Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow . . .

I know that many of you upon reading the title of this piece will think you are about to read a history of my own hair loss. While a fascinating tale to be sure - "He could not believe the real reason the shower drain was clogged . . ." - alas, I must disappoint you yet again.

Instead, I offer up one of the true joys of owning a dog - more specifically, of owning a standard poodle. Sure, those innumerable feeding times, trips to the vet's office, and unending poop patrols are well worth the love and affection returned on a daily basis from your pet. But let's be honest, when you can enjoy a little laugh at their expense, it can make make life a little more worth living.

More to the point, anytime your daughter's standard poodle can go from a washed out dishrag to a potential show dog after a trip to the groomers, then all is well with the world. I find the entire process and especially the end result, hilarious - except for the bill - and just wanted to share the before and after photos.

Unfortunately for me and my slightly twisted sense of humor, Jade (the dog in question), loves the new cut and cannot stop preening and prancing around as if she is the most beautiful thing on the planet. How much more French can you get?

Crossing America - Red Bull, Gangsta Pants, and Tattoos Too

I love to drive long distances. But when you are attempting to move across the country and you are joined by the entourage I was responsible for, the normally simple dynamics of space and time go right out the window. In previous posts, I talked a little about space - never enough with our menagerie; today's post attempts to share some thoughts on time as well as a few other circumstances that arose as we journeyed westward.

In a simple world (or a previous life), driving across the country can be a leisurely, informative, and culturally rich experience. Taking your time on the drive, sampling the local cuisine, and visiting the occasional historical site can all make the long journey seem almost fun. However, transporting five people and eight animals in two vehicles, hauling a double-axeled trailer and working with a limited amount of time and funds can make the trip just a shade south of "fun" and a lot like National Lampoon's Vacation - minus Randy Quaid and the late Aunt Edna.

Not surprisingly, our toughest issue was time. Originally, the plan was to drive ten to twelve hours per day and to finish the trip in three nights and four days. I was quick to realize however, that my version of driving time did not include pit stops for the animals, time to eat, and most of all driving fatigue. Ten to twelve hours soon became fourteen to sixteen, and four days ended up being six.

If you own an animal, you know that despite our best efforts they often march and/or go to the bathroom on their own schedule. More importantly, arrival at the designated bathroom/rest stop area does not always guarantee instant success. Such seemingly innocuous factors as wind speed or direction, types of soil/grass, other dogs, and perhaps temperature or even their mood, may all be delaying factors.

My overly ambitious timetable was also thwarted by the amount of time it took to feed the humans on board. Visiting local eateries on our trek was never a possibility - too much time, and what would we do with the animals while we ate? To put it more succinctly, we were going to cross America one fast food restaurant at a time. From McDonald's to Subway; Jack in the Box to Arby's, we sampled them all, took our food with us in the car, and drove on. I'm convinced that if the Lewis and Clark expedition had to do the same, they would have flamed out on an Angus burger somewhere around Laramie, Wyoming and never made it to the west coast. Or maybe on an Italian club - hold the onions . . .

The good news in all of this is that I was introduced to a new and important addition to my soft drink menu - Red Bull. Having limited my previous "stimulating" experiences to innumerable cups of coffee - thereby contributing on my own to the "rest stop" factor - I found that the occasional one shot fix of a large sugar free can of Red Bull to be an answer to prayer or at least drooping eyelids. If or when Britany Spears or Lindsay Lohan burn out again in the public eye, I'm willing and ready to become the new spokesperson . . .

If time dictated changes in our plans, poor packing on my part almost made things worse. Anticipating hot weather along the way, the day before we left I purchased several pair of new shorts. Going against my normal habits, I even tried them on prior to purchase. Alas, I forgot to factor in "clothing fatigue" or the inevitable stretching out of your clothes - especially pants - the longer you wear them. Perhaps this is a phenomenon known only to me, but the result - added to the fact that I also forgot to bring a belt - all contributed to "A Dad in Middle Age" frequently wearing his shorts as low or lower than the average urban hipster - no pun intended - high school student.

To even further burn this pitiful and scary image into your memory, picture me holding said pants up and walking the dogs, or carrying luggage, or simply getting out of the car. I must admit I learned a lot of tricks - from the one hand grab and hold, the two handed quick lift, and my personal favorite, the lift and run with the luggage as fast as you can until you end up tripping on your shorts. For those who care, these same shorts now work great with a belt . . .

Finally, I noticed an odd phenomena the further west we traveled: tattoos became both more frequent and less attractive on the people we met. Granted, we were visiting a lot of fast food joints, truck stop gas stations, and accommodations far from the Ritz-Carleton - nonetheless, it seemed that quantity trumped quality wherever we went.

In the middle of summer, it's not unusual to see more skin on the people around you. Tank tops, short sleeve shirts, and the occasional tube top all testify to the August heat. But how necessary is it to cover that same skin with a myriad of tattoos featuring dragons, lizards, family pets, or the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend's name? I won't even go into the number of Chinese characters I saw etched into flesh across America's heartland. It seemed as if the entire country west of the Mississippi had discovered the show "Miami Ink" simultaneously.

Let me clearly state that I have nothing against tattoos - some of my best friends have them. However, I would like to think that if I was going to show the world my tattoo, quality - as they say - would be job #1. For most of the people I saw with tattoos, it looked as if they had done it themselves or at the very least, at a parlor down by the docks and two doors down from a biker bar . . . Several were already showing evidence of aging - the people, not the tattoos - with the end result being that their tattoos inevitably aged also - and not always well. Some markings that I saw were so stretched out their phrases were edging towards the large print editions for the sight impaired, and one or two made my drooping pants in comparison seem to fit like spandex . . .

Perhaps it was the fatigue from driving, the inevitable return to earth from the Red Bull high, or maybe even the fast food refusing to break down in my system - whatever the reason, no one I saw had tattoos of the quality much beyond my uncle's World War Two blue ink specials. Come on America, if you're gonna decorate your body permanently, at least consider how it will look 20 or 30 years from now.

As only a wife can, Julie summed up my look in the above-mentioned shorts with a phrase applicable to both the shorts and my tattoo views: "Those are hardly what I would call attractive . . ."

Sure Signs of the Apocalypse . . .

While I'm not a big believer in the end of the world theories so popular these days, there is no doubt that we live in difficult times. It is items like the following that makes these times even more difficult . . .

Charlie Brown a Rap Star?

In what is definitely one of the most jarring moments of the fall TV season - and I say this at the height of all those wonderful political commercials - I just saw the latest ad for the Halloween classic, "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" One of my all time favorite Peanuts' specials, I look forward to seeing it year after year.

This year, however, some TV execs or marketing experts decided that the Great Pumpkin must be looking a little ragged and losing some of its appeal to the younger crowd. How best to get them back? By having the promo commercials be filled with the Peanuts characters rapping their words and inviting one and all to watch the show.

Charlie Brown, possessor of one of the most recognizable - and depressing - voices of any cartoon character, now rapping his way to the Great Pumpkin? I was so shocked, I can't even remember the words, though the images remain burned into my memory. What's next? Lucy and Peppermint Patty in a Brittany Spears video? Charles Schultz must be rolling in his grave . . .

Would you like some garlic with that book?

Moving further down the road to Perdition, in a recent visit to the local Barnes and Noble, I needed help finding a book for my youngest daughter. On our way to the juvenile reader section of the store, the woman assisting me apologized for the the apparent mess and mentioned that they were reorganizing the various sections for young readers. When I asked what prompted the need to reorganize, she told me that they were adding several new sections to the young readers division. Most prominent among the additions was the fastest growing section: "Paranormal Teen Romance".

To quote Weekend Update anchors Amy Poehler and Seth Myers, "Really?" An entire section devoted to completely improbable and even dangerous fictional romances involving werewolves and vampires? Novels that have their heroes and heroines struggling with such everyday issues as the choices between immortality and romance with either of the aforementioned Gothic-like characters or just a date with pimply-faced Johnny or Susie at the local burger joint? Isn't it tough enough to feel you're in love as a teenager without having to worry about the possible need for a blood transfusion after your first kiss? Seems to me at the very least, that checking the size of your date's teeth before you go out with them suddenly becomes a top priority . . .

As if the 1989 earthquake wasn't a big enough sign . . .

Finally, the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. I can smell the sulphur already . . .

Texting on Horseback, the Second Amendment, and Niche Marketing . . .

A few notes from our sojourn thus far in the Beaver State . . .

Oregon is a beautiful state. Lush, pine-filled hills and mountains, deep river-cut valleys, and a climate that can't be beat, it would be hard to argue for a more scenic place to live. Add no sales taxes to the mix, and there are some economic benefits as well.

However, every state has its little quirks . . .

My first experience with Oregon's quirkiness came one day while I was out driving in downtown Grants Pass. Talking to my wife on the phone, I was surprised to see flashing police lights in my rear view mirror. After pulling over in a local taco stand parking lot, I was politely informed by the officer that it was against the law in Oregon to text or use a cell phone while driving. In addition, the fine for said malfeasance was $142.00. Suddenly, the economics of having no sales tax made sense . . .

Regardless of economics, or perhaps because of it, there was no way I wished to pay $142.00. Seeking to channel all of my mental dexterity and verbal skills into a reversal of my plight - in short, I was preparing to beg for forgiveness - I opted instead for the old "ignorance is bliss" standby. With Virginia license plates still on my car and my newly-minted (legitimate) Oregon driver's license now in the officer's hands, I pleaded true ignorance of the law. I am forever grateful for the reprieve that resulted from my plea.

Of course, on the drive home, I spotted at least seven or eight drivers all happily discussing some aspect of their lives on a cell phone. Those particular violations and flaunting of the law I could handle. However, about a mile from home on a less busy thoroughfare, I witnessed a more flagrant violation of the "no texting or cell phone use while driving" law. Seems there was a young girl riding her horse down the road and calmly texting with both hands at the same time. A first for me I have to admit, and had I received a ticket for my violation, you can be certain I would have reported this young girl's flaunting of the law. There's something about seeing a horse and its rider pulled over by the police that appeals to my darker side . . .

Though some would say that witnessing the congruence of horse-driven transportation and cell phone technology is a significant enough experience for anyone, there have been other notable events during our time here . . .

While relaxing with my oldest daughter recently outside a local coffee house, three locals showed up to enjoy some java as well. After getting their coffee, the three settled down to an animated discussion about a truck in front of the local courthouse that was prominently displaying a mysterious flag. Mexican? Iraqi? No one seemed to know. Suddenly, two of the men got up, reached into their car, and one of them retrieved a pistol and strapped it to his leg. Fully armed, both men set off down the street to determine the flag's origins and I assume, the owner's intent.

New to this wild west implementation of the second amendment, we decided to drive by the courthouse on our way home. Turns out there was indeed a mystery flag planted in a truck in front of the courthouse. Standing there as well, pistol fully in view, was our NRA man in an apparently friendly discussion with a man and his wife protesting the plight of the Palestinians. Hard to say which piece of the tableau was more jarring - the citizen walking down the street with the pistol or the fact that someone would choose to protest the plight of the Palestinians in front of the Josephine County courthouse in Grants Pass, Oregon. Putting them together couldn't help but tilt the earth just a bit off its axis . . .

Finally, while homelessness is a serious issue in this country, Oregon and especially Josephine county, offers numerous well-funded programs and shelter opportunities for those who seek assistance. Despite this, there are a significant number of individuals who opt for some of the more time-honored methods of asking for money, food, or work in different locations around the area. Usually at the bottom of freeway off ramps, major intersections, or even outside the local Wal-Mart, many have developed a type of niche marketing or signature brand to make themselves stand out and thus increase their opportunities for receiving assistance.

Signage seems important no matter where the location. One gentleman, known affectionately as the "Sandwich Man", has been at the same intersection for months with a simple sign asking for 25 cents for a sandwich. Not a bad request when you think about it - not too much, not too little, who could argue? Another's sign seems more to the point: "I take anything green!" Even more direct was one gentlemen on the corner outside a local Taco Bell: "I need a burrito!" Some don't request anything for themselves directly. Instead, I've noticed several signs that request money for food for their dogs - an ingenious request, particularly if the dog or dogs are obediently seated or prostrate at their side.

The most clever system for raising funds however, has to go to the people I have named the "tag team group". Located at a freeway off ramp, this group parks a car under the nearby overpass, and while two of them sit in the car and read the paper, the other solicits funds at the stop sign. Often, there would be a dog available to complete the picture. While I was not aware of the exact length of each shift, they alternated people and perhaps dogs, several times each day. Not a bad strategy - especially in the hot summer months.

Equestrian texting, Palestinian protesters meeting the NRA, and Madison Avenue marketing for the homeless - never a dull moment in the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps it can all best be summed up by the city of Grants Pass' time worn theme emblazoned on a sign over main street - "It's the Climate!" . . .

Crossing America - One Pet at a Time . . .

We return once again to our saga . . .

Driving across the entire country can be a trying and tiring experience as an individual, let alone as clan leader of assorted children and pets. Trying to organize not only the clothing and other assorted gear that must be part of the package, as well as which dog or cat rides where and for how long only adds to the fun.

We seriously considered flying everyone out ahead of us - accompanied of course by the proper amount of adult supervision - but the cost, summer heat, and the consequent issues of transportation from the airport to our eventual new home all worked against that plan. Of course, the death knell (so to speak), was the release only weeks before our departure, of an annual report on animal deaths during air flights. Who knew?

Regardless, our plan was thus: transport five dogs and two cats cross-country in two vehicles - a Chevrolet Tahoe and a Volkswagen Beetle. While not requiring the quartermaster skills of supplying Patton's army, the logistical questions seemed daunting. Which dogs in which car? How many times will we have to stop for "rest breaks"? Finally, how many hotels/motels accept pets - let alone seven of them?

As it turns out, all of our questions were answered more easily than we first assumed. Through a deft combination of good luck, solid potty training, and a little subterfuge in dealing with our arrangements for lodging - all eventually ended well, but not without a few memorable instances.

Driving arrangements proved the least of our worries. The two largest dogs rode in the VW's backseat. Remarkably, they sat up most of the way and like most tourists, took in all of the scenery America has to offer - though unlike most tourists, always panting. If you didn't know any better, your first glance at the yellow Beetle might reveal four passengers - albeit two strangely misshapen ones in the rear. Had we been daily commuters to D.C. on U.S. 95, we might have even snuck them by as fulfilling our requirement to be in the HOV lane for multiple passengers . . .

As to the rest of the brood, the three Chihuahuas (yes, I said three Chihuahuas), and two cats rode in back of the Tahoe. The dogs were confined to a cage, but the cats - as is their wont - roamed free in the rear seats, only occasionally taunting their captive compadres. Every once in awhile, one of the cats would place their paws on the front seat headrest and peer over the top for a better view of say, Wyoming; but for the most part, all remained quiet and content simply to ride along.

Rest stops however, were another story. While each state-sponsored rest area has a designated space for pets, it soon became obvious which were designed by pet owners themselves, and which were designed by those who had negative childhood experiences with four footed creatures. From the lushest of lawns in Virginia and Nebraska, to the barren and rocky soil of the Russian high tundra - excuse me, Utah and Nevada - the quality varied greatly.

While quality varied, it seemed that our Keystone cops routine of harnessing up each of the dogs, varying their path, waiting patiently and then cleaning up, painfully remained the same. Add watering and a one-time feeding at night (spaced appropriately from each pet to avoid any "issues"), and I can develop a real sympathy for the guy in the old westerns (always named Cookie), who ran the chuckwagons on the cattle drive. At least his clientele bussed their own trays . . .

Finally, there was the question of where to stay each night. Thankfully, there are numerous pet-friendly motels in virtually every city. Unfortunately, they differ greatly in quality (read cleanliness), and in extra fees. Also, most of these locations have a more reasonable limit on the number of pets allowed than I seem to be able to muster in my home. As a result, we were legally able to declare only four animals - all of the dogs - and I resorted to sneaking in the remaining miscreants.

Our plan seemed doomed from the start when our first abode provided us a room on the third floor - with the elevator inconveniently located in the lobby and thus unavailable for my planned covert operations. Add to this the 107 degree heat of a Louisville summer, and let's just say I worked up a good sweat - and not from nerves. Future locations improved floor-wise, but the truck stop locale we stayed at in Carlin, Nevada sans grass - does Nevada have any lawns at all? - proved to be a near traumatic experience, perhaps for the dogs as well.

All in all, we had none of the much feared disasters we thought might come our way - car sickness, runaway dogs, or constantly meowing cats - all of which have been experienced on simple trips to the vet. On the contrary, after a little whining in the beginning, every pet settled down and seemed to enjoy the ride. Though not wanting to ever do it again, I realize it could have been much worse. After all, we left the fish, the rat, and the Cockatoo behind . . .

Crossing America - The Journey Begins . . .

As many of you know, recent circumstances have dictated a change in the Graves family lifestyle. Among the most dramatic of these changes is the need to uproot the clan and move from the east to the west coast in order to be closer to family. While I am sure that thousands of people move themselves for similar reasons each year, I doubt many have done so in quite the same fashion.

Picture the following in your mind's eye: two cars and a Uhaul trailer stuffed with our belongings transporting two adults, three children, five dogs, and two cats over a 3200 mile journey from Fredericksburg, Virginia to Grants Pass, Oregon. Six days and five nights later, through wind and rain and summer heat; after passing through thirteen states and three time zones, experiencing the best and worst of America's hotels and motels, we literally fell out of our vehicles and into the arms of parents/grandparents just glad to see us - or so they said at the time.

Along the way, several opportunities arose to observe bits and pieces of the country, it's people, as well as our own family interactions. What follows are a few quick snapshots:

- Driving Can Be a Tanning Experience: I don't know about the rest of you, but I prefer an unbalanced tan - and there's nothing like a long east-west drive to accomplish that fete. The left side of my face, left arm, and even my left knee are the deepest of golden browns. If I didn't look like I emerged from one of those Army testing sites from the 1950's, it would almost be chic . . .

- The Early Pioneers Were On To Something - As a historian, I have always admired the early settlers who crossed the continent in their Conestoga Wagons, braving the elements and unfriendly natives. I especially remember reading as a child about their frequent jettisoning of furniture, etc. when the need arose for a lighter load over some tortuous mountain pass or muddy trail. I was also ready to jettison some items from our vehicle along the way - not for a lighter load - but because the whining, barking, and meowing would occasionally rise to an unbearable crescendo. And that was just the kids . . .

- Gotta Love State Nicknames - I've never been big on nicknames, either for people or things, though I loved the recurring skit on Saturday Night Live with Rob Schneider as the office flak incessantly offering up nicknames for any colleague who wandered near his cubicle. However, during our trek I saw the validity and the fading appropriateness of the various monickers attached to the states we passed through. Among the most appropriate name we encountered was West Virginia's "The Mountain State". No doubt about it, after three hours of driving through one of John Denver's favorite locales, there was not a flat spot to be seen. Eerily, very few people either . . . Through Indiana I kept looking for a Hoosier, but without knowing what they looked like, they adroitly escaped my notice. I was vastly disappointed by at least one state - Nebraska. Driving along the entire length of what has to be one of the flattest states in the nation, I saw not one field of corn, let alone anyone "husking" some . . . Finally, my birthplace - California aka "The Golden State" doesn't seem so golden anymore. Between closed rest stops - usually avoided, but critical with the menagerie we were transporting - potholed roads, and just a general sense of slow decay in public works, the economy has taken its toll on California. Perhaps some consideration should be given to changing the state motto from "Eureka" - I have found it! to What the hell happened? - I'm a little weak on the Latin translation . . .

Of course, there was much more to our sojourn than simply tanning and discovering the occasional misdirected state name. Over the next few weeks, I hope to share more and to draw you even deeper into my experiences. I've always thought it easier to share one's pain than to suffer alone in silence . . .

Famous Last Words . . .

Throughout history, the passing of the famous and not so famous is frequently preceded by some saying, quote, or otherwise appropriate last words from the afflicted to friends and family gathered by the bedside. Whether these were the actual final words of the departed or were more reflective of the hopes and dreams of those who wished they were, the purported sayings have become an important part of history and family lore. True or imagined, the ritual gathering of loved ones - a Currier and Ives moment if there ever was one - to the bedside of the dying was considered the norm for hundreds, if not thousands of years and persists in practice, at least as an ideal scenario, even to this day.

As a person interested in history and with a special interest in the American Civil War, I have long been fascinated by the so-called dying words of that era's combatants. Two of the most well known quotes that come to mind are the last words of Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson and Robert E. Lee. For pure beauty, it would be hard to beat Jackson's reputed last words: "Let us cross over the river and sit in the shade of the trees". Lee's last words reflected more his military bent and were alledgedly directed to one of his former generals: "Strike the tent!".

Whether seeking the tranquility of shade trees or organizing the next day's battle, it is an enduring image in our culture, that we should die peacefully in the presence of our loved ones. Unfortunately, this is not always possible. One of the most traumatic effects of the Civil War and its resultant 600,000 deaths upon American society was the loss of this ability to mourn the deaths of a loved one in the traditional manner. Certainly, there had always been men dying upon a distant battlefield, but the sheer number of deaths from this war far outweighed previous conflicts and unfortunately presaged even more devastating wars to come. Dying in some far off city, state or even country without the benefit of kith and kin became the norm for thousands young men and their families. Without the opportunity to comfort the dying, these same families felt robbed of their proper grieving.

In today's society, the same sense of loss regarding the missed opportunity to be with those who are dying can be just as troubling. With the nuclear family often scattered across a continent or even across the world, simply being there when a loved one passes away is not often possible. Whether or not there are famous last words to be uttered or any final words at all, there is often a greater sense of loss, helplessness, or even anger when we are denied that final time together.

In the case of my father, his recent death came suddenly and alone. Collapsing in his home and probably dying suddenly as a result of a stomach aneurysm, there were most likely no last words, nor even time to utter them. Knowing my father as I do, whichever last words he may have uttered would most likely have reflected his anger at falling and would certainly not be printable in this blog.

Separated by an entire continent, I did not arrive in town until several days after my father's death. Between the six hour plane flight and the five hour drive to his house, I had plenty of opportunity to reflect upon things. At the risk of sounding a little maudlin, I must admit that one of my biggest regrets was not being there at the end with him.  However, in looking back to our weekly phone conversation in what turned out to be the day before he died, I realize that I was able to share what might have been his final words - at least to me. After exhausting our usual conversation pieces concerning the weather, our hopes for the Dodgers in the coming year (not much), and how his grandchildren were doing, we wrapped things up in the usual exchange:

"Love you, kid!"

"Love you too, Dad!"

While certainly not worthy of historical note or fame, I'll take those final words over shade trees and tent striking anytime . . .

It's All Latin To Me . . .

In 1992, Queen Elizabeth gave a speech in honor of the 40th anniversary of her ascension to the throne. In reviewing her entire reign, she focused in particular on the current year. For 1992 was not very kind to the Queen. From marital troubles among her children, to the publication of Princess Diana's tell-all autobiography, to a major fire in Windsor Castle, Elizabeth borrowed a Latin phrase and termed her year "annus horribilis"

Thankfully, though I have no marital troubles, no in-laws writing juicy tomes, and certainly no castles to burn down, I can sympathize with the Queen's feelings that there are such things as a horrible year. "Between employment positions" as I currently am, with all the resultant financial anxieties, and with the recent unexpected passing of my father, I feel a certain kinship with her feelings, if not exactly with her. In fact, a friend of mine hearing of my recent plight first shared the Queen's phrase with me and I found myself liking the sound (while not the experience), of it all.

Despite these troublesome times for myself and my family, there is always a certain sense we all have that things can only get better. After all, if Charles can finally wed Camilla, and all the hoopla and gossip can subside around the royal family (albeit with Diana's untimely passing), and if Windsor Castle can rise again from the ashes, there is probably a little bit of hope out there for all of us.

Just as I appreciated my friend's suggestion that this was my annus horribilis, so too, am I grateful for his leading me to discover the opposite phrase "annus mirabilis" - year of wonders. Personally, we are all looking forward to a little less of the horrible, and a lot more of the wonders . . .