Old Fears

Public humiliation, unemployment, and sudden death are all scary issues for me. I try to be an optimist, but when I lay my head on my pillow at night I worry.
“Will I forget to dress in the morning and find myself at work in my underwear?
Will I have a job next month?
Will I have a heart attack in my sleep?”

These are the fears that creep into my mind. But for my three year old grandson, Addison, these issues are of absolutely no concern. When he comes to my house he wants to chase the dogs. He wants to play games with Grammy. He wants to go to the playground. He is a carefree, happy child. Mom and Dad go to work, pay the bills and search for health care. He has no such concerns.

Playing Mr. Potato Head was his primary concern when he came to visit me the other day. His parents sat bored on the sofa for 15 minutes while Addison and I traded hats and shoes and tongues for our Potato Head Pals. Finally his parents realized that their presence was not required for this activity so they rose from the sofa.
“We’d better get going if we are going to make the 5:30 movie.”
Addison’s Potato Head concentration was broken and he realized that Mom and Dad were leaving and he needed help with a wardrobe problem.
“My pants are soaked.”
“Addison!”
He hung his head while Mom and Dad removed his wet clothes.
“How could you wet your pants? You know better than that.”
Addison shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet.
Grammy escorted Addison to the bathtub and Mom and Dad left for the movie.

Marty and I dread wide awake grandchildren at bedtime, so to induce sleep; I gave Addison some hot chocolate at 9 o’clock. I read him a story and pointed him toward the bed. His feet and head stretch the netting on each end of my portacrib, so I let him lie down in the queen size guest bed. An hour later, as I lay in bed in the dark I realized that the too small portacrib has an advantage that the guest bed does not, plastic sheets. I hoped that he would find his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night if nature called. I tip toed into his room the next morning and slid my hand around under the covers. To my relief, everything was dry.

Bryce is the bright, inquisitive grandson of my best friend. She takes care of him during the week while his mom goes to college. She knows much more about kid things than I do since she is a full time grandma. I am only a weekend warrior grandma. She recommended we take Addison to lunch at a nearby McDonalds. Bryce likes this particular restaurant because it has a fire engine inside, not a real fire engine, but an outside shell that contains tables and seats. The whole indoor playground has a fire fighting theme. He likes the fire engine and the slides but he refuses to climb to the top of the 20 foot play structure. He explained to Grandma.
“There are firemen stuck to the wall.”
“How cute,” I thought. There are pictures of firemen in the top level of the playground and his 3 year old brain thinks that it is real men stuck to the wall. Despite this warning, I decided to take Addison there anyway.

Addison squirmed and pulled on my arm as I tried to decide on our food at McDonalds. He had spotted the fire truck and the playground and his mind had no room for anything else. Marty took over the food acquisition while I found a table in the fire truck. Addison stood on the seat and looked over the side of the fire truck at the playground. He saw other kids who were climbing and jumping and sliding.
“Grammy I want to go play,” he pleaded.
I was going to be a good grandmother today and uphold his parents’ rule.
“No playing until after you eat your lunch.”
He moaned. He tried to climb over the edge of the fire truck. He stared longingly at the other kids.

After what seemed like an hour and a half, Marty arrived with our food. The fight to keep him inside the fire truck morphed into a fight to get him to eat his hamburger. He took tiny bites and begged to go play. I relented and told him he could play if he just ate half of his hamburger. His face was tortured and twisted as he choked down the last two bites.

He sprang out of the seat and onto the playground as soon as I gave the OK. He happily climbed up the stairs and flew down the slide. He ran back and forth and spoke to all of the children. He jumped up and down on the rubber play surface.

He ran over to our table to get a drink. He squirmed and jumped up and down as he was drinking. Pa Paw quickly interpreted his symptoms.
“Addison, come with me to the bathroom.”
“NO, Pa Paw. I don’t have to go!”
He bent over as he twisted his legs together.
“Yes, Addison, we’re going now,” and Marty dragged him off to the bathroom.

Marty chuckled a few minutes later when they returned from the bathroom. Addison scurried back up the stairs while Marty talked.
“He was in the bathroom at the urinal relieving himself at obviously high pressure when he turned and gave me an incredulous look.
“Pa Paw, I really did have to go!”

I looked up at the high walls next to the playground. I saw what looked like the physical remains of deceased firemen. Flat uniforms suspended above empty pairs of boots on either side. The headless forms were topped by worn out firemen’s helmets.
“Yuck! What happened to those guys?”
I remembered Bryce’s fear. His 3 year old brain must have reasoned that at the top of the stairs was a speeding carousel that would fling you against the wall. Maybe he thought the firemen were left hanging there on the wall to warn the children.

It occurred to me that public humiliation, unemployment and sudden death might be just exactly what a three year old worries about.

By the Numbers

Numbers are entrenched in my brain. My mind is constantly manipulating numbers that I see. License plates, highway signs, building addresses, time on the clock, all become math problems. Numbers are real, concrete things that my brain can relate to.

Driving down the road, numbers that I see fill my head. The exit sign for highways 287 and 820 becomes a math problem. I add 287 and 820 in my head. I calculate 1107. I glance down and read 5:23 on the clock. My mind thinks 5 divided into 23. The result is 4.6. Cars passing are not Chevys, Fords and Hondas. In my brain they are a series of license plate numbers. All of this is a secret dialog that goes on in my head. Before I speak, everything I say is translated back to the language of the real world. But what if one day my internal translator broke. How would Marty communicate with me?

“Veronica, it’s after 7. What time do we need to be at the theater?”
“6 3/7”
“OK, 7 times 6 is 42. 7 times 3/7 is 3. 42 plus 3 is 45. So, we need to be at the theater at 7:45.”
I nod my head. He helps me put my coat on and we step into the garage.

“My car is almost out of gas, but it’s a pretty night and your moon roof is broken. Which car do you want to take?”
“X25CBN”
“My car. All right, we’ll stop for gas on the way.”
He opens the passenger door of his car and I get in. We head down the road.

“Check the traffic on your phone’s navigation system. What is the best route to take?”
“2 ½”
“The choices are 360 and 820. 8 divided into 20 is 2 ½, so 820 must be the route.”
He has correctly translated my answer again.

Twenty minutes later, we approach the theater.
“Can you check the address of the theater? I can’t remember if it is 1530 or 1560 Main Street.”
“4”
“1560 it is. Here we are.”

He pulls into the theater parking lot and opens my door. I feel intense guilt for him having to translate everything I say. I blurt out.
“Why do you put up with me?”
“3”
Three? My mind races. What could he possibly mean? Then I think back to our dating days. We had a secret code of affection when we were around other people. When we held up three fingers, it stood for three little words.
I love you.

Christmas Letter

It isn’t even Christmas yet, and we have already received our gift. Marty got a job. A year ago, he decided to taper off from his contract work in Houston. He wanted to find a job nearby so he could be close to wife, kids and parents. He’s been looking all year and it’s been a long journey but, on December 14 he started a new job as an imbedded software designer in Fort Worth, Texas.

We started 2008 with great optimism. Marty had a few very strong job prospects in January and in April. Each time it seemed as if he had the job sewed up, then it mysteriously vaporized. Every morning he started his day by searching the online job listings and sending in applications. But after a few months, we decided there had to be more to his life than this.

He began purchasing self paced training modules for computer applications that he wanted to learn. He spent weeks learning C#, dsPic processors and Java. He also did some short term contract work. He worked two different times for Weatherford International. The first time he did firmware troubleshooting and the second time he did a Photoshop project. He also occasionally returned to Houston to work a few days.

The rest of the time he was at home. This turned out to be a really good thing. Over the course of a few months, our house required the fence mended, toilets reworked and the roof replaced. Every time, Marty was there to set appointments, greet the repairman and oversee the work. No need to schedule appointments on Saturday, go in late to work or take a vacation day, he was available to handle it.

I started depending on him to help get me ready for work every day. I tend to cut my time very close and I am always rushing in the morning: throwing some food together for my breakfast, feeding the dogs, grabbing all my stuff and running out the door. It started slowly as Marty took over feeding the dogs. But soon he was buttering toast for my breakfast, carrying my things to the car and sometimes even driving me to the carpool lot.

The other way that we took advantage of Marty’s increased free time was by taking three vacations. In April we visited “A” towns in Texas: Abilene, Amarillo, Arlington (Dr’s appointment) and Austin. One highlight was visiting my cousins, Laura and Terry Browder. Terry runs several outstanding, upscale guest houses in Abilene collectively called the Sayles Ranch. We took a second vacation in July to Illinois to attend the Hobson reunion. We rode in Marty’s car with Marty’s daughter, Carmen, her 1 year old, Julianna, and her 3 year old, Shane. Amazingly, we traveled well together. Carmen rode in the back seat between the two kids. She was occasionally awakened from a nap by a finger in her eye when Shane got bored, but otherwise she was ok. Our third vacation was in November to the Lost Maples in the Texas hill country.

Another class that Marty took was on writing and book publishing. I took the class also and was inspired to begin writing a blog. My blog inspired Marty to begin a website cancerreportdaily.com. It is a collection of late breaking news articles related to care, treatment and discoveries about cancer. He spent several weeks building a quality, easy-to-use website. He updates it once, or more, a day. Just about the time he got ready to roll out his website, he applied for one more job. Evidently this was the one that the Lord had been saving for him, because he was hired 10 days later.

We are both ecstatic. Marty is relieved to be earning a steady salary. He is excited to be at work again. Now we will have a little more leeway in our budget. We can begin saving again for car replacement and future retirement. Also, we both are looking forward to buying new shoes. There is just one drawback to this whole Marty job thing. Who’s going to pick up my dry cleaning?

Messy House

I have let this house intimidate me for too long. For too many years I have let perpetually growing grass and constantly accumulating dust strike fear in my heart. I’m not going to take its abuse anymore. I am going to fight back.

Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.

We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.

I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.

At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.

Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.

I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.

That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.

I’m going to clean out the garage.

The Name Game

My kids never knew how good they had it. They were allowed to like their middle names. I never called them by their middle names when they were in trouble. I didn’t name them after 8th century Greek poets. I didn’t saddle them with some quirky family name. I gave them nice, normal middle names.

I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.

What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.

I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.

I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.

The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.

My dad could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)

The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.

I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.

That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”

Fall Color-Vacation Day 3

For two days we had been looking forward to the fall color at the Lost Maples. We anticipated this being a restful day in which we could enjoy a refreshing ride through the natural beauty of the park. We would be completely immersed in the quiet sounds of nature. Our skillful snapping of pictures would ensure we had lasting souvenirs for our trip.

We arose at 5 am which is not a good time of day for me. I often rise early but Marty has learned the danger of attempting conversation with me in the early morning. After once or twice receiving a response worthy of a mother bear asked to part with one of her cubs, he learned to limit himself to a very short greeting first thing in the morning. He now knows a groggy stare and a limp wave is the best response he can expect.

So, even though I don’t enjoy rising at 5 am, I knew the park visit would be worth it. We showered and had our free breakfast at the hotel. Marty said that rain was predicted for the day. I was unconcerned. We once again headed down the straighter but longer highway 39 toward the park. It was dark when we left. As the sun slowly rose, we were able to see many deer in the fields next to the highway. We continued on with a few sprinkles on the windshield. We arrived at the park just minutes before the 8 am opening time.

We were very pleased to see that there were only 6 people in line. We quickly purchased our tickets and we hoped this was a good beginning to a good day. The park ranger in the office gave us a receipt to tape to the inside of the windshield. We got in the car. The previous day, we had to stop at the gate. Now we waved to the ranger at the gate and drove on through. We had been told there was a restroom just one mile into the park, so we headed there for our first stop.

After using the restroom we both wandered around the rest area taking pictures. It was a little difficult. The combination of the early morning light and the cloud cover meant that any pictures required a slow exposure on the camera. I have read of several techniques for holding your camera still without a tripod: brace the camera against your body or hold your breath. I was no good at either of these. I snapped a few pictures. They looked ok on my 1” x 1 ¼” camera monitor, so I decided not to worry. We returned to the car.

I noticed that the end of the parking lot did not appear to have an exit. I also saw people getting out of their cars and walking toward the trees. “Where do we drive the car?” I asked Marty. “I think we may have to walk,” he said. We consulted the map that we had received at the ranger station. “Maple Trail 0.8 miles, East Trail 4.6 miles, West Trail 4.9 miles,” I read. “What’s this area marked ‘steep’? I don’t think I’m up to walking very far with my bad back and I think it’s going to rain. We don’t want to get out too far.” Marty said. “Oh, come on!” I chided him. “Don’t wimp out on me. You can handle a short little walk in the woods.”

We decided to start out on the shorter Maple Trail. Marty’s camera does not have a lens cap, so because of the rain, he decided not to bring it. I thought about carrying his tripod for my camera, but it was really heavy, so I decided that I could do without it. As we started on the trail, it began to rain. We had left the umbrella in the car. Marty pulled his jean jacket over his head and I pulled my leather jacket over mine. We carefully walked on the large rocks that were slippery with wet, loose leaves.

The ranger told us that a few days ago; the leaves had reached their peak of color. Many of the leaves had fallen. They made a beautiful orange-red carpet on the ground. Occasionally there was a tree full of yellow leaves that made a nice contrast with the red maples. The maple trail climbed along the edge of a hill with stone steps leading up and over the hilly ground. The trail had been constructed with a wooden railing alongside the stone path. At intervals, there was a stone or wooden bench to rest on. Every direction we looked was like a perfect scene. As the rain slowly drizzled down, we were completely alone in the woods.

I snapped pictures all along the maple trail. The shutter speed was slow and I knew that the pictures might be blurry, but I would have beautiful blurs of color, if nothing else. We reached the end of the maple trail and it merged back into the east trail.

“Do you want to continue?” I asked Marty. “I’m not sure about that steep part of the trail. What do you think that means?” he said. “I’m sure it only lasts a short distance. We can handle 10 or 15 feet of difficult walking,” I replied. So, we continued on. Several people had joined our path from the east trail and we were no longer alone. The rain had stopped and Marty and I walked along together in the silence for about 20 minutes.

“How much further do we have to go?” I asked. Marty consulted the map. “I think we have a long way to go. We haven’t even reached the composting toilet yet.” We didn’t know what a composting toilet was, but it was one of the few landmarks on the map, so we were looking forward to reaching it. We continued walking. The path was mostly level, but it was rocky so we couldn’t walk very fast. Despite the fact that two younger couples passed us, I am sure it was the rocks that slowed us down. We were getting hungry, so we each ate the snack crackers we had put in our pockets earlier. Finally we reached the latrine, about ¼ of the way down the east trail. I decided to take advantage of the composting toilet, although after using it I still didn’t know what made it different from any other outhouse. We hurried on from there because we heard the voices of many school children behind us and they seemed to be getting closer.

After another 10 minutes walk, the path began a steady incline. A sign next to the path read Steep Trail next 1.5 miles. “Look,” said Marty, “here is where the steep part begins.” I said, “1.5 miles, it can’t be that far.” We started up the hill. The path was laid out like a stairway. Up ahead of me I saw about 25 steps. “I can do this I thought.” I didn’t want to embarrass Marty by speeding by him, so I let him get ahead. The steps turned out to be harder than I expected and halfway up, I was getting out of breath. It was then that I thought about the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for 3 years. The symptom that drove me to consult the doctor was getting breathless after one flight of stairs. Well at least I was almost to the top.

I was surprised when I reached the top. Instead of leveling out, the path turned and began an even steeper incline. The path was no longer laid out like stairs. It was more like those pictures of mountain goats in their natural habitat. Those pictures of steep mountainsides that always made me wonder, “How could any creature live there?”

Marty continued to stay ahead of me. It was not a matter of letting him be first, my breathing was so heavy I had to go slowly. How come this guy who has to walk carefully across the carpet lest he throw out his back, was leaving me in the dust on the rocky hillside? At least the sight of his back gave me a goal to shoot for. I kept thinking, “Just a little further. Just a little further.” Each time he turned a corner out of sight I would call out “Do you see the top?” “No, not yet,” was the continual reply. As I was huffing and puffing with every step, I heard a young couple coming up the path. They were laughing and talking and passed me quite easily. “Nice to be young,” I thought. Then an older Asian couple approached. I had to step aside as they rapidly ascended the hill.

“I see a bench,” Marty called from above. “See if you can make it.” I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I feared a stroke if I continued to push myself, but I did anyway. Finally I reached the bench. I sat down and took short, quick breaths. I rested there for about five minutes as two more couples passed us by. Then I saw a rotund young man coming up the hill. He looked a little out of breath. “Would you like to sit down?” Marty offered. The young man looked a little doubtful, then replied, “I guess I better.” We all sat there for a minute, then I said, “Let’s go.” I wanted to be faster than somebody.

We saw another young man coming down the hill. “How much further?” we said. “Not long” he said and he was right. We didn’t reach a summit where we could see below, but the terrain gradually flattened out. We walked on for a while and encountered several more people going in the opposite direction. As they passed us, it started to rain.

We pulled our jackets over our heads as it started to rain harder. We saw a large display with a map of the trail. “Looks like we are about halfway,” Marty said. “Halfway!” I moaned. I was wet and cold and my legs hurt. I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh on the trip up the mountain. Every time I took a step with my right leg, a pain shot through my hip. I had also twisted my left foot a little. When we stepped down to pause at a scenic overlook, I felt a pain in my left ankle. I took a picture of the view looking down the hill. The Guadalupe River was at the bottom and on the trail next to it, was another composting toilet.

We reached the descending part of the trail. Every step down caused a pain in my left ankle. It was not as steep as the trail up, but it was rockier. We had to concentrate on keeping our balance to prevent tumbling down the hill with the rocks. The descent down the hill was shorter and less dramatic. At least this time we had gravity on our side.

We got to the bottom of the hill and the other composting toilet. I didn’t need to go, but it was my landmark and I was glad I finally reached it. We paused to catch our breath and admire the view of the red leaved trees reflected in the river. After a few minutes I asked Marty, “Are you ready to go to the parking lot?” He started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I said. He showed me the map. We had another 1 ½ miles to walk.

We started back on the trail. The rain had stopped and there seemed to be people everywhere. Through my weary eyes, they all appeared to be more physically fit than me. We walked on until we came to the entrance of the west trail. I just looked at Marty and we kept walking.

We came to the parking lot, the overflow lot. It had about 20 cars in it. It was not the parking lot where our car was parked. We kept walking. We got to our parking lot. Our car was parked at the other end about ¼ mile away. We walked on. Finally we reached the car, opened the doors and collapsed inside.

This day had not been like we expected. The solitude of the park had turned out to be a crowded tourist attraction. The photo opportunity had turned out to be much less than perfect. The relaxing driving tour had turned out to be an exhausting climbing tour. Every time I stepped on either foot, I winced with pain. But, the maples were beautiful. The water in the river was crystal clear and there was no trash to be seen anywhere. Was all this rain and pain, frustration and exhaustion worth it? Absolutely.

Are We There Yet?-Vacation Day 2 (cont)

Beautiful fall color is what we were looking for. I had always dreamed of a vacation in New England in the fall. That trip was out of both our distance range and our price range. How exciting to discover that fall color was available here in Texas at the Lost Maples State Natural Area. The only question was whether Texas, known for its treeless flatlands and dusty landscapes, could live up to the hope of autumn beauty.

It was going to be a wonderful vacation. Our free hotel was only 35 miles from the Lost Maples. So even though the park campsites were full, we would be in a comfortable hotel just a half hour away. The isolation of the wilderness area would be a welcome change from our crowded city lives. My life had been so stressful lately that I was looking forward to a restful drive through the brilliant red maple trees. Marty and I both are avid, though inexperienced, photographers and this would be a perfect photo opportunity.

We arrived at our Kerrville hotel Sunday afternoon. We had just been refreshed with a delicious meal at Po Po Family Restaurant. (Marty, the picky eater, said it was the best turkey dinner he ever had.) We decided to take a preview drive to the Lost Maples park.

We headed south out of Kerrville on highway 16. Even though Kerrville was not a big town, there seemed to be a lot of smaller communities on the outskirts. It took 30 minutes to reach the next turnoff. Highway 337 was two lane and very slow going. It was mostly cut out of the side of a hill. It didn’t help our confidence that the road was liberally sprinkled with signs proclaiming “Falling Rock.” By the time we reached the park, an hour and a half had elapsed. Those 35 miles from hotel to park could only be as the crow, or perhaps the helicopter, flies.

We finally made it. Now all we had to do was decide if it was worth the $6 a piece admission fee to go in the park for just an hour of daylight. It would be helpful to drive around inside the park and scout out any good picture taking locations. We took the turnoff for the park and immediately encountered a problem.

The Ranger’s station was in the middle of a 1/10 mile drive that contained a loop around and a small parking lot. There were dozens of cars competing for about 10 parking spaces. Before we could park, we noticed a line of people extending 50 feet from the Ranger’s office. Many cars had parked along the roadway and we were able to get in one of the few available parking spaces near the office. We got out of the car and went to the end of the line. After standing in line for 10 minutes, we had only moved a few feet. We checked the sign for the park hours. It was getting near the 5 pm closing time. We decided to return the next morning when it opened at 8 am.

We decided to return to our hotel by another route. Highway 187 was a hilly, but straight road and we were able to travel at 60 mph. Then we turned on to highway 39 which wound along beside the Guadalupe River. There were many resorts dotted along the route. They were obviously built to take advantage of the beautiful views of the river and the trees. However, the crooked road and the one lane bridges slowed us down quite a bit. It was an hour and 10 minutes after we left the park before we returned to the hotel. The second route was faster than the first, barely.

After arriving at our hotel, we modestly dined on homemade turkey sandwiches, canned soda from the cooler and chips purchased from the local grocery store. We went to bed early and dreamed of a beautiful, relaxing day driving past groves of trees covered in red and yellow leaves, stopping occasionally to leave the car to take a breathtaking photograph.