Fear and Loathing on Duval Street

I have negotiated the highways and byways of London. I have attempted to decipher the street signs in Crete. I have taken the wrong turn on many a Mexican road. Yet, I have survived. However, I have never encountered anything close to driving in Key West.

Of course, I should at this point describe the vehicle I am attempting to maneuver:  a rather large, very black , 4 door half ton crew cab Ford F-150, 3.5 liter Twin Turbo, V-6 with Eco Boost,  and 4-wheel drive to boot. Now I realize this may not make sense to the uninitiated. As it does not to me. Let's just say it's a BIG MUTHA.

We are staying in our motor home on Saddlebunch Key about 15 miles from Mile Zero. Normally, my husband does the driving, as this behemoth, which we tow behind the RV, belongs to him. I take no responsibility for it. My name is not on the registration.

But this particular evening I am due at the initial dinner for a humor (how apropos) workshop in which I am participating and guests are not included. Thus, I am forced to drive. The dinner starts at 7:30. I leave mile marker 14.5 around 7 pm. Am I nervous about driving this monster truck into Key West? Yes, a little. No...actually, a lot.

I am fully aware that I am about to embark upon a world of scooters, roosters, bicycles, skateboards, pedicabs, roosters, motorcycles, roosters, open air electric cars (both four seater and six seater)...and of course, normal cars. Lots and lots of normal cars. And, oh yes, pedestrians, many of whom are carrying open drinks and wearing tee shirts with catchy phrases like  "I'm Not Drunk, I'm Normally Loud, Offensive and Clumsy." And again, due to the recent solstice, it is dark. Very, very dark.  

I make it to mile marker zero. Now...Parking. Oh god, parking in Key West. We have been here long enough to know about a delicious free parking lot. I would give you its location, but then I would have to kill you. I head for it. However, this delicious free parking lot, due to the recent solstice, is dark, very, very dark. My good sense alerts me to the fact that I am:

1). A woman alone,

2.) Unable at this juncture to walk with confidence and

3.) Do not want to step over the man sleeping on the sidewalk.

I relent and find the post office parking lot where I gladly pay $15.00 to spend one and half hours talking to people I have never met.

My trusty gps tells me it is only two blocks to the venue. I make it on time. Chat, chat, chat...eat, eat, eat ...but just drink, drink. Not drink, drink, drink because I still have to make it home. I meet my workshop leader, Daniel Menaker, and several fellow, jovial participants. Now. It's time to head back to mile marker 14.5.

I leave the venue, and immediately turn to the right out of the gate, because as I approached the venue, I turned left into the gate. I know the post office parking lot is only two blocks and a couple of turns away.  A piece of cake.

After this, it is a blur.

Which street do I turn on? And which way? I head in the direction I think is right. No. Not right. I cross the street and head the other direction. No. Still not right. I ask someone who appears to be a local (not wearing a catchy phrase emblazoned tee shirt) where the post office is. He directs me back to the direction from which I have come. I am certain he is wrong. So, I continue on my way until I find a store, preparing to close and ask the proprietor where the post office is. He tells me he doesn't know. Lovely. The frickin post office is only two blocks away and this guy doesn't know where it is? Obviously, he has given up letter writing for email, go figure.  I continue on and see a woman standing in front of another store handing out samples of some type of lotion. I ask her the whereabouts of the post office. She gives me the same directions the first man did, hands me one of her samples, and asks if I'd like a makeover. I consider it. For about two seconds. She then adds, as I'm walking away, "But I don't think it's open". Thank you for that.

I put my total trust and well being into the hands of this wannabe esthetician. I begin walking the route she recommended, (which, by the way, was entirely counter to my keen sense of direction). After the first turn off of Duval I immediately encounter, thank you solstice, a lonely, dark street, devoid of humans (I hope). And then, after walking another half block, what to my wondering eyes should appear? My precious, loveable, adorable black monster! First on my to do list when I return home: put MY name on the registration!

My Birthday Present...er, my Son’s Birthday Present

It had arrived. The Commodore Vic 20. The year was 1980. Finally. I had been hearing so much about “computers” in the news. And the idea fascinated me. I had been writing a column for the newspaper on my trusty Corona typewriter, and had learned all the typing shortcuts but this seemed like a godsend. My son was ten years old so, I thought, I would kill two birds with one stone. I would get him a computer for his birthday! He would have much rather had a horse.

I was dying to get my hands on it, and really, shouldn’t I test it out for the little guy? I sat on the floor, unpacked the box and spread the contents before me. Hmmm...strange looking. A keyboard and an electrical cord.  And that was about it. I plugged it in and diligently followed the enclosed directions. This was cool! I would worry about paper later.

All these mumbly jumbly characters appeared on the screen, and I went back to the instructions. (I have always said, I can do anything as long as I have directions.) So I commenced to follow them.

One was instructed to enter certain numbers and letters to start the thing. Let’s say, for not getting any younger’s sake, it said to enter gvx091247. I did as instructed. And...nothing.  I rearranged myself on the floor, thinking maybe I wasn’t sitting the way it wanted me to and again entered the data... gvxO91247. Again...nothing. I went into the kitchen for a bite to eat. Maybe it thought I needed some nourishment. Again, back to the keyboard, again, entering gvxO91247. Again...nothing.

After numerous attempts, I felt something strange happening in my head. A lightbulb had just gone off. In using a typewriter I had always used the capital ‘o’ for zero. And this new fangled computer was most anal. It wanted me to use the actual zero, not the capital ‘o’. I entered gvxZER091247.

And the computer presented me with honest to goodness English. And my life, as I then knew it, would never be the same...until Apple came out with the icloud.

West Manzanita

West Manzanita

 I uber nonchalantly said,“I’ll drive.” . I knew to act calm and composed if I was going to pull this off.

We were nearing Chama, New Mexico and I graciously offered to drive the motorhome while my husband, Gary, had an important conference call. This was all well and good; however, we had just acquired a new motorhome and our purchase increased in size, both physically (and monetarily).

We had recently traded in our 35-foot motorhome. I had loved driving it, and even learned to hitch the tow car, connect the electrical, water connection and alas, when Gary wasn’t available, dump the tanks. I carefully adhered to the law of tonnage, mimicking the semi drivers.

So, now we had traded "up" to a 40-foot motorhome not only longer but wider.  I was determined to master this one too. My husband, being a most trusting soul, agreed to my driving it while he took his business call.

My first time driving the forty footer! I consciously gave a brilliant impersonation of knowing what I was doing as I settled into the driver’s seat. I was not about to let him see that I was the least bit apprehensive. So what if I wasn’t exactly sure of where the controls for the turn signals and jake brake were? And if I wasn’t exactly sure what all those other buttons and knobs were for? And I just would lean backwards to see out the side view mirrors. Problem solved,

Fortunately, my husband did not notice my well-veiled trepidation as he was attempting to dial into his call. I exuded the epitome of false bravado.  Regardless, we were off! (I did know where the gas pedal was). All was well with the world!

As we approached Chama I noticed a detour from the highway through the town. Gary, now intensely focused on his call, paused, held the phone to his chest, glanced towards me and asked quietly,

“Do you see that detour?”

I, focused intensely on staying between the lines, said, in a most exasperated manner,

“Yes, of course I see the detour.” Did he think I was blind??

I turned off the highway onto a local street, weaving my way carefully through the residential maze, diligently following the detour signs. This was no problem. No problem at all. I had this under control. I was damn good!

At the end of detour, on West Manzanita Street I was directed to again join the two-lane highway.  In front of my 40-foot motorhome were two passenger cars stopped at the stop sign, turn signals indicating they were turning south as I intended to do. And in front of the two cars were several highway workers directing them, in a most animated manner, to avoid the freshly laid blacktop in the northbound lane. I watched the two cars ahead of me executed the sharp right turn precisely.  It was now my turn. 

Now I had been taught all my life to do as I am told, mostly unsuccessfully, but this one time, one time...I mind. Observing this behemoth approaching, these three men were frantically motioning and yelling at me to “TURN RIGHT, TURN RIGHT!”, in order to avoid their beautiful newly laid, gooey, ol’ blacktop. Did they have absolutely no regard for our beautiful new, unscathed, shiny motorhome? Obviously not.

And therein lay the problem.  It’s one of life’s mysteries. Who’d a thunk an extra five feet could make such a difference?

So, I tried. I really did, and as Gary was concentrating on his call, trust and unconditional love in his heart, I slowly proceeded, attempting the sharp right turn.  And this behemoth was turning and I was avoiding the blacktop. I was a good little girl. I glanced in my rearview mirror to check my progress and...Oops. I saw the stop sign swaying drunkenly back and forth. The back end of the motorhome had refused to follow the front end.

But now for the good news. At least the stop sign was still there. I hadn’t knocked it down. And the second good news was that Gary hadn’t noticed. Whew! Close call!

I knew that I would have to deal with stop sign-height gashes along the side of our formerly pristine coach, but I would think about that tomorrow. I finished the turn and was merrily fleeing the scene of the crime, secretly hoping that I'd  screwed up their precious blacktop, and that they hadn't gotten my license number.

Saved! Until...I glanced again in the rear view mirror and saw a bright neon green street sign sticking out perpendicularly from the top of the coach, caught on the awning cover. Damn!

I look towards Gary, who is deep in conversation and say as calmly as possible in this touchy situation,

“Gary, sweetheart, I believe there is a green street sign hanging from the awning.”

“What???”  

Up until this moment, he had been blissfully unaware of the driver’s predicament. He continued, in a most exasperated tone, not wanting to interrupt his call,

“Just leave it,” he softly growled.

“Leave it?? Did you say leave it? I am not going to drive down the highway with a bright green street sign hanging straight out from my coach!!  No way!”

He then said, directly into the phone, insult oozing in his tone (at least to my ears),  “I have to get off the call. My wife just hit a street sign and I have to deal with it.”

“Oh my god!”, I blurted as he’d quit his call. “I can’t believe you said that. Do you want those people to think you’re married to an idiot?” Silence ensued.

And, you ask, is there a new street sign for West Manzanita? Suffice to say, 
they found me, they did get my license. I now own two West Manzanita signs. One of whichsits at the corner of West Manzanita and Highway 84 in Chama, New Mexico, and the other right where it belongs, proudly displayed in our motorhome.

Daisy and Dusty

"What do you do with them?"

This is the question often asked of my precious, no, make that precocious mini-donkeys, Daisy and Dusty.

"Well…", I pondered these inquiries carefully, giving great thought to my answer.

"We watch them…..
and, oh yes, we feed them, we allow them to eat everything edible. They have a special affinity for newly planted Vanderwolf pines and ice plant. And bark, I forgot about bark.

"Is that all?" they will ask.

"Oh, no! Definitely not. We also feed them bales and bales of grass hay, and clean up their copious amounts of poop. And we make feeble attempts at discouraging them from charging and kicking the dogs. And of course, how could I forget the "playful" nipping at our hands in hopes of finding a treat." In their defense, they do get along swimmingly with the cats and chickens.

All things considered, they are definitely not carrying their weight.

My original plan was to train one or both of them to pull a cart. As a child, I had a Shetland pony which my father trained to a cart. My fondest memories are of pretending it was a stagecoach, I was the driver and my strongbox full of gold was a six pack of soda pop bottles. Somehow I enlisted some neighbor children to act as robbers or wild Indians, depending upon my mood, and I would tear through the trees at breakneck speed avoiding the scoundrels.

My mother, who remembered those days of yore, insisted that "I" could train them to a cart. We bought the cart and harness. Our first mistake. Our second mistake was talking to various donkey owners who assured me that it was extremely easy to train one to a cart.

"I did it in a day!"
"They are naturals!"
"You will have no problems, no problems at all!"

Our third mistake was believing them. (Not to mention believing my mother)

After a somewhat disastrous attempt at trying to do it myself, I decided to go the professional route. I placed an ad on Craig's List and waited for a plethora of responses. After several weeks I got an email from someone who suggested a woman south of Albuquerque.

After we had conversed on the phone she sent an email telling me I would need to have their wolf teeth pulled. (wolf teeth pulled??)

I wrote her back and told her this latest development may change things considerably. I couldn’t imagine administering to donkeys who had had teeth pulled. Would I have to pack the teeth? Monitor what they ate and drank? Re-bandage? I harkened back to the days when I had my wisdom teeth pulled. Do donkeys get dry socket?

She assured me that it was no big deal. Most all equines have wolf teeth. Apparently the bridle bit fits right where the wolf teeth are placed.

I reluctantly called a vet for an initial consultation. She examined their teeth, and reported that yes, indeed, they did have wolf teeth and after assuring me that there was no aftercare required, she could remove them right then. Gulp.

"Will it hurt them?, I queried.
"They won't even know what's going on with this sedative."

Was that ever an understatement. Those poor donkeys were struggling to remain standing. Weaving and wobbling.

"Look!", the vet exclaimed, "They've got five legs." She was referring to the fact that they were using their nose on the ground to balance. I had never seen them so docile.

Time for me to exit. I escaped to my porch to watch the show. Before long, she called to me saying, 

"Okay, the teeth are out."

 I returned to the scene of the crime. Amazingly, they looked no worse for the wear.

"These are the best mini-donkeys I have ever seen! They've changed my entire concept of donkeys,  the vet said.

I refrained from telling her about the charging and kicking of the dogs, the biting the hands that feeds them, the overall orneriness, the rodeo that insues when they have their hooves trimmed, as well as chasing them all over the property with a syringe stuck in their butt after our first attempt at vaccination.

"And, by the way, could I keep one of Dusty's wolf teeth? It was by far the largest one I've ever seen, even on a full grown horse", the vet asked.

Hmmm, I had to think about that one. I so wanted to keep those teeth. I really had intended to make a necklace of them. I decided to forget about the necklace. There was a more pressing need at hand.

"How about a trade? You keep the tooth and give me a syringe of that sedative?"

Mozelle in Goliad

Mozelle in Goliad

She came, she saw, she conquered!

Ninety-eight year old Mozelle Richardson, my mother, and I were the guests of Suzi and Newton Warzecha for the Goliad Massacre Reenactment. She was born in Hereford, Texas in 1914 and has been an avid defender of all things Texas for 98 years. Mom is a whiz on Texas history, beginning with the first book she ever read at 7 years old, The History of Texas. In fact, I told Newton, also an afficiando of Texas history, he might just have met his match.

Attending the re-enactment has been a dream of hers. Suzi Warzecha and I have been friends for almost 40 years and I have attended three massacres. Let me rephrase that. I have attended three reenactments of massacres. All three made a lasting impression on me and I would relate these experiences to my mother. I think she felt that it really wasn’t fair that I was attending them since I wasn’t even born in Texas.

Then the middle of March, the phone rang.

“Susie, I have a terrific idea! Why don’t you bring your mom to this year’s reenactment?” She explained the living arrangements and then added, “And I will be her personal elevator operator.”

I had seen this elevator lurking in the back of their loft/ home, SoHo Goliad. And I had my doubts about it. It was a hand operated wooden contraption, originally used for hauling frieght, laden with ropes, pulleys and chains and sporting a huge multi-colored painting of Dr. Seuss’s Cat in the Hat as a backdrop. Was this a joke? Did I really want to subject my dear mother to this devious appearing mechanism? (Otherwise mom would be unable to navigate the steep stairway to their loft.)  I acquiesced, as I trusted Suzi. (hmm...)

I called Mom, actually, I did not expect her to agree.  On the contrary, she heartily accepted. She’d love to go...but she did have a few caveats. We had to take her car. (Yes, she still drives) “Because,” she explained, “I want to take my scooter.” Her scooter was mounted on a rack at the back of her car. I agreed but I had my own caveat...I would drive.

We arrived at the Warzecha’s Thursday evening after a two day drive from Santa Fe. Suzi escorted Mom and me onto the elevator. I held my breath as Suzi, amid extensive creaking and squeaking, pulled and tugged and before long we had ascended to the second floor. This thing really worked! Mom was enthralled and exclaimed to Suzi,

“I have never done anything like that in my life!” 

To which Suzi replied, “Mrs. Richardson, you have no idea how thrilled I am to have provided a ninety-eight year old woman with a new experience.” 

And Mom replied, “Suzi, please call me Mozelle.”...and the rest was history.

Mom was enchanted with Suzi’s home.  Suzi and Newton have collected items from all over the world which are displayed creatively throughout their home. Mom especially noticed a large concrete paving stone in the shape of Texas with the word, embossed with the word, “Texas”. That first evening Mom sat on Suzi and Newton’s balcony in a rocking chair, sipping pomegranate lemonade, admiring the beautifully lighted Goliad County courthouse, directly across the street,  as it chimed it’s soothing melodies, a cool breeze wafting. She was a one happy lady. 

Friday morning we headed for the Presidio La Bahia, the fort built in 1770, and the site of the original massacre. I wanted her to have a chance to get a first hand look before the crowds arrived the next day. I had never seen the scooter trailer in action but I was about to. She lowered the trailer, climbed onto it, rode the scooter off the trailer, went back to the trailer platform, raised it, got back on her scooter, and was ready to explore the Presidio. I was impressed! I should have expected nothing less of a woman who graduated from the University of Oklahoma at age 90 and held the Guinness World Record for that feat!

She carefully read and examined the artifacts in the display cabinets in the museum. She then “scooted” out to the Presidio courtyard, camera at the ready. Tents, horses, wagons and re-enactors were just beginning to set up. She watched two men, in period dress digging a fire pit. She spoke to several people on horseback, asking them all sorts of questions and was fascinated, and of course, had them pose for photos.

The next morning, Saturday, we returned to the Presidio, ready for some battle action and repeated the trailer unloading. When I thought I would lower it myself, to help her out, she said, “Damnit! I want to do it!” Okay, mom, you’re the boss.

We watched as the Mexicans fought the Texians. Cannons boomed, horses charged, men fell (and then, thankfully, were resurrected), drummers drummed and captives were marched away. I have to admit, it was most exciting. They had some 350 re-enactors, many more than when I had last seen it, ten years ago. She wanted to hear Newton’s lecture in the chapel. After the lecture, Mom scooted up the cannon ramp on the chapel grounds. She asked me to take a photo of her with the cannon. Then she was quiet, not saying a word. Just looked out at the view, then back at the chapel, probably imagining what was happening on this very spot on Palm Sunday, 1836, 176 years ago.

Mom had decided not to do the Sunday morning Death March. Newton had discouraged it, and since Newton had become Mom’s new beau, Mom begrudgingly concurred... until she saw the Texians blissfully heading off into the forest, with the Mexicans marching behind them. And she was off! Scooting furiously to catch up to them. I did my best to keep up...that scooter is fast. I likened her version of the Death March to four-wheeling in a scooter. She bumped over gravel and dirt roads, through mud and even through an untouched, at least until then, luxuriant field of bluebonnets and indian paintbrush.

She then watched as the Texians, thinking they were going home, were mowed down by the Mexican soldiers. Very sad, actually. As the Mexicans were marching back, having done their dastardly deed, two of them came over to Mom. One handed her his rifle and then they posed behind her for a photo. A smile as big as Texas graced her beautiful face. And I think I heard her say, “Those Mexicans weren’t so bad.”

[
Monday morning it was time to bid adieu to Goliad. As we backed out of her drive Suzi came running out to the car carrying a package. It was a gift for Mom. The large concrete Texas paving stone. Which now sits grandly on her Santa Fe patio.

Big Blue

Big Blue

“Let’s fulltime!”

“Okay!  Let’s DO it!”

And we were outta there. 

Actually, it didn’t happen that fast.  We have been rv’ing since 2000.  Did the normal stuff.  Started out tent camping and complaining when one of those smelly, big things pulled in and who cares if they have their own toilets, fridge and showers? Obviously, 

 we did, because we got our first RV, a GMC, then moved up to a Barth, then down to a Roadtrek (Gary couldn’t stand up straight in it) then back up to an Allegro Bus, AND THEN.... to a monster.  But a kind, friendly, beautiful monster, our Newell, number 729, our gentle giant.

We sold our six acres, house and barn on the Chama River in New Mexico.  And along with it our mini donkeys, chickens, tractor, four-wheeler and 8 koi. We graciously threw in the pond care, the 24/7 mowing, the mosquitoes, the pocket gophers, our propane, telephone, satellite, television, and electrical expense at no extra charge.

We then traveled to the Newell factory in Miami, Oklahoma.  Actually, the Okies pronounce it Miam-UH. Obviously to differentiate it from the one in Florida. The similarities are astounding.

And lo and behold, we found our monster, our very own Big Blue. And it had everything.  Four slides, all electric, dishwasher!  What more could a girl ask for?  We were amazed at the technology that Newell had ten years ago. Yes, it’s ten years old, but its brand new to us. The only thing our bus had over it was the side cameras on the turn signals. I think I would trade that for the dishwasher.

We leave Camp Newell with a song in our heart. Until, we realized this was not just a monster, it was a whole new animal. We had to unlearn as much as learn. But with the continuous help of Newell’s 24/7 service we did fine!  Gary was most reluctant to call, but I didn’t hesitate.  Cresley, Mike, Curtis, Ryan, others whose names escape me... remember me?  “Susie”.  I can just see them rolling their eyes when they heard my name.  But each time (and I am sure I interrupted more than a few sit down dinners) they were terrific, and most helpful to these Newell newbies.

Let’s see, what are our favorite things?  The dump procedure would have to rate right up there at the top. At least that’s what Gary tells me. I’m not even sure where to find it on Big Blue. And the Gaggenau cook top. No more trying to get that dern propane cook top lit.  And how could I leave out the dishwasher?  Of course, I had one in the other rv’s, but Gary didn’t always dry them that well.

The oohs and aahs Big Blue receives are legendary.  Every campsite we pull into it attracts immeasurable attention.  (And even freebies, like chocolate chip cookies, from the campsite owners)  Gary loves pointing out all the exterior features to the curious and I love pointing out the crystal wine and old fashioned glasses, compliments of Newell. Rally, dahling,  everyone should drink their wine out of crystal while camping, don't you agree?

Life, however, is not perfect.  There are some downsides. Or rather, one downside.  The money pit bay.  Unfortunately the 24/7 hotline doesn’t tell us how to run it on cooking oil.