Stories I only tell my friends; the school bus

Stories I only tell my friends (the school bus story.)

Thanks to Rob Lowe for that idea. I have lots of stories I have only told my friends, co-workers and strangers on the street. I have not, shared them with you. So, without further ado here is one true story that has not been embellished nor exaggerated nor dramatize for television purposes.

It figures. I got behind a school bus leaving the high school when I was in a hurry to get back to work. The school bus slowly inched down the road as the minutes ticked quickly passed. Even on this sunny day with my windows down and the sun on my face, I couldn’t relax and just smell the roses; I needed to get back to work.

The high school kids in the school bus must have been bored and looking for cheap entertainment. Many of them were plastering their faces against the back window looking at me, laughing. I kept my sunglasses on knowing they couldn’t see me roll my eyes.  Just let me get to work. And then, something changed. One kid pulled down his pants and pressed his butt checks against the back window. I couldn’t believe I saw the full moon. No half Monte, the full deal.

The kids looked at me and laughed and laughed. Fortunately the bus schlepped into the left hand lane to turn and I lunged alongside briefly waiting for the light to change. The Full-Monte kid pulled down the school bus window and shouted at me, “Hey lady, didn’t you like the show?”

“Not really” I said back to Mr. Monte.

“Why didn’t ya like the show lady?” He seemed puzzled I didn’t like the moon shot while his buddies laughed in the back ground.

“I just know if I was going to press my bum against the window, I’d clean it first. Maybe then, I’d enjoy the show.” I replied.

And the bus erupted in laughter. I am sure I had a smug look on face and if I could of high-fived myself for coming up with such a quick witted response, I would of.

I drove away from that moment with one constant thought on my mind; some kid at the high school is now known as “dirty butt boy.”

I wonder if they will put that in the yearbook.

Sunday Beer Run

“Hold the GPS on the phone and tell me when to turn,” I instruct my husband.

“But I don’t know where we are going,” he says to me a bit confused.

“Neither do I, that’s why you have the GPS.”

And I understand his confusion as we are driving through farm land and not into the city. We pass through a couple of two-house farming towns with names like “Wells Landing” and “Wings of Wonder.”  We pass by a county park we didn’t know existed. It looks like a great spot to put in your raft in for floating the meandering waters of the Willamette River.

The road arc’s and we see the sign for Buena Vista Ferry.

“We are going to cross the ferry on our grand adventure?” My husband questions me like I’m insane. So much for the Sunday drive.

And then drive pass acre upon acre of hops growing high on trellises. (Forty two acres to be exact.) Signs indication what kind of hops are growing (look, Chatoe hops).   We continue to drive through the fields of hops and for me it’s a happy sight; it means beer.

We are in the hop capital of the world, Independence Oregon. Hops only grow on the 45^th parallel, and are particular to the climate. Basically, hops grow well in Oregon and Germany.

Seemingly middle of nowhere is the Chatoe Rogue Tasting Room. A small 468 square foot quaint house that serves beer fresh from the tap. Several Rogue Ales to choose from to please all types of beer drinkers.  The tasting room has a huge lawn outback surrounded by picnic tables complete with a wide assortment of lawn games including lawn darts, horse shoes and a Frisbee or two to use. Hop fields & barley gardens surround the working farm and visitors can stroll around the gardens and visit the calm waters of the Willamette River complete with pet in tow. While we were there, a family had brought their cat much to the dogs delight. So much for playing in the water when a cat is nearby.

For others, they will want to stay the night in the Hops & Beer house on site.  It is a 100 year old house in which people can rent the entire 5 room house or just a room for the night.

I quickly order a Mocha Porter, rich in aroma and taste and a creamy smooth cheese-beer soup. My husband orders the beer for which Rogue is known for Dead-Guy ale and chips. The menu is limited however, what more would anyone want besides beer-cheese soup? Anyhow. Two steps later and we are on the back porch drinking our beer, watching the hops grown. Next time, I will visit with my neighbors and play some lawn darts while the sunset. For now, I am content to drink my beer with the warm sun on my face.

Perfect.

Prost

Purple bathrobe & Starbucks



This is not me; nor will post a picture
in my purple bathrobe & swim cap.


Eight o’clock in the morning and it’s already 87 degrees. Today’s forecast, cooler with high of 104. Oh goodie. I know what you are thinking, you are in Las Vegas. Nope, I’m in the city that claims to be the gateway to Yosemite (as it’s clearly stated on the garage cans) Merced, California. And I’m about ready to lap swim. The water in the pool is 91 degrees. Yes, that’s not a typo, 91 degrees. My daughter works on deck as an assistant swim coach. I drug myself out of bed at 6 am to meet her on deck and lap swim. Bathrobe covering my swim suit, I approach the pool disappointed. The lane lines are set up length wise for long course water 50 meters (think Olympic size pool.)

Fifty meters. I could drown before I swim to the other side and in 91 degree water it’s possible.

“You look so sad,” my daughter says to me. “Come back and swim at 8:30 am. The lane lines will be set for short course water.”

“I don’t think I can go to Starbucks in my bathrobe.”

I can’t decide if I’m upset, disappointed or overjoyed at the thought of drinking coffee instead of swimming in my short, purple bathrobe. The need for coffee is overwhelming. Bathrobe and all.

Coffee fueled and ready to swim. I slide into the side of the pool. In the lane line to the right is three college guys; to my left are four college girls. No one joins me in my lane. Google’s down over my purple swim cap, I push off the wall.

First lap, okay. Second lap, okay and then my thoughts run wild. Swimming is a solitary sport at least I find it hard to have a conversation with my face in the water, my mouth in water. I can’t remember if I put sun block on. My back feels hot. Is it covered? And oh no, what about my face? I can’t remember if I put my face cream on with sun block. My skin is Oregon pasty white without much previous sun exposure. Heck, I take Vitamin D because my skin lacks the sunlight it needs but it’s not my fault. Oregon is known for rain. Calculating my white skin, lack of possible sun block with reflection of the water I estimate I have about 12.5 minutes to be in the water before I burn. My pace slows to a crawl. Since my time is limited and the warm waters slows me I set a new goal to swim 5 laps (there and back, 25 meters) in 12 minutes. Now, if you are a swimmer you know this means that a snail could swim faster than me if it had fins. I feel that sluggish. Not even the caffeine can save me now. I find the clock against the brick wall and start my five laps.

One, one and a half two. I’m knocking them down. Three, four, four and half. I’m giddy. Only a half lap left, I flip, push and glide as long as I can. For those who don’t swim, the turn and glide is the best part of lap swimming; it’s a rest period. Swim coaches would disagree with me and claim they are attitude. For adult fitness swimmers, its rest and the goal is to glide as long as possible to conserve energy. Forget oohing and awing at the infinity pool you’ll see on display at State fairs; swimming without the bulk head is just plain silly.

I’m at lap five. Time to cheer, time to get out of the pool before I burn. I find the clock and the smile on my face, my giggy joy is gone; it’s only been 3.5 minutes. What? I have to set a new personal best record in the sauna pool? I have to go back and put my face back into the water and find other thoughts to worry about? No thank you.

I pull myself up and out. Thank goodness for the upper body strength to do that. The college kids are laughing and talking. I hope it’s not about my thighs.

Where is that short, purple bathrobe for as I hear Starbucks calling my name.

It’s not always how you get there.

It’s North American’s highest waterfall, Yosemite at over 2400 feet. The hike is only assents in 2700 feet in elevation. Only is a fairly weak work. Strenuous, taxing exhausting, not for the feeble should be the trail name. The guidebook claims the hike is 6-8 hours long.

We start early in the morning full of vigor, energy and zest. The trail starts deceptively easy. It’s flat and littered with Ponderosa pine leaves as it meanders along the valley floor. We come across a sign about the trail; it was the first trail in Yosemite built in 1887. Serious? Didn’t the pioneer have a hard enough life as they spent the day not farming, hunting and baking bread to hike up a mountain?? Anyways.

The switch backs are gentle. The rocks are merely pebbles, not grown into boulders yet. The trees are tulip tress (it takes two looks to see it all) and the ascent nothing. Oh my, how quickly that changes. The ascent becomes a full out climb, up. The grade and the slope step enough it makes the weak at heart and knees turn back. The trees turn into mere bushes providing no relief from the sweltering sun. We push on.

We stumble (this is not a figure of speech) upon trail workers. A half dozen. I did read in the guide book the trails are maintained. And here they are; making the boulders fit like a jigsaw puzzle for the ease of a climb and numerous of visitors to step on. I ask where the beer was. They told me I was supposed to bring it up to them; didn’t I get memo?

We trudge on. About two hours later we stumble (yes, and I have the bruises to prove it) upon a spectacular view of Yosemite Waterfall. The water cascades over the shear granite mountain to hit with extreme velocity to create mist for weary hikers. And a breeze. I stand in the mist and the breeze to experience sheer joy and euphoria. Quickly, those feels are ripped apart and stomped on after one quick 90 degree switchback. We are on the granite side of the mountain climb. I now feel like a climber, not a hiker. It’s hot, dirty and straight up. Adjectives cannot describe how awful, horrid, hellish this hike has turned into be. My daughter is part goat, she moves swiftly up. I baby step it up as I struggle to catch my breath. My sweet rolls into my eyes, causing stinging and blurry vision. I cannot rest. I am apprehensive about stopping and the fear of not being able to continue on. Hikers on their way down pass me. I quiz each one; how much longer to the top? And have you seen my daughter? All reply the same; 10 minutes and yes she is a gazelle. Ten minutes turns into 20, 30 even 40. I then I hear, “Marco” “Polo”. Marco, POLO. Marco, Polo! “MOM, you can do it.” It can’t be God, he wouldn’t have me climb the mountain of death to play a water game with me; no it’s my daughter from a high. She’ at the top and I’m 20 steps away.

Victory.

Me at the top of North American's highest waterfall

We sit near, no, next to the river and 10 feet from the drop off point. If I wasn’t exhausted I would be afraid of the rapids, the gigantic waterfall. At this point I don’t care as I inhale my turkey & cheese sandwich and I promise myself I won’t complain one bit on the way down.