from the college and I spent all my time there, rather than in the dorm. Being recently freed from the yoke of parental supervision, we did what any other almost legal young’ins would do, and took to hanging out at the local honky-tonk. It was cool, dark, had cold beer, and a few pool tables.

It was there we met a bunch of brothers, recently released from the army and pretty darn good at the game of pool. I learned that the army will teach you how to play pool, because every rec center has tables. I quickly caught on to the basics- how to hold the stick and make a few balls. The bar, and then with the brothers tutorage, the pool halls became my home away from home. They were a haven from the heat of the southwest back when air conditioning was a luxury that none of us could afford.

Over the years we all drifted our separate ways, but my way always seemed to be in the direction of another pool table. When I moved another half way across the country to go to another college, I found pool had become something I could always count on. It filled the space between classes and gave me an opportunity to focus on something besides books. I also found practicing the sport to be relaxing, so it gave me a break from the stress of graduate school. There was a pool hall just moments from campus where I led an alternative life away from my classmates. None of them played and that really didn’t matter, pool, after all, is the perfect solitary sport. Even when you are playing against others, you are really playing yourself. The competition is between your last best game, and your current game.

I graduated and moved again and for a time, gave up playing. Most pool players will tell you there have been spaces in their lives when they didn’t play. Sometimes spaces of years. Life happens, and jobs, kids, family stuff can tend to cut into your time for sports. Some players just get fed up with it and have to take time off. I’ve never met anyone who said they never went back to it. I found myself living in an area where there were no pool halls, and the bars were just crowded, dark and unfriendly. I took a few years off.

My next move, as luck would have it, took me straight into the arms of the most pool friendly community I had ever known. I could not have imagined it when I moved again half way across the country. I found myself a nice little apartment just a block from a library (I always look at proximity to libraries when I rent), and it turned out, just a mile from a pool hall. I got busy building my new life and found again, that pool was my close companion. I had moved to a town where I did not know a soul, I started filling my lonely time with racks of balls. I had a new home away from home, and an old love to focus on in that stressful time of starting my business.

Around that time I met two people who would change my view of pool forever. The first was a handsome pool player with a very serious game. I started hanging out watching my sweetie play and I was amazed at the depth of his game. I hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface of playing pool. I spent hours watching “money games’, and afterwards would ask “How did you do this shot?” or “Why did you make this shot?” or “Why didn’t you make this shot?”- a really important question in the real game of pool.

I also met a woman who was to become a good friend, a professional player and director of one of the leagues in town. It turned out the town was a breeding ground for female professionals and had leagues playing almost every night of the week. She encouraged me to sign up to play in a league and even hooked me up with a team willing to take on a beginner. I’m forever grateful for her kindness, and the kindness of my first team mates who encouraged me and taught me and put up with me when it was apparent I was way “out of my league’.

My first season was a complete disaster. First I showed up for league only to find it was a 9-ball league! I had never played 9-ball, didn’t even know the rules, and was certain that it took a lot more skill than 8-ball. I was so nervous I couldn’t hit a ball, and when I did hit a ball, they never went where I intended. I took a severe beating every time I played and pretty soon I was sure I couldn’t play. I was ecstatic when the season was over because although I was a terrible shot, I definitely am not a quitter and I hung in there for the entire embarrassing 16 weeks. I went home, hid my cue in the back of the closet and vowed not to show my face in a pool hall for at least a few months.

My vow didn’t stick and I was soon up early every morning to take advantage of the opening silence of the average pool hall. By then, another venue had opened just blocks from my apartment and I went every morning to practice. I was soon joined by a group of retired gentlemen who met there for coffee each morning and then wiled away their hours betting small change on a variety of pool games I had never heard of. Again, the kindness of the pool community drew me back in as the “old Guys” gave me tips on my stance, stroke and aiming techniques.

The more I learned, the more I realized I didn’t know anything and that I needed the help of a professional. I decided to get serious and made the call. The call to the guy who was teaching the female professionals in town. I set up a time to go hit some balls with him and talk about what I didn’t know. I think his first reaction to my demonstration of my abilities was “Holy Mother of God, what am I going to do with this one’, only I’m not sure because he was muttering in Spanish which, at the time, was still a foreign language to me.

After thoroughly assessing my lack of ability, he agreed to take me on as a student- with four conditions. I had to pay for a month up front, two lessons a week. I had to show up for the lessons, no misses. I had to be willing to let go of everything I thought I knew about pool, ( hey, I read Carlos Castanda, I was sure I had hit pool consciousness pay dirt here), and last but not least, I had to practice. He assured me he would know if I had not, and I knew he was telling the truth.

Agreements made, he gave me my first practice drill. Hit the ball down the rail, on each side of the table, as many times as it took to make the pocket 100 times. Sounds simple, is incredibly hard for a beginner, and makes a good bar bet, ( “bet ya can’t make this shot 3 times in a row”) because you just can’t do it if you don’t stroke straight. After a few gazillion rail shots, I was feeling like the little kid in that Karate Kid movie. When would I ever see how this seemingly mindless task was going to make me a player?

Again, I had met someone who changed my view of pool forever. I remained steadfast in my practice, up to 30 hours a week at one point, and I fell even more in love with the game. My teacher became my friend, and we remain close to this day. He challenged me to be the very best that I could be. Over the course of six years, he patiently set up thousands of shots for me, and coached me in all things pool, and a few things about life in general as well. He never wavered in his faith that I could be a great player, and his faith helped me achieve more than I thought I could.

My teacher had advised me not to play, just practice for a year. This I did, and at the end of the year one of my coffee club friends set me up with an all female 8-ball bar league team that was looking for another player. I figured I was ready to get back in the game. The team took me in like a long lost sister. I started loosing my competition jitters and started making a lot of friends. I was winning enough to make me feel like I belonged on a league and having a great time to boot.

Over the next few years our team roster changed a bit and we worked our way up the roster to become one of the top teams on the league. Meanwhile our venues seemed to be working their way down the list from friendly bar to hole in the wall in dangerous neighborhood. My last season on the league we played a team housed in a notorious biker bar, and although the team was nice enough, the guys riding bikes through the bar and the questionable activities in the restrooms became too distracting and I bailed out.

By that time, I was already playing on several “big table” leagues as well, in the much safer pool halls.

Now you might find this confusing, since pool halls tend to have a bad connotation, but honestly, in my opinion, most of the trouble in pool halls comes from people who don’t really play pool. The guys out on a Friday to hit a few balls and get stinking drunk are a problem, and they aren’t players. I’ve heard rumors as well, about late night big money games becoming something like an incident from a crime novel but I’ve never seen it myself. Overall, pool halls are safe family fun, and on league night, usually no problem. OK, I did see one good fight one night at league, but that’s one fight out of hundreds of nights of play, and I have to say, the guy deserved it!

At that point I was playing on two all female teams (including the infamous “Ball Busters”) and subbing on another, I was deeply entrenched in the pool hall scene. It was time to start playing tournaments. I started playing mixed tournaments and always ended up going home early. I was learning my game though, how to “not react” to a bad shot, how to remain calm when I was down a few games, how to remain focused between sets, how to be a kind winner and a gracious loser.

I was also making new friends, as some of the tournament players were not on leagues. I met one of my closest friends at a tournament. I showed up early to practice, I’m a slow starter, I need to warm up for a while before I play. In walks a woman I had never seen before, I was the only other woman in the hall so she sauntered over and asked if she could hit a few balls with me. I was impressed with her skills and we had a lot in common, both from the northeast originally, both with fancy degrees, and both with a Wiley dry sense of humor. By the end of the day I had asked her to join one of the all girl teams I was on. We’ve been close ever since.

The first woman’s tournament I played, I actually won. After a grueling 10 hours in the losers’ bracket of a ladies B-player 9-ball tournament, I double dipped the defending champion and walked away with the cash. Well, actually, I didn’t walk away with the cash, I donated it back to the pool organization that sponsored the tournament. I did however walk away with the official bracket sheet with my name in the top dog spot. It was worth every minute of that long day.

I was getting comfortable with competing (vs. playing) pool, and somebody noticed. I got a call from the top ladies team in town, would I like to audition for a spot. Now, usually a team forms based on friendship as much as skill. This team, however, was bound for glory and they knew it. They had a history of graduating professional players. They were looking for skill first, steady nerves second, and hopefully, friendship would follow. I got the spot, and friendship did follow. These ladies were not only some of the best players in town, but some of the nicest as well.

I was in over my head again, and I knew it. Apparently they didn’t though, and I started practicing with one of those girls (who took me under her wing- thank you!), and my game took off again. I was the weakest player on the team, but their strength pulled me forward. They advised but never criticized, they laughed at my mistakes but never unkindly. They, like my teacher, challenged me to be better than I was. Playing with these ladies really helped me to develop the confidence to start playing in the Hunter’s tournaments, part of the pro-qualifying circuit, which they all played, and where I would meet my team mates as competitors over and over.

At the end of that season, I went to Las Vegas for the first time to play in the Billiards Congress of America National 8-ball Championship. I went with one of only five ladies teams in the country powerful enough to be ranked masters. Now, I have to tell you I was still the weakest link, and because the competition was so close, I never did play in that tournament. My team played beautifully, only losing one match, and I was proud to be there with them. I went back the next year, as a sub for another team and I played every match. Both times, I was happy to be there. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be a serious player and be in the middle of a huge tournament like that. It’s heaven.

That season was the end of a long run for the ladies team, they decided (maybe?) to quit while they were ahead and we scattered to other teams. I think that may have been the first year I put together my own team.

Some teams are formed just for power, team captains invite only the strongest players. I wanted a team that was strong, but fun as well. I knew a lot of players by that time, and being pretty easy to talk to, I had a good idea of who was happy with their current team and who might be interested in switching to a new ream for the next season. I started looking for great players who were fun to be around and had winning attitudes. Of course I went to players from past teams first, and hooked up with a few great players who would remain with the team through all its incarnations.

Over the years I made a few mistakes, but when I did I made sure to change the roster before the next season. I actively recruited players during the summer break. Twice I got to the start of the season with out enough players and ended up inviting a player I hardly knew to join us, that was always risky, sometimes it worked great and that guy became one of our best and most reliable players. Sometimes it didn’t work and the person dropped out or was not asked to play again.

Occasionally I tried to steal players from other teams. I’m so darn cute and persuasive, it usually worked. I got some of our best players that way, including one really fine player who put up with me begging him every time I saw him for several months before he finally agreed to play with us. He got to the point were every time I walked up to him he rolled his eyes and tried to walk away, but I persisted and finally found a few things we had in common to build a friendship on- science, music, humor-and eventually won him over.

I think I spent five years as team captain. As a team we grew into a winning one, taking first place in our league the last two years we played together. As friends, we grew as well and I came to love everyone on that team. As team mates you support, encourage and depend on each other. We shared our lives tales, our happiness and our woes at least once a week for years. I rarely saw my teammates out side of the pool hall, none of them had ever been to my home, but I could not have been closer to them. They were my family and I think most people who play on leagues would say the same thing, their team is like family.

I’m coming to the end of this great meandering tale now, I made another cross country move and for the second time I ended up in a place with just a few pool halls, none of them friendly to ladies. I’ve decided to take a little time off, learn to write, paint a few landscapes, stuff like that. My pool cue case sits in the corner in the living room, I see it every day. I know playing pool is like riding a bike, once you know how, you never forget. I know my love affair with pool is not over, I’m just on hiatus. Some things in your life are sure. The sun is going to rise, taxes will be due, death is going to knock at your door, and for me, pool is always going to be there, to keep me company, to amuse me, to challenge me, and to lead me to great friends.

My Best Guess as to the Essence of Pool

Adoring public waits patiently- that should be the headline for this post. I know you have waited almost a week to see the details of my sordid life among the hustlers and sharks of the pool hall world. I’m going to make this a two part post, the first part about the essence of the game, is here. The second part, a closer look at my personal journey with the game will post in the near future.

I’m sure you have anticipated a story full of the slow drift of smoke from a cigarette laid on the edge of a pool table, the sound of a rack of pool balls breaking, crisply snapped, the slow nodding of players down the hall who also heard the snap of the rack breaking, even though they were not listening. They couldn’t help it, it’s instinctual at this point, they hear it and nod because they know it was a good break just from the sound.

You are expecting the background hum of some old juke box that plays incessantly even though no one is really listening, the smell of fried food and beer and cigars. The distant crackle of conversation and the sound of cars racing or commentary on sports from the big TV’s above the bar, an occasional burst of laughter at some joke shared by the old timers and career drinkers gathered there.

You are probably anticipating the story of games gone bad, of fights, gambling and guns. You may wonder what the heck this lady was doing, drifting through days with out the sun, nights with out moon, the glare of fluorescents above the pool tables lighting her way.

I must have walked through those doors hundreds of thousands of times. Doesn’t matter which hall, the doors are all the same, a small tunnel taking you from sunlight to darkness, keeping the cool in and the hot out, closing off the world. I guess I always entered head bowed, because I remember the carpets, the tile, the floor, the look and smell of the entry way of the halls. Leaving the outside world behind, zeroing in on the objective for the day, be it practice, play, or competition. Maybe it’s just a game, but I don’t know too many people that play it just for fun.

That may be one of the things you are not anticipating, the many distinctions in pool. You may be picturing Paul Newman as the young hustler, Jackie Gleason the seasoned player, head on like rams locked in battle. Possibly you have been in a pool hall, maybe a Saturday night when the crowd is there, full of young guys playing hustler and young girls watching from high stool perches, their long legs and high heels holding on for dear life.

There is a good possibility you have never seen anyone practice, never seen a real match played. As usual, life is not like the movies.

I did see a match one time that reminded me of the movies, a seasoned older player and a young cocky player locked in some kind of combatant dance. I didn’t think it was just about pool. The young man was losing, but not by much so he kept betting, waiting for his comeback that never came. He bet away his rent, his food, his gas, he had nothing but anger and resentment by the time his opponent figured he had done enough damage and called it quits. Both of them were the kind of players you think my stories will be full of, one who loves to see others squirm, the other one, can’t help it, self esteem so bad they want to squirm.

You also may expect the hapless character, running into bad luck, like the guy I know who won big at a match in Vegas and was greeted in the parking lot when he left by a man with a gun, expecting the winnings to be returned.

You might expect stories of bad guys and I could give you that too, only the worst guys I met were not in the pool halls, but in the bars I played in while I was on the bar table leagues. Not the players mind you, the guys in the bar. Like the notorious biker gang members who decided to have a big meeting in their hang out which was one bar in our league.

It happened to be the night we played. We were an all girl team. The set up wasn’t nice.
The pack of big guys in matching leather vests obviously worked up about something. The constant stream of skinny, hollowed eyed girls back and forth to the rest room to “powder” their noses. These were distracting, but not as much as the interruption that came when one of the bad guys, I’m guessing pretty liquored up, drove his bike through the bar and a small skirmish erupted. The headline in the paper the next day- Early Morning Raid-Gang Members Arrested After Body Found Behind Bar.

Maybe you think that is too dark, to unsettling and would rather hear about the colorful cast of characters that inhabit any pool hall.

The hustlers groping for a money game, the disabled guys who can’t work because of their backs, who by some miracle, can lean over a pool table all day, The groups of retired guys visiting, joking and shedding the day by playing a game of golf on the pool table. The road players, stumbling in and innocently missing balls as they watch the play around them, and the young guys with cheap cues playing alone, vows to be a player whispered, grips to tight, and strokes that wobble.

You might even hear of the lone female player, off in a corner paying no attention to all of these characters, just setting up shots and hitting them over and over and over. You might hear of the old timers telling tales of past conquests, like my dear friend Louie who, years ago, beat Minnesota Fats so bad he felt obligated to send him back to his hotel in a limo. Apparently Minnesota Fats was the gentleman he was rumored to be, posing graciously with my friend after the match so a photo could be taken of Louie and the great man he beat.

Maybe you have watched pool on TV and expect stories of incredible shots and winning games. I have those too, like the time my friend and I were annoyed by some drunks playing at the table next to us. My friend chose a moment when they were gathered around their pitcher of beer and expertly launched a “bad” shot across the table which resulted in the cue ball flying off the table right into the pitcher of beer, soaking all the drunks. My friends shot was so “bad”, even the drunks could not imagine he had done it intentionally.

Or the last time I practiced 9-ball and ran a rack without really knowing it, honestly, I was in the zone just focused on each shot, not thinking about the rest of the game. Several bystanders came up to comment on my perfect game, and I’m sure they were confused when I said “I ran the table? That is great, really, I wasn’t paying attention”.

I’m sure you will like this tale, the one about the macho guy on the opposing team making snide remarks about having to play a “bunch of girls”, his nasty attitude directed at his first opponent. He complained about the non-regulation house cue ball making it clear that if he lost, it was because of that cue ball. The little blond lady, his opponent, smiling sweetly as she pulled a regulation cue ball out of her case. ( his fist missed clue) Smiling sweetly as she put her custom cue sticks together. ( his second missed clue) Smiling sweetly and assuring him that what ever made him happy and allowed him to play his best was OK with her.

The rest of us “bunch of girls” gathered together snickering, (his third missed clue) as he got ready to break the rack and play one of the states top female players, who, apparently he did not recognize. He broke, made one ball and missed. She ran the table to win, he sat watching with mouth hanging open. I think she may have made some comment to him about him being right, “that cue ball sure did work good”. He drank and drank through the match as he was beat five times by five girls. No doubt he used his drinking as an excuse for losing when the topic came up in the future. That ladies team played national competition at the masters level at the end of that season.

Maybe you would like the story of the 9-ball player who, after two quick lessons in straight pool strategy and breaking, played a total of 20 straight pool games in her life, sixteen of them to take second place in a straight pool league that had never before had a female player, and probably never will again.

Yes, it’s true there are lots of wild stories to be had, lots of stereotypes to find comfort in. I think those movie images of the pool hall have forgotten to convey a bigger story of pool. Maybe those Hollywood types don’t know the story of the similarities with life that the game of pool brings to mind.

In pool, having a vision of where you are going is everything. You map the game out from the beginning, and have a plan B and maybe even a plan C in case of unexpected challenges. Players are constantly competing, not just with their opponent, but with them selves. They develop the mind set that makes them strive to be better everyday, every time they play.

No body likes to be a loser, but in pool, you learn to take the loss and find something in it that you can use to be better next time. You learn to win and to lose gracefully. Sometimes, you play safe, a strategy that allows your opponent to make the next move, while you wait for a better opportunity. How many times in life have you wished you had done nothing just then? Pool teaches you patience, perseverance, and dedication, because you really can’t be very good at it without those attributes.

Pool can be seen as a microcosm, imitating life. You have your good and bad days, you meet people you love and others you could do without, you have distractions and disasters along side smooth waters and great joy. You are constantly learning, going from infancy to maturity in the game. You are constantly confronted with opportunities to find out who you really are, and to demonstrate who you really are.

That may not be the stuff great movies are made of, but it is the stuff great lives are made of. Some of the nicest, most successful people I’ve ever met, I met there, in the pool halls, among the hustlers, sharks, and characters; among the trick shots, great runs, and legendary games; among the losers and winners of the great game of pool.

My Big Fat Yard Sale

Well it was a fine weekend for my largest in the universe yard sale. I’m really trying to simplify my life, and that was the first step. See my post dated Friday May 2nd 2008 for details on how I decided what to part with.

Now some people think a yard sale is a way to make easy money, but I have to say it was a lot of work.

First I had the weeks of looking at every one of the 18,000 items that I own, and trying to decipher what was what, where it came from and pondering what the heck I was doing with it. Honestly, I think some alien force was making items manifest out of dust bunnies and planting them in my home.

Then there were the days of categorizing items and placing them in boxes- the vintage clothes I no longer wear box, the long ignored Christmas decorations box, the odd remnants of some long forgotten lifestyle box, the overdue to be retired books box, the interesting but never used kitchen gadget box, the forgotten media box, and on and on.

Then I went through the whole -how do you price these things?- dilemma, with great advice from my sister, whose mother-in-law is a yard sale professional – mark everything with a price that is more than you want- then make a deal with shoppers. If you have something you want a good price for, mark the tag with the name Betty, and when people ask to pay less for the item, just tell them “ Oh, I can’t change the price, that belongs to Betty, she’s not here right now”.

The night before the big event, signs were made complete with big smiley faces and slogans such as- “find what you want! Right here, right now!” And “No Junk! Just great Stuff!” And “Slow down you maniac! The speed limit is 35mph and you are about to whiz past the world’s greatest yard sale with out taking the time to rubber neck!”

The most agonizing work was preformed the morning of the event- that would be the work it takes to get butt out of bed at the crack of dawn. Yes, there is no such thing as sleeping in when you are having a yard sale. Urban myths have long flourished which lead people to believe the early bird gets the worm. Early bird yard sale shoppers are legendary in themselves. Who among us has not heard the story about early bird shoppers showing up at 5 am and expecting to look through your yard sale items while they are still sitting in your living room?

I set the alarm for 6 am, and was enveloped in setting up shelves and carrying things out by 6:30. By the way, the shelves and tables needed for a large yard sale are a bit of work in themselves. If I had enough shelf space to put everything in its place, I might not be having a yard sale to begin with! I had to improvise with milk crates and lumber and what not.

Now I was getting down with the really heavy work, lugging boxes from the attic upstairs, to the yard down stairs. I had packed light, but honestly, how light can a 36 volume set of books be? How light can a box of LP’s be? (If you don’t know what I’m referring to, better find out, my inside sources tell me they are on the way back in. Imagine a hard, thin, black, burnt pancake emitting squealing sounds as it goes round and round on a carousel). How light can a built-to-last dresser be? And hey, even if the boxes are light, 3476 trips up and down the stairs is a lot of work!

I was exhausted before the sale even began!

By 7:30 the signs were up, the yard was full of artfully displayed intriguing items, I had a cup of coffee in my hand and was sitting in a lawn chair just waiting for the action to begin. Now, I have to tell you, I live on a very busy street. Night, day, summer, winter, mid-week, weekend, doesn’t matter, it’s almost always busy. It had been busy since 6 AM, and I was pleasantly surprised that no early birds had stopped and tried to run off with the proverbial worm before I was set up. Now I was willing the masses to come.

It didn’t take long for the crowds to arrive. I think some of them, being polite and not wanting to disturb, had parked up the street and been watching with binoculars. As soon as they saw my ass hit the chair, they descended like a cloud of locusts. There was pushing and shoving and elbows flying. Offers were shouted and the bargaining began.

Customer-“What will you take for this pristine art deco wine cooler?”
Me-“Does it have a tag on it?”
Customer-“Yes”
Me smirking -“ I will take thirty dollars over the marked price.”
Confused customer- “What? I will pay the marked price, not a penny more!”
Me smirking more- “All righty then.”

Customer- “Nice purse.”
Me- “Thank you, it’s a 1940’s wool covered box purse with lapis inlay on the clasp.”
Customer- “and this one?”
Me- “ Mid 1950’s alligator skin Kelly purse made in Florida and complete with complementary rain bonnet in original gift packaging.”
Customer- “ I will give you a dollar for both of them”.
Me grabbing said purses from said customers hands- “ Honey, the dollar store is across town. Just take a left out of my driveway and cross the bridge, you can’t miss it.”

Now don't get the wrong idea, I'm not a yard sale elitist. There were shelves full of 50 cent items. I had a slew of 1 dollar items. I had hundreds of items in the 3 to 5 dollar range. I know people stop at yard sales to find a deal, and by golly, I want them to find a deal and go home happy! I did have a few choice vintage items nestled among the junk-em, I mean- less costly items, and I was not going to take a dollar for two vintage purses! Folks, offer me a dollar for a 3 dollar item, I might say yes. Offer me a dollar for two 20 dollar items and I'm definitely saying no.

That’s pretty much how it went for the first 4 hours. About the time I needed a potty break so bad I was contemplating the lilac bushes along the side of the house, where I figured I could pee and watch the hordes at the same time, a friend of mine showed up and offered to set her butt in a lawn chair and give me a break.

Thank Heavens! I’m telling you folks, this yard sale stuff is serious business. You can not just up and walk away from your goods, any more than a major player in the arms race can walk away from a United Nations Inquiry. There is no time for breaks. You have to be on your game the whole time or some nice little granny is libel to take off with your antique candle sticks and leave a one dollar bill in their place.

Now I have to tell you the other urban legend about yard sales. “All the good stuff is gone early”. Hogwash! Misinformation if I ever heard it! It’s just not so! I had so much stuff out in my yard that if a constant procession of lose-fisted obsessive shoppers came by for three days in a row, I would still have plenty of good stuff for them to choose from!

Alas, as we all know, urban legends are bigger than life, and harder to kill than a cockroach. Just ask anyone in New York City about "the alligator in the sewer that comes up through your toilet and drags you into the plumbing" story, they will swear it is so, they know someone, who knows someone , who knew someone, who is now missing.

By one o'clock in the afternoon the flood had dried up and the yard sale became a dry cracked lake bed. I sat for another hour, reading a book and watching the traffic go by. I tried re-arranging items to make the display look bigger. I tried moving choice items closer to the road. I tried projecting an urgent need to stop into the minds of each driver coming along. I tried disguising my self as a yard sale shopper and pantomimed my joy at an amazing find, thinking this might overcome the urban myth.

But alas, it was not to be. They yard sale had come to a screeching halt. It was time for the next phase of real work to begin- the pack up. I had already scripted my early withdrawal contingency plan. If I had anything left over that was not vintage, it was going into the trunk of the car and straight to the local thrift store. I stuck to my plan like a duck on a June bug. I didn’t even look as I boxed everything up and set it in the car. By this time it was about 110 out and I was sweating a river. I decided it was a good thing the sale had ended, I was beat.

Like I said, this easy money is a lot of work, and I was not the only one working that day. I pulled up to the thrift store drop off door and there was a line of post-lawn-sale people de-cluttering their lives. The chatter among them was something about how many people stopped, what part of town the sale was in, and the odd balls who were looking for specific items like an easy bake oven light bulb, size 23 purple crushed velvet dress pants, a turquoise toaster oven and old fishing hooks.

While I waited in line I managed to sell a few items to people who, unlike myself, were not able to un-clutter with out instantly cluttering right back up. I then dumped the goods and made my way home. I counted the money, smiled and thought of all the open space in my house. I swear, it felt expansive and I felt lighter. I was on my way to a clutter free life.

PS Today I found this interesting related article in Time magazine. Some guy named Dave is challenging people to de-clutter until they have just 100 personal items. Seems this movement is catching on, I’m not the only one looking to simplify my life and become a more conscious consumer. You can check out his website at www.guynameddave.com

Tickle Tickle

I lay my head back against the lava rock and stared up at the sky. The humidity in the air dulled the blue a bit, but it still was the color you would expect from a tropical sky, blue enough to swim in. A few small clouds floated by and I followed their movement as they brushed up against the tops of rugged mountains flanked by a heavy cloak of their own clouds, much denser and almost a silver gray. The Mountains bore the dense tropical foliage you would expect in a remote corner of paradise.

Between myself and the mountains lay acres of uninhabited rough land covered with lava slides. One would think nothing grew on this lunar inspired landscape, but upon closer examination it is revealed that something is growing. Apparently the lava is fertile soil for a plant with roots like talons that can dig into the hard lava ground and become footing for a single stalk which proudly carries one perfect orchid bloom. The entire landscape is dotted with these tough little orchids, like a bag of cotton balls spilled out over a black counter top.

Closer to my resting place, palm trees grew in profusion. The soil here was not the solid lava rock, but, because the location was just a coconuts throw from the magnificently powerful waves of hundreds of miles of open ocean, the ground was covered with a fine black sand, pulverized lava rock, which apparently is the perfect growing medium for coconut palms. The trees were grouped along the coast in twos and threes, like sentries on watch for invaders off the water. As I lay there I tried to imagine how long it took for the waves to turn orchard supporting lava rocks into palm growing sand.

As I contemplated the immeasurable time it would take to turn rocks to sand I became aware of a tickle at my toes. It came and went like the rhythm of the waves I could hear behind me, crashing against the shelf of lava between my resting spot and the ocean. It was a small tickle, first around big toe, then at my ankle. Like a tiny feather brushing by me on the wind.

I lifted my hand from the cool water of my resting place and wiped the sweat from my face. I was up to my neck in a tidal pool, full of the ocean left by the last high tide. My spot was the size of a large claw footed bathtub and sand lined the bottom to create a comfortable cushion between my behind and the lava rocks. The water was warmer than that which pounded against the rock ledge, warmed by the morning sun to the temperature of the air around me. Warm as it was, it still cooled me, washing away the sweat from my hike to the remote beach.

The tickle came again, around my small toe now and along the outer edge of my foot. I opened one eye and cast about in the water, wondering where the feather had come from. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of movement. Darting around my foot, a little yellow streak in the shadows. A wiggle of my toes and the yellow streak darted back and forth. Toes still, like a lily pad on a pond brought the yellow streak back to my foot, tickle tickle.

I looked closer, this time both eyes searching and I found the yellow streak surrounded by black, a tiny arrow streaking around in my tropical tub. I was not the only traveler seeking respite from the high sun in the cool of this tidal pool. A tiny fish, no more than two inches long shared my bath. My movement had brought the tiny fish to a standstill, fins in slow rippling motion, holding my little companion in the shadow of a tiny overhang on the edge of our lava rock tub.

I said a little prayer for the tiny fish, that it be lifted from this tide pool with the first high tide of the night. That it sail on the waves back to the ocean, into the cool deep of its home. I lay my head back on the lava rock and closed my eyes relaxing back into the waves, the salt water, the humid air, the lava. I could hear the palm fronds in the breeze. Stillness came. Tickle tickle.

Contest

I have to tell you I just have not had time to clatter away at the keys this week. My sister, bless her little heart, fell off her bike and broke her ankle a week ago and I'm spending as much time as I can keeping her company because she is not feeling to well and can't get around much.

We have started a Uno championship tournament and it's not looking good for yours truly. My sister is the luckiest card player in the known universe. I've takin' to calling her sharkie. I think as soon as her leg is healed and she can walk, I'm packing us both off for a trip to Vegas. I'm sure she would strip every bit of gold off that glittering city of sin. She would need no help from me, I would just go along to help her tote her moneybags through the airport when she returns.

Our games usually start pretty friendly, but end up with me flinging curses around while she does the happy dance again.
You have to admire her style, it's not easy to do the happy dance with a 14 pound cast covering 8 pounds of screws and metal plates hanging around your ankle.

This weekend ( I'm writing this on Wednesday and using the new blogger feature to post into the future, you will see it Saturday! Cool!) we plan on playing another 3227 rounds of Uno, as well as watching a couple of long, dramatic, engaging films. My sister gets sucked right into a good drama, so I figure to take her mind off her wheelchair deformed butt by screening a few of my favorite dramatic movies that she has never viewed. I picked "Out of Africa" and "Legends of the Fall". Both are sweeping sagas with lots of drama, a few tears, some adventure and a couple cute guys. I also picked up "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", in case we need some comic relief after watching Brad Pitt morph into a crazed pirate. (please, Hollywood, we don't ever want to see Brad with a beard again!)

Meanwhile, I wanted to give you something fun to do for a few days 'till I can get back to posting more often. I have this wonderful photo of- I can't tell you where- and I thought wouldn't it be fun to have a contest?

So here is the photo:



Now, who can tell me what and where this is? I will give you a hint- it's not some isolated outpost in the middle of no where.
The first comment posted with the correct answer will get...a....um...lots of praise?
Your name in lights? Officially recognized? A round of applause?

Keep in mind I have to moderate the comments and post them so it might be a few days before you see your name in lights. Thanks for playing! This is gonna be fun! Talk soon, Meandering

Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08

The t-shirt would be a little lame, right? I mean, the back would say this:

Pope Benedict XVI US Tour ‘08
“Blessing the US!”
Washington, DC
New York, NY

Not much of a tour, only two stops, but I guess that is what made it so special. I was thrilled to have gotten a ticket to a historic religious event like this. And I’m not even Catholic. As I told you in an earlier post, I was riding shotgun for my devout catholic friend who wanted a companion for the long trip. I owed her, and I’ll admit, in this instance I was glad I owed her and happy to pay up.

I could give you a blow by blow of the whole event, the drive to New York, the kindness of the Church group who allowed us to enter their parish lottery for tickets and then took us into their hearts and onto their bus. The drive down the Hudson, with the steely grey skies and a cold wind blowing us along.

My discomfort with seeing New York City again, I know that many people consider it a tourist destination, a thrilling fun place to visit and apparently a lot of people consider it a great place to live and work, but I have to admit I don’t care for NYC. I hadn’t been there in about 15 years and I could have spent the rest of my life with out going again. I don’t know, it’s just to grey, to dirty, to cement and steel, to crowded, to noisy and yes, I know about central park but besides that, I don’t see enough nature to keep a June bug alive. It’s just too manmade for me. I don’t like that caged in feeling I get when there are buildings towering all around me. I want to see the sky above, the horizon in the distance and the earth under my feet, so NYC and me, we just don’t fit.

I could go on and on about the amazing choreography of the support staff who parked 800 buses and got 57,000 people through security in the blink of an eye. I was having trouble telling the FBI guys in their conservative suits from the Catholic guys dressed for Mass with the Pope. The NYC cops were short. Yes, I said short. I’ve never seen so many short cops in my life. Maybe it’s a process of evolution; these homeboys growing up in crowded city conditions are naturally starting to grow smaller.

They were all very nice, just small. I was especially happy with the one who promised not to remove us from the event if we crashed the men’s room because honestly, the ladies room line was around the stadium. I saw one of the shorty cops in our section of the stadium, who had never taken his eyes off the crowd during the whole event, pull his crucifix out of his shirt and cross himself as the Pope concluded Mass. I suspect he was thrilled to be making overtime protecting the head of his Church, I just wish he could have participated in the Mass as well.

I could also go on and on about the number of people, the amazing diversity of ages and nationality, the large group of novice priests in baseball caps (so cute!), the occasional Nun in habit surrounded by little girls with starry eyes asking questions, ( that’s cute too!). The Monks in robes, the Knights of Columbus in full regalia (Stunning!), all the Bishops and Cardinals in tall hats and flowing robes, the elderly dressed in their Sunday best, the families of faithful, the crowds of security people, the reporters and cameras and all of our NYC hosts, the staff at the stadium.

I could go on about the pre- Pope show with Harry Connick Jr. which was a real treat and by then the cold winds were letting up and the clouds were beginning to slide away so the whole event was becoming much more comfortable. My hands were thawing out.

Finally the time for mass arrived and the bells called the faithful to service. The ritual of the Catholic Mass is a beautiful thing to see and even more so when attended by a horde of Bishops and Cardinals and 57,000 people. The Pope made his way around the stadium in the “pope-mobile” and the teenager behind me told his grandma he wanted to get a truck just like that to tour around town in.

When the Pope finally stepped onto the stage and the cameras focused on him, his image filled the big screens and I got a warm fuzzy feeling. I can’t explain it, I just did. Like I was looking at my best friends favorite Grandpa. I raised my white scarf ( handed to me at the gate courtesy of the church) and waved like crazy, welcoming the Pope. It didn’t take long for the crowd to become still, after all, I imagine a large number of people in the crowd had gone to Catholic schools, had been disciplined by the Nuns and knew when it was time to settle down.

The Mass started and I kept half an eye on my devout Catholic friend because I knew that the mass progressed in a predictable fashion and there were times to stand and times to sit and times to bow your head. I was taking my cues from my friend and wondering if God was keeping score, how many missed masses could I make up by attending one mass with the Pope? I figured conservatively that if I were catholic, I would have missed 2600 masses so far in my life. Could I trade, say, half of those in by attending this one?

I was contemplating this question, observing the crowd at their mass when suddenly it came to the part in the mass where the priest calls out and the congregation answers back and 57,000 voices rose together like a flock of doves above the stadium and as one voice answered the call of their faith. I was stunned with the beauty of it. It was enormous.

It was like the entire stadium full of people became one being and the rise and fall of the mass was the heartbeat and breath of this giant. The call of the Priest became the foghorn and the mass the lighthouse in the fog. The huge crowd moved as one being, eyes closed, just listening and responding as it was guided home. Every move of the mass was echoed by 57,000 beings moving as one being sewn together from 57,000 threads, stand up, sit down, bow head. It was the same, always, in every church everywhere and everyone moved with certainty. The consistency a solid rock foundation, they were held comfortably in the arms of the ritual they knew without doubt.

I stood aside as 57,000 people were given the sacrament by hundreds of priests. I looked around and saw 57,000 people in blissful contemplation of the most holy of their rituals. The “vibe” was almost visible and I think, just maybe, that the stadium seen from outside would have had a sheen to it. As the mass ended I took up my white scarf again, and with everyone else bid Pope Benedict XVI goodbye.

It was incredible to see, I mean, who would have thought 57,000 people anywhere, anytime, for any reason, could move in perfect synchronicity? But it did happen, I saw it. I heard it. I felt a sudden renewal in my faith in faith.

I think for most people, faith is like a red line on a thermometer, moving up and down in the seasons of their life. If we look at faith as the thread that sews the garment of our life together, we realize the consistency of the stitches to be what makes the garment stronger. As we learn to sew with faith and our stitches become more uniform, no longer tiny and tight in some places, long and loose in others, but consistently even, always in faith, sewn with care, the garment of our life becomes stronger. No longer is our garment easily torn apart by the hands of fate.

For me, that is the message of the Mass, always the same, everywhere, through time, never changing, consistently calling to the faithful to remain so.

Mass at Yankee Stadium with Pope Benedict XVI

I'm still percolating on my article about meandering to NYC to see the Pope. It was really amazing, I can tell you that. Check back soon for the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth.

Three Days of Peace and Music

while I was meandering to NYC to see the Pope, I figured why not take a side trip and make another pilgrimage to another inspirational spot? The site of Woodstock is now a performing arts center with lots of parking, restrooms, and a visitors center. It's still a beautiful natural amphitheater surrounded by farmland and woods, and I swear it still carries "the vibe" of August 1969 when 3 days of peace and music birthed a new nation.

Off To See The Pope

In some blessed event apparently reigned over by numerous saints, I ended up with a ticket to see His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI in NYC this weekend.

Really, it was like winning the lotto. My devote catholic friend, who went to see His Holiness The Dalia Lama with me and made me swear to be her road trip buddy if The Pope ever came to the US, managed to get our names into a lottery for tickets in a parish just outside of the city.

Now here's where the blessed event reigned over by numerous saints comes in - somehow, out of all those hundreds of names, both our names were pulled! We both received letters saying our tickets were being held for us in the parking lot of a mall north of NYC where we would board the bus with a few hundred other devout catholics to drive into NYC to see the POPE! Then, heaven rain down on us, we found out Harry Connick Junior is among the warm up entertainment for His Holiness!

Now I don't know about you, but I was not about to turn my back on this nudge from the universe, even though I'm not Catholic. I mean, it's a miracle I got a ticket, I think I better go. Besides, I did promise my devout catholic friend some back up for just such an event, and I just Love Harry Connick Junior.

So I'm off to see the Pope and I will let ya know how it goes.

Code Blue! My computer has cooties!

So I’m minding my own business, getting ready to work for the day. I turn on the computer and turn to the coffee making. My computer is in the kitchen, I find this is just so convenient when I need a cup of coffee, or want to check e-mail while I’m making dinner. Besides that, I can easily swivel my chair, roll a few feet and forage through the refrigerator with out ever leaving my seat.

I’m grinding the beans when I glance back at the screen to see how close I am to lift off. I am alarmed to find a message that doesn’t belong there. Something about Microsoft wanting to inspect and fix something or other which may have been damaged by a power outage. I’m scanning my own files to recall a power outage and realize the thing is ticking! It’s asking me to accept or decline in the next 20 seconds or it goes off automatically. The only problem is I’ve spent 19 and ½ seconds reading the screen and trying to figure out why that Windows flag is not the right color. Kaboom! Off it goes and I see it’s deleting!

Code Blue! I dive across the kitchen and hit the power off and shut her down, not knowing for sure if this will really help or not. What the heck- now if I turn her on what happens? Madre de Dios! I try to crush the panic rising in my gut. I’m not successful. I start running around the house screaming to myself, code blue! code blue!, while I search for my old issue of Psychology Today that has the great article on a new field of psychology.

There are actually psychologists who specialize in working with people who are experiencing separation anxiety from their computers when they are involuntarily unplugged. Turns out, they experience the 5 stages of grief identified with the loss of a loved one. I’m thinking I might need to call one of the people on their list of experts.

Meanwhile I’m cussing the software makers and the damn psychos who find it entertaining to plant things that wreak havoc on the internet. It appears I’ve skipped the first stage of grief - denial- and jumped directly to the second stage, anger. I try not to take it personally, I know it’s just chance, luck of the draw, but I’m pissed anyway. Why don’t these people channel their energy and intelligence into curing cancer or solving the age old riddle of why Twinkies have a half life longer than Krypton? (and by the way, if we know that energy is never destroyed, only changes form, where the heck are those bits of Twinkie going?) Why do these people have to f**k with the internet, and by extension, my computer?

I’m not having any luck finding that magazine and I return to the kitchen and the first stage of grief - denial.

Maybe it wasn’t a bug, maybe it was Microsoft doing something, I mean, sometimes it’s hard to tell, these machines are always doing something when you are not looking. I know that because I read Michael Crichton’s novel “Prey”. I don’t leave my computer running when I’m sleeping anymore. And I leave a night light on.

Maybe I should turn the computer back on and take another look. So I do and sure enough the message comes up again. The bomb is re-loading its self and I panic again. This time, however, it does not take me 19 and ½ seconds to read the screen so I click on deny.

I thought about my computer use and the last thing I opened before I shut down last night. A letter from a friend. I wondered if it was possible I got cooties from her? I called and asked her how her computer was running, but she had not been on line that morning. I tried calmly explaining the situation and urged caution when she went to fire it up, not even sure that caution would work.

My friend, noting the anxiety in my voice promptly went into action in my defense. She just happened to be in a church and she went right to stage three of grief, which is bargaining, for me. She said “call you right back” and hung up. She dropped to her knees, said ten Hail Marys, sprinted to the alcove and lit a candle asking Holy Mother Mary to intervene on my behalf.

She called me back and assured me that our Devine Mother was standing at my right hand ready to assist. I thought that possibly I should offer something up, you know, the other part of the whole bargaining thing, so I did. Can’t tell you what it was, it’s kinda like a birthday wish when you blow out the candle, if you share your wish it won’t come true. I said my thanks and promised my friend an update later in the day.

Then I started pacing around the kitchen, chanting WWJD? WWJD? WWJD?
No, not that J, I’m referring to my friend Jim. Jim is one of my Mensa certified type genius friends, and a really great guy. He also happens to be very skilled when it comes to computer related issues, he was the one who taught me how to add memory, change out drives, search effectively, stuff like that, and the guy does not panic. Seriously, he doesn’t panic.

One time we were driving to Santa Fe to ski and the transmission started to go on his truck. Me, I would have hyperventilated. But Jim, he was cool as the proverbial cucumber, he just took an exit off the highway, coasted into the dealership, which happened to be right off the exit (maybe he’s a lucky guy who does not panic), gave them the keys and a credit card and asked them if he could borrow a car big enough to put our skis in. Twenty minutes later we were headed up the mountain, skis stuffed in the back seat, and he had not even wrung his hands once.

WWJD? He would review all pertinent data, using Ockham’s Razor. Ockham's Razor is the principle proposed by William of Ockham in the fourteenth century: ``Pluralitas non est ponenda sine neccesitate'', which translates as ``entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily''. The Razor directs us to study in depth the simplest of the theories relating to any question, meaning we usually find that the simplest explanation is most likely correct. So, I had to admit that the pertinent data pointed to the fact that my computer had a serious case of the cooties. I skipped the fourth stage of grief, which is depression, and went right on to the fifth and final stage - acceptance.

I could accept the infection theory, knowing it was most likely true. I could also accept the fact that this was beyond my skill level. What I needed was a professional! I searched my memory and realized I had recently met a professional and I had a contact that could supply me with the professional’s number. I got on the phone and made a date to drop my baby off for a tune up. I was nervous, no doubt, I mean, I didn’t really know this professional. I did have a solid referral though and sometimes that is the best you can do. It’s very similar to going to a doctor, you just hope your friend who gave you the referral was really cured and not just in a short remission.

At this point you have probably assumed that all this meandering has come about because the professional was successful. That would be correct. Less than a week later I’m meandering like crazy, making up for lost time. My computer seems happy and healthy, I've recovered from my 5 days going "cold turkey" unplugged, and I've learned to recognize the 5 stages of grief. I'm sure that will come in handy someday. I've also learned a better way to back up data, I've made a new friend who knows his way around a computer,and I learned that I do have a following, thanks to the calls I got from people asking what was up, why hadn't I posted lately. All is well in meandering-ville.

Hollywood, an insiders view- or how I ended up standing next to and taking direction from Ron Howard.

If you did not read parts one and two, go back, or I should say down, to the previous posts and read them first.

So we all gathered around to find out what our work for the rest of the day would be. First off, the keepers began, you have 10 minutes to do anything you need, such as use a restroom, smoke a cigarette or make a phone call. You will not have another opportunity to do any of these things again until we are done shooting, and there is no way to tell when that will be. It could be as much as nine hours, when dark falls, so do what you need to do now, meet us back here in 10.

Holy mackerels, no chance to hit the loo for nine hours? Outta the way, I’m coming through! How do they expect us to…oh, wait, it’s a movie set, we are officially professionals now and if the cast and crew can do it, so can the extras. I was trying to toughen up for the experience but my eye wandered to the back part of the lot where the huge motor homes were. Apparently if one of the stars or the director needed a potty break, it would be managed in luxuriant fashion and I bet nobody tells Tommy Lee he can’t take a leak if he needs to.

Ten minutes later the keepers explained that we were to become the town’s folk on an afternoon when the carnival was expected to come through town. The shops are full; it’s a happy, exciting, holiday atmosphere day for the people of this sleepy little town. This I guessed was the background information we all needed to get “into character”. They were setting the mood for us, there would be no extras walking around with frowns, or looking sad, we were to be jovial.

The mood was set, now the parts were cast. The keepers split us up, you three are friends in the scene, always stay together talking and laughing. You four are a family in town to see the show; you will be patiently waiting the carnival and wondering at all the improvements in the town since your last visit. You sir, are going to be walking with the dog and his trainer, just visiting, stay with the dog all day. Now all of you are my “street people”, so follow me. And away went the three friends, the family of four and the dog trainer’s friend. Presumably the dog and his trainer were in another holding tank for the talented animal stars in the film. The trainer’s friend would hook up with them on the street.

The second keeper split off another group of us and proclaimed us the “window people”. I was paired with a dapper looking gentleman; we were both the height of urban fashion for the day. We were “husband and wife going for a stroll”. We were to walk arm in arm, chatting and laughing. Other members of our group included a pair of “sisters on the way to the market”, a “cowboy and his horse”, (which galloped up behind us take after take after take) and a “young mother and her son walking to the square”.

We were escorted to the set and handed over to our director, a young lady with headphones. She explained that an important scene was being filmed right inside that building there and we would be walking by the window in the scene. We would be visible on film behind the main characters when all was said and done. She then gave us our “marks”. This means she showed us where to start from and where to go to when they called “action!” We were to return to our start point as soon as she called “cut!”, and be ready to go again. This is exactly what we did for the next five hours. We walked up and down that street so many times I lost count. Between takes we had time to visit, tell stories, and generally get to know each other. “My husband” was a very nice writer from Santa Fe who had worked on other movies.

Now, I must say the director did try to mix it up a bit, she had us do a few takes where we walked up the street and then crossed it, we walked up the street, stopped and chatted with another extra, we walked up the street and up onto the sidewalk, we walked up the street and jumped back when a horse and wagon sped by. So we did have some variety you see. Meanwhile the special effects guys and the lighting guys were scurrying back and forth between each take, changing light screens, angles, bulbs and adding water ( big trucks watering the street) to keep the dust down.

Now, this of course was funny because in New Mexico in the spring you are going to have some dust, and sure enough about mid afternoon one of our famous dust storms rolled across the plain. The US southwest has dust storms that will sand the paint right off your car. Those are rare, but even the everyday dust storms are nothing you want to be outside for. So the dust clouds started rising and all us sensible New Mexican extras were wondering when they were going to call it quits and let us go inside for a while, but those crazy California film makers were just enthralled with our dust storm and even said “ It’s so authentic! What a look! We love it!”.

Yeesh! These guys are nuts is what I was thinking as I pulled my cute Victorian bonnet tight around my head and covered my face with my shawl. Honestly, the storm was so bad I had to remove my contact lenses; there was too much dust in the air to wear them. I had dust up my nose and for days after I was digging dust out of my ears and I was wearing a bonnet! The storm lasted about two hours and they did take the animals inside for breaks from it but we extras stayed in our scenes the whole time.

Soon after the dust storm we did have a little excitement on the set. The “extras directors” came around and told us Tommy Lee was expected and not to talk to him or look at him or swoon over him or pay him no mind a’tall. He was going to be crossing the street and we were not, I repeat, not to stare at him. He was “just another town’s person going about his business”. Ok, I can do this, I mean it’s not like it’s Hugh Grant or Russell Crow or John Chusak, it’s just Tommy Lee, who is just about the cutest Texan I ever saw except for Matthew McConaughey of course. I’m a acting professional now for heavens sake!

So walk he did, across the street and into the sheriff’s office, right in front of me. He was every bit as tall and handsome as he looks on film. He was in character of course, so some of that confidence he exuded may have been an act. I noted him, as you would someone who crosses the street in front of you. I’m an acting professional by now of course, so I had to note him. I did not stare, drool, or swoon. My “husband” hardly even noted him and I’m guessing noting Tommy Lee is a “girl thing”. I also noted that Tommy Lee is such a talented professional they only had to film him walking across the street one time. They did not have to do 367 takes for him to get it right.

The rest of the afternoon wore on, us walking up and down the street. The extra directors yelling “action!” and “cut!”. The lighting and special effects guys scurrying about. The extras walking up and down the streets. The whole set had settled into its pace and though we could not see it, we could feel that we were contributing to the real action which was painstakingly being committed to celluloid for eternity inside the sheriff’s office.

Anyway, we had taken 3726 strolls up and down the sidewalk and finally were given a break to sit a minute. We were instructed to stay on the board walks, don’t wander off, don’t take off your costume and yes, there is a porta potty behind the general store and big cooler of drinks behind that large wagon. Be ready to resume working in 10 minutes. My gosh I think we were all so glad to step out of character for a moment and drink, pee, smoke, do yoga postures and just relax. It takes an amazing amount of concentration to follow a director for seven hours and we were all feeling the strain.

During our break some “extra wranglers” (I made that up, I just figure if the people who keep track of the animals can be called wranglers, than so can the people who keep track of the extras) came round and took Polaroid photos of us extras, and got our names and phone numbers so they could identify and contact us “in case we have to do a scene again and you are part of the background”. By that time my feet hurt from those almost-but-not –quite-my-size Victorian boots, my ribs and lungs hurt from the corset, my eyes hurt from the dust storm, and I was praying they didn’t mess up a scene I was in and have to bring me back for another grueling 16 hours the next day.

I guess you could say I was becoming a bit disillusioned with the whole Hollywood thing. Yes, it was interesting, but it was a lot of repetition and a lot of hurry up and wait. It was a long day becoming longer as each hour past my dinner time went by. I knew they had a whole barn full of snacks right across the lot, but they might as well have been on mars, I couldn’t get to them!

During our break a whole new set of characters arrived on the set. A complete traveling circus/sideshow with Snake oil wagon, a dancing bear, jugglers, gypsies and a guy on stilts dressed up like Uncle Sam. The dancing bear wasn’t real, after all, this is just a movie set, and it was an actor in a costume. Darn, I would have liked to be on the set with a real bear.

The sun was getting lower when the directors came and gathered us around to prep for the last scene.The fair citizens of this small frontier town were about to be treated to a sight that was rare. They were to be entertained by a traveling circus. The circus would announce its arrival by a parade through town, and then it would start to set up at the field. We, the jovial, excited and happy towns folk were to gather on the streets to watch the parade go by, waving to the dancing bear and laughing and making exclamations of joy and wonder. OK, the scene is set, we have our motivation, and we have our marks. My “husband” and I stand with the sun to our backs right at the crossing of the two streets. We are joined by a crowd of other towns’ folk and the parade begins.

Now the set is in a frenzy. We’ve done 15 takes already, the sun is setting; we are loosing the light and each time we do a take the whole parade has to hustle back around the backside of the set, re-group and start down the road to town again. At dusk the word goes round that this is about it folks, one more time and we are going to have to “wrap”. On your mark everyone. And then, it was then, just then that the door to the sheriff’s office, the building right behind me, opened. I turned at the sound and out strode Ron.

Yes, Ron Howard. In jeans, a jacket and a baseball cap he looked just like an older version of Opie Taylor. He walked right up next to me and started talking with the mobile camera guy. I was looking at Ron, but trying not to stare because by now I was a professional and seeing stars up close was old hat and and and… It was surreal…I felt like I was in a movie…Oh, wait, I was in a movie and not just any movie, but one directed by Ron Howard! It seemed, well,… odd to be standing next to someone I had been watching on TV my whole life. From Opie Taylor to Richie Cunningham to director in the news, Ron had been a part of my life for years. He was so familiar I thought I knew him.

My feet quit hurting, my lungs and ribs quit hurting and my eyes, well I guess they started to tear up a bit and the sand was washed away and they quit hurting too. There I was, working with and standing next to Academy Award winning child star/actor/director Ron Howard.

Then the unbelievable happened, Ron took a speaker and stood on the steps to the general store and thanked all us extras for doing such a great job. He told us how important we were to his film and how much he appreciated our patience, as film making took a lot of time. He asked us to be patient for a few more minutes, and then we were doing our last take. Then he started directing us, the lowly extras.

Ron asked us all to gather in a little closer for this scene, “be neighbors” he said, “it’s your town”. He asked for just a little more waving and smiling as the snake oil wagon went round the corner. He asked a few children to run after the wagon and a few parents to run after the children. He asked us to turn to one another after the wagon went by, as if to say “did you see that?” He thanked us again, and climbed down from the steps. He spent a few more moments with the mobile camera guy, explaining the angle he wanted to get on Uncle Sam, and then he disappeared into the sheriff’s office.

The final take went smooth, some one yelled “cut and wrap”, the sun set and all us actors ( notice we aren’t extras any more, we’ve taken directon from Ron Howard, we are actors now) headed back to the big barn to collect long ago abandonded cell phones, books, backpacks and toys. We climb on the bus that takes us off the lot, back to the entrance, costume and make-up area, back to the big tent of food, which, at this point is depressingly empty of caterers and food.

We are instructed by our keepers to head right for costume, change to our street clothes then report to hair so they can brush our hair out. We have plenty of keepers at this point, to help us remove our costumes and make sure no one steals anything. We are told we are not to remove a thing from the area, not even a hair pin. (I have to admit I removed a few of those hair pins, I had to because you are not going to believe the huge industrial size bobby pins these Hollywood types own, they even worked in my hair).

I am feeling a little tired and a little meloncoly as well, and I think I’m not alone. I see it in others eyes as they take off those high collar Victorian dresses and slip back into jeans. I hear it in the voices of people who were family for the day and now say a fond farewell.I feel it in the cool New Mexico night as I wave goodbye to my “husband” and the “dog walker” and head for the parking lot. It’s a long drive home after dark and I have plenty of time to think about the day.

I make a note to self to call Joyce and thank her for giving me the opportunity to be in Ron’s movie. I wonder when it will come out (about a year later) and I wonder if I will end up on the cutting room floor. I wonder if someone kept messing up in the sheriff’s office because we shot that scene so many times. I wonder if it was Tommy Lee, and I immediately dismiss the idea. It must have been someone else. I wonder what it would be like to live out on the plain where the set is, with such a big beautiful open sky and no light pollution. I wonder when I will have a chance to make another movie.

A few weeks later I get a check in the mail from the movie company. I almost don’t cash it. I want to put it in my scrap book. I compromise, I make a copy before I cash it.

Part Two of Hollywood an Insiders View

OK folks, If you didn't read part one, just go back ( or should I say down) to the last entry. Read that first!

Those of you who know me well can imagine how I was feeling and looking when the big day arrived and I reported to the set at 6 am. I didn’t have to talk to anyone though, and that was good. They had a huge coffee urn, and that was good too. I just got in line, gave my name, and was ushered off to the wardrobe tent where two girls helped me get strapped back into my costume. Then I was herded over to “hair” and had my long hair tied into a knot, pinned, sprayed, and hid under a bonnet (which I thought was rather odd because I got the part so they could do western-y/victorian style-ish-y things to my long hair. However, when the sand storm started I was so happy I had a bonnet on, I can’t even tell you…)

Then I was shuffled to “makeup” where they said “no one gets makeup because this is a realistic period piece and only saloon girls wore makeup back then”. I was shocked! Here I was, about to have a real part in a real movie and I find I am to be forever immortalized on the silver screen with no make-up! How will my friends even recognize me? I try to talk them into “just shoring up my weak eyebrows and giving me a bit of concealer and some lip gloss” but it’s a no-go.

After that I was asked to hang out in the breakfast tent, eat, and listen for someone to call my name. I ate, but just a little because the corset was so tight, and promptly tried to fall asleep with my head on the table, but found it impossible because I couldn’t sit down all the way with the bustle and corset on. All I could do was perch on the very edge of a chair, and then I had to extend my legs down and back under the chair so my torso wasn’t bent because it wouldn’t bend! I was like Herman Munster- my body was ridged, there was no bend anywhere! Good God all Mighty, this was gonna be a long day.

After an hour or so, I was loaded onto a bus (I had to stand as sitting was almost impossible) with a bunch of other extras and we headed for the “lot”. If you ever saw the movie Wild Wild West, with Will Smith, you have seen the town we were filming in. I guess they torched part of it in that movie, and this movie was able to use the rest of the set for its short in-town scenes.

Any-hoo, we were deposited on the back side of the lot and told to stay in or behind this big old barn, and if we needed anything at all, talk to our keepers, a couple of young ladies whose job was to keep track of us amateurs. I walked inside the barn. There were tables and chairs and all kinds of snack foods and drinks and sandwich fixings, and I was thinking the caterers were the busiest people on the set.

So here I was, in the barn with about fiftey other extras, all dressed up in period costumes with no place to go. We sat, and we sat, and we sat, and …someone was calling my name! This is it! They want me on the set! They are asking for me by name! I went outside to find a woman yelling my name at the top of her lungs, and all the other extras looking from one to another baffled, trying to figure out who I was and why they were calling my name. But no, it wasn’t my call to greatness, it was just a friend of mine, part of the special effects team, wanting to have a word with me. He knew I was on the set and among the extras, so he had our keeper yelling for me. We had a nice chat, then I went back to the barn. It was noon by then, six hours on the set and I had done nothing but get dressed and eat, and I had seen not a single camera.

Pretty soon the keepers came and rounded us all up, put us back on the bus and took us off the lot, back to the entrance, costume and make-up area, back to the big tent of food because it was lunchtime. Now I mean it when I say I thought the caterers were the busiest people on the set. The breakfast had been full out eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, French toast, muffins, cereal, juice, milk- an all you could eat, all you could want breakfast extravaganza. The snacks in the barn were numerous and tasty and now- now the lunch was just as amazing!

It was like dining on a cruse ship, way to much food, to many choices (all of them good) and a full array of interesting characters to slide up to the buffet with. By that time we extras had bonded and were on a first name basis. We had our histories and had gravitated into little cliques like people do when they are in a big group. Of course we were all “in character”, being the professional novices we were, and it was hard to tell who was who or what was what. I sat with a “frontier family’ of dad, mom and daughter, a cattle rustler, the sheriff’s dog handler and a cowpoke. The “family” were repeats, they actually worked as extras on a regular basis. The rest of us were first timers. Most everyone I met said the same thing- they just wanted to see what it was like, to work on a movie.

When the lunch hour was up they herded us back into the bus and took us back to the barn, where an entire new array of snacks had been set up and – gasp- someone had set out decks of cards. This, I thought, does not look good. It looks like we are not going to get to the front of this barn anytime soon. OH-did I mention that from the front windows of the barn we could peek out and see the set just down the street? Did I mention that occasionally something on the set would cause a stir in the barn? Like- horses pulling at a wagon driven by Tommy Lee Jones tearing by the barn, or a horse galloping by with Kate Blanchett astride, or a whole group of outlaw-y looking guys riding by with dust clouds following. We knew there was action on the set, we just were not a part of it.

By mid afternoon I was so tired of sitting (actually, standing because, like Herman, I couldn’t bend) around, I was ready for a nap. The problem was, I couldn’t really sit down and I’m not good at sleeping standing up. There really was no place that I could lay down and not get up without dust all over that beautiful Victorian dress. I couldn’t sit and bend foreword with my head on a table, because, like Herman Munster, I couldn’t bend. And I couldn’t just sit back in a chair and just let my head drop to my chest, because I had on a bustle that I couldn’t sit back on.

My mind was playing through all these assorted western life scenarios I had seen on TV and I was wondering- how did women do that dressed like this?- and I came to the conclusion that women didn’t do much of anything back then, not dressed like I was anyway. They must have had looser “ at home” clothes to do the cooking, cleaning and baby raising in, there is no way they could have milked a cow or pulled weeds or plowed with a big draft horse dressed the way I was, I mean, I couldn’t even grab 40 winks or a deep breath.

I finally settled for backing a chair up near the wall and jamming chairs tight on each side of it so it wouldn’t move around. I perched on the edge of the chair, tilted it back so I could stretch my legs out and just touch the ground with my toes, and my head, well it was balanced on the top ridge of the back of the chair. I was a perfect straight line, no bends, just like Herman Munster. You can understand why I jammed those chairs tight on each side so the chair I was balanced on would not move. The only part of me touching the chair was the back of my skull and the bottom edge of my butt. I was a sleeping high wire act, and sleep I did for about an hour. I awoke to the sound of the keepers yelling everyone gather ‘round, it’s time to go to work.

Part three- on the set- coming soon.