Oct 1, 2006 by Naomi.

Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam, in the distant past of the Nebraska prairies. The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas. However, a day of driving through central California is something else. I could almost see forever. Oh, there were mountains defining the horizon and in between limitless fields were being tilled for yet another planting. Large sign boards proclaimed how the farmers feed the world.

The big sky was not clear and it was not bright. The sun came up through the smoggy smoke or the smoky fog shutting out all but the red outline of our hot star. A round red ball. As the day progressed I drove past fields where large machines crept along throwing dust hundreds of feet in the air. I realized that the sky was not merely full of wild fire smoke. Nor was it filled with exhaust from too many automobiles. The air was polluted with California gold — not the shiny metal that drove men in wild searches in the 1800s — but gold resulting from mechanization in the 1900s allowing the farming of vast acres with small amounts of labor.

To large corporations that is pure gold. You know how all the gold in California is in banks in some body else’s name. Gold is where you find it — if you insist on the hunt. The dust burns my eyes and settles down before I reach the oil producing area of Bakersfield and finally drive over the hills of those reknown angels.

The destination of my journey was the gold of children and grandchildren of which I am rich. I arrived before noon with the entire limb of the journey’s leg intact.

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Oct 1, 2006 by Naomi.

For fifty years or more I could identify automobiles we passed
during highway travels by their shapes. Features were easily attributed
to certain manufacturing companies, logos not necessarily identified.
Over the years new companies entered the roadways, some lasted, some
did not. As our travel widened to include out of state travel and
entertaining lively offspring, identifying car brands wasn’t enough of
a challenge. So we graduated to learning license plates from different
states which led to how many states we found that shared the highways
on any given trip.

Over thousands of miles and millions of cars, watching license
plates became such a habit that it is one entertaining part of any
drive I now undertake. Between Corvallis, Oregon, and Stockton,
California, I shared the freeways with folks from Maine to Florida,
Illinois, and at least ten other states. In my story building mode, the
scenarios of the occupants of those “foreign” cars depended
upon the apparent age and type of clothing as well as how the vehicle
was outfitted.

A pickup driven by a hair arm of a man with a muddy jeep in
tow was a natural for a red neck wild tale. A slow moving long lined
classy Lincoln driven by a white topped obviously aged gentleman with
his passenger holding a road map close to her eyes told a special
adventure story. A pony tail bobbing to an unheard music beat as a red
sports car passed me brought many possible scenarios to mind. Once a
handsome head of hair drove by in a Corvette that had my hormones
dancing. Fortunately I had a long time in his wake during a traffic
slow up in a construction zone to construct romantic scenarios. Or
unfortunately as the case became. I had many plots ready for this one
– until as the traffic picked up I passed and the heart throb
leaned over to stamp out his cigarette. Yuck. Well I can write better
personal habits for my heroes.

Many rest areas came to my rescue with picnic benches on which
to rest my back and toilets to provide other conveniences. I marveled
at the long sunlight hours but then I was farther west than I had been
at home. Could that account for later sun down? I lost track of where I
was because there were no roadsigns to alert me to the next town.
Traffic was very heavy and not simply trucks transporting the world’s
goods. People were going places in a California hurry so I began to
search for a place to stop to bathe and eat and rest for the night.

And so after a hot bath and an avocado, egg salad sandwich I
enjoyed the sleep of the innocent while weird colored license plates
danced in my head.

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Oct 1, 2006 by Naomi.

The first leg of my journey is complete. First Leg? Now what does that mean? I’ve begun a journey by automobile from Richland, Washington, to Los Angeles, California. I am describing my trip in segments and because I am moving from one place to another but not all at one time. You know any journey begins with the first step. So this is called a leg.

You see, in anatomy legs have several parts. Legs begin with a ball joint that fits into the thigh, then the long part that is the thigh bone, then there is the shin bone and finally the foot. All animal legs have these parts in one shape or another. Mammals have similar leg parts that vary from the human foot with five toes to the horse’s foot that has one toe. Never the less a leg is one section of a larger entity and can be called a leg. It is bounded by a beginning and an end.

Maybe that is not easily understood but there it is. People use word shortcuts whenever possible. I could say part. The word means the same thing. Certainly leg is more graphic. We associate leg with getting from one place to another so it indicates a journey more readily than part which might mean a cog in a machine or a yummy piece of shoo fly pie.

My plan was to stop at a relative’s apartment for the first night — for a friendly visit and to save the cost of overnight housing. The trip was a fine one as car travel goes. I drove on freeways to keep the motor running at a constant speed which I hope saves fuel. Overall speed was not the same — 70 mph in Washington state, 65 mph in Oregon, and less within city limits.

The first leg was a fine example of a healthy limb. I shall sleep to be rested and prepared for the next leg. Follow and see what that brings on the morrow.

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