What a rebel!

Did it ever occur to you when I was raising hell in high school, that you set a pretty good example for me? Hah!

I also found these drawings that show off your artistic talent. Some day you’re going to have to ‘splain them!

Have a great Father’s Day Dad.

For a sneak preview of some of our scenes in the show, check out Jerry’s Tripawds website.

Back when we were in Los Angeles, we were thrilled to be invited by PBS to present the show at the Annual Television Critics Press Tour. This is a twice-yearly event where TV networks showcase their best work of the season. We were on the panel along with with the show’s producer, Ellen Goosenberg Kent, animal behavior expert Sarah Wilson, and PBS executive Bill Grant.

We were clueless about the significance of the TCA event. But then Ellen told us that not every show gets invited to the showcase, and this was the only Nature episode being presented. Later, as we were whisked into the Universal Studios Hilton ballroom with a large stage, gigantic video monitors and about 100 reporters, we got the picture.

Jim’s a natural at public speaking, and was great. As for me, I’ve always dreaded it, and if I didn’t belong toToastmasters once, I would’ve fainted. I did OK though, thanks to our “little Jerry” I held, a three legged stuffed dog that our friends Bob and Marianne Morse gave to him before we left Eureka (that’s Jerry’s collar on it).

The event was over in the blink of an eye, but the results have been encouraging. We’ve so far been interviewed by the TV Guide Channel, a Tribune News Media reporter, and this Tuesday, a San Luis Obispo area talk radio host, Dave Congelton, is interviewing us. Keep an eye out for your local newspapers to review the show.

As we watch this dream unfold, we can’t help but feel blessed for all of the incredible gifts that Jerry bestowed on us. He was such an inspiration, and despite the pain of losing him far too soon, we are comforted in knowing that his story will go on to inspire others all over the world through this show, and of course, his website. Many thanks to producer Ellen and our friend Luke for believing in his story.

Remember, Why We Love Cats and Dogs premieres Sunday, February 15 on PBS (check local listings).

“Why do Mexicans make tamales for Christmas?

So we can have something to unwrap!”

Ok, that’s not really true, we were spoiled brats and did have a lot besides tamales to unwrap. Regardless, my family has made tamales every year since Mom and Dad were married in 1954. This past Christmas, Jim and I got to participate in the annual tamalada at Mom and Dad’s house, something we never had time to do before we hit the road.

I’m trying to capture the Agredano recipe, and put one of my custom books together that shows how to make them. But getting the recipe from Mom is a little tough.

“Oh, just add a little of this, a little of that,” she says. She doesn’t measure anything. All I really know is that it’s the lard that gives them their flavor. But once a year, this vegetarian will look the other way, because these tamales are just so darn good!

Etna has always been one of our favorite spots. With the stunning Marble Mountains as a backdrop, this old ranching community is the gateway to some of the most spectacular, rugged scenery in the state. We’ve had many backpacking adventures in those mountains, and were never disappointed (well, except once when cows trampled our campsite, but that’s another story . . . ).

Since we hit the road, Etna has always stayed on my short list of possible places in which to buy land. And now, with a good basis on which to compare it to, we set out to take a closer look.

As we drove from Eureka to Etna, and still hadn’t arrived after reaching the four hour mark, we started thinking, “Wow, this is farther than we remembered.”

It took us a total of six hours to get there, and “there” wasn’t really anywhere. The biggest metropolis, Redding, (population 90k) is two hours away. Getting to paradise was an exhausting, grueling drive. Hmmm, guess I blocked that out.

Nothing had changed since we’d last visited. The old familar landmarks were still there. Bob’s. The ice cream shop. The brewery. But after taking a hard look around, we realized that the place seriously lacked any kind of ethnic or age diversity, and even a real economy. Not even the summer adventurers like us could infuse enough cash into that area to breathe life into it the rest of the year. What I once thought was quaint, now looked like a tired town going down the path of extinction.

After consulting with a local United Country agent (UC is the best resource for rural property sales) , we hit the backroads to check out some land parcels. But to our disappointment, anything we could afford was either so far off the beaten path that four wheel drive was needed year-round, or it was in one of a couple of tidy rural subdivisions with cookie cutter “rustic” homes. Once we measured our criteria against reality, we knew this wasn’t the place for us.

After just two days, we crossed Etna off our list. And because the rest of California isn’t anywhere I’d want to live, we crossed the entire Golden State off our list as well.

Just a few years ago, we could’ve moved to this little piece of paradise in a flash. We were so tired of Eureka. But our world was smaller then, and we were too stupid to know any better.

Funny how 18 months on the road can change your perspective on things.

A blog share is what happens when a fellow blogger writes something for someone else’s blog, completely anonymously. So someone will write something that gets published on our site, and I’ll write something that gets published on someone else’s blog. Get it?

Why am I doing it? Because it’s a chance for me to write something that I don’t want to discuss or confess here. It’s fun! If you’re a blogger, you should try it some time.

Here’s a list of the participants, and below the list is the beautifully written anonymous post.

Vent Vox
Turn On The Stars
Trudie – Life After AC
Swimming With Sharks
Stefanie Says
Shhh! Librarian-In-Training
Sauntering Soul
Sass Attack
Reflections in the Snow Covered Hills
Red Red Whine
Our Simplicity
One New Duck
Oh My Seven
The Occasional Truth
No Lady
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Muse On Vacation
Messing With Texas
Melliferous Pants
Lizland
Live Work Dream
Just Below 63
Jonniker
Java Literally
Heidikins
Full of Snark
Face Down
Ex Everything
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Did I Say That Outloud?
The Daily Tannenbaum
The Coconut Diaries
Citystreams
Catheroominations
Bright Yellow World
Breath Smiles Tears
And You Know What Else
Alyndabear
3 Carnations

“Names and Identifying Features Changed to Protect…”

I remember Kal awash in the dull mustard and orange of a TV’s reflection. The patterns of light shift on his profile according to whatever the characters of the movie are doing. His eyes are a clear shade of blue that put me to mind of the Pacific Ocean on a cloudless day. In this memory, those eyes are narrowing in his features as the corners of his mouth lift and he laughs.

He was the very tall and very handsome friend of my sister. Physically, my heart would strain in my chest at the sight of him. My center of gravity seemed to shift so that I would edge closer to him. I didn’t, though. I would cover my yearning with barbed teases and smartass remarks.

I knew even then that it would be a mistake to be in a relationship with him. I wanted to be with someone who could offer me the possibility of a future. Kal, according to his not-so-broad hints and 11 p.m. calls begging me to come over, could offer me a fun night. I laughed off all of his overtures, and he laughed while continuing to try to seduce me. I stayed away because that wasn’t what I wanted.

One night, only a few miles away from where Kal lived, I was raped by an acquaintance.

He was the first person that I told after many weeks of not saying anything. He was, in fact, the one to tell me, with anger poisoning his features, that I had been violated. Raped. I couldn’t – still can’t, really – call it that. It wasn’t something that happened to girls like me. I was smart. I knew better. I wouldn’t have put myself into a situation like that. I had let this happen.

He let me talk, dismissed my feelings that I had somehow caused this, and asked who had done it. I wouldn’t tell him. He insisted. I balked. I watched the rage slip away into helplessness and his six-fee-four-inches frame leaned over to hold me.

I remember the feel of my nose against that soft spot where his neck and shoulder joined. I recall that there was a thin sheen of perspiration from the summer humidity. The earthy smell of his flesh remains imprinted upon my heart.

We watched a movie then and he asked me to stay. The request was different than the ones made on other nights. For the first time, he looked at me as the little sister of his friend and not a potential conquest. I said no. He placed his hands on my shoulders, kissed the top of my head and walked me out to my car.

I passed by his house a few nights later, and again the night after that. Each time, we watched movies. He sat with his arm across my shoulders and nothing more.

The next week, I called him with a favor. I wanted that last experience – those horrible moments of helplessness and defeat – to be replaced. Would he help me?

He did, for several months. Each time we were together, there was a gentleness and peace that reminded me that there is goodness in the world, and that nothing ugly can forever leave its mark if the bearer chooses not to let it.

I believe that just because somebody doesn’t love you the way that you want, it doesn’t mean that they don’t love you with everything that they have. Kal did just that. He couldn’t offer marriage or even next year, but he could hold me, move with me, and remind me that I was still a good girl that would be okay.

For that, I am forever grateful.

But it is snowing, the water is pretty rough, and those who are giving it a go don’t look very happy.

After my windy morning on the Arkansas, I doubt I’ll be contemplating much longer. Even though we had heard the fishing was hot, it was definitely not. And while there is no such thing as a bad day fishing, I don’t care to repeat that adventure.

When we were camped along the Arkansas at Hecla Junction, we had heard the May Fly hatch was in swing and that meant the fishing was hot. It was actually quite cold. Not only did I not get a single nibble, I did not see a single Caddis Fly.

I had read about the clouds of bugs and swarms of fish feasting on them this time of year. And I also read some good tips an how to fish this section of the Arkansas.

These writers obviously hadn’t read the weather report. And we were obviously a few weeks early for the hatch.

The first morning I went out, I got in some good wading and great casts. Not a single strike, but I had a great time. I should always remember to quit while I’m ahead.

The next morning it was cold, but I thought I’d give it another try. I hiked downstream further to some nice long stretches of the river. As soon as I started casting the wind picked up. Pausing between gusts, I started to feel the chill. Then my rod did.

My casts became difficult. The line wasn’t flying as it should. And I knew it wasn’t me. It just felt sluggish. I looked for a knot in my line and discovered the eyelets on my rod had frozen. I’d heard of ice fishing but this was ridiculous.

I took a break to clear the ice plugs from my rod, tie on a new fly, and wait for the wind to calm down. It didn’t. Working my way upstream, I decided to give it one last shot in what looked like another nice spot.

My reel quickly started acting sluggish. Now it had frozen and my line was having a hard time with ice in the eyelets again. Time to call it a day and go get some hot coffee! Better luck next time.

At least we got in a great hike for some awesome views of the Collegiate Peaks later that day!

My hands are cold just writing about this. I dn’t think I’ll be going fishing today.

If we had known that I-95 was under so much heavy construction, and lanes had been narrowed and diverted into squiggly bumpy paths, we would’ve taken the toll road.

Trucks towing huge boats routinely come flying down the road faster than most big rigs, and drivers don’t give a rats ass if you’re hauling a tank full of mustard gas; every man’s in it for themselves, and the first one to hit the offramp wins.

This East Coast driving is worse than any we’ve seen so far, even in New Jersey.

As we headed into super crowded South Florida, it was apparent from the get go that things were going to be much different here.

Regardless, the Dishpointer satellite alignment calculator is still pretty cool.

We’ve included the Dishpointer Lite widget here for your use. Just select your satellite from the drop down menu and enter your location – city or zip code – in the box. The map and details will automatically update with the required elevation, azimuth and LNB skew for your satellite dish. Drag the map or marker to pinpoint your location.

Pretty cool, eh? If you think so, wait until you check out the full version.

Dishpointer.com includes the complete Satellite Dish Pointer / Alignment Calculator with Google Maps. With the full version you are provided more options and features, including an additional map marker that lets you determine the maximum height of obstacles in ther line of sight to your satellite. So like I said, pretty damn cool.

The site also includes a wealth of information about satellite technology, more that anyone should ever need to know really. There is also a technical satellite help section with FAQs and the developer’s blog for satellite enthusiasts.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to create the clever Google Maps mashup behind the Dishpointer tool … just a chartered Engineer working on a PhD in aerodynamics. Thanks Alan!

As we approached the area, pulling the trailer through Morristown, I started to wonder if it was such a good idea. Not because of the narrow roads and traffic, but because it was becoming apparent that things are not always what they seem. In fact they never are in adulthood, especially when seemed long ago by the mind of a ten year old.

With no internet access at our Mahlon Dickerson campground, we headed to the Library of the Chathams to get spoiled by some blazing fast WiFi and find our way to 55 Southern Blvd. Always referred to as the big white house at the top of the hill, my house was still there, and it is still white. But there was just something about it that didn’t feel right.

I understand why it might have seemed bigger because I was so much smaller the last time I saw it, but that wasn’t what bugged me. The old place had just lost its character. Or rather, various owners over the past thirty odd years have probably spent gobs of money to get rid of that character. The big white house is now just another McMansion on another New Jersey township road.

The two nearest upstairs windows were to my room, which is probably two rooms now. The screened porch below is where I remember my father sweating, and sanding, and cussing, and sanding, and sweating, for what seemed like every summer we lived there. I don’t think that project was ever done, but it looks far too pristine now. At some point, someone planted hedges along the road which have fully grown to hide the house. Good for the owners, considering the quiet windy road I remember walking to school along had become yet another thoroughfare between at least a couple strip malls.

The renovations my parents did to the kitchen, exposing an old beehive oven, obviously weren’t enough as there is now another addition off the back of the house. And there is a large building in place of the cute little pool house. There was a tall fence in back cutting off access to what used to be a neat little creek. And there was certainly no more old ivy spots on the aluminum siding.

Overheard in the Chatham Library by two old retired guys …

“I’ve lived here 45 years, I don’t care for it much any more. It’s a dump … Too much fornicating going on too. Too many children. They got nothing better to do … Damn taxes among the highest rates in the country… Can’t even afford to be buried in Chatham!”

The big hill out back where we used to go sledding, was not nearly as big as I remember it. And neither was the big side yard where the big kids would play soccer. But there we go again with that size to age ratio. Frustrated by the traffic, and disappointed so far, I didn’t bother tracking down my old elementary school. Instead of dealing with soccer moms at rush hour, we decided to eat. We were starving after skipping lunch since I had mapped a route to Gasoline Alley, a restaurant I fondly remember from my childhood. I swear I remember seeing Simon and Garfunkel or Jim Croce or someone like that play live there. But how was I to know who? I was probably seven, or eleven.

You can’t always trust Google Maps either. Either this place doesn’t exist anymore, or it is hidden incredibly well with strip mall camouflage. After cruising around the neighborhood by car and on foot, we realized it must be the place with the front ripped off and all the construction going on. Thorough disappointment set in for the little boy inside this big hungry man.

We decided once again to find a bite somewhere. After determining we did not want strip mall Chinese food, we eventually found Orphan Annie’s Bar and Grill. The atmosphere lived up to the sign describing The Home of Hot Blues, Cool Jazz, and Live Rock-N-Roll. But it was definitely more bar than grill. The only thing missing was the smoke, thank goodness. And the Blues.

No live music for us. And not much for a vegetarian to eat either. We opted for another fried mini meal and a salad back at the trailer. Clam strips and fries with some onion rings tied us over, but only added to my sense expectations lost. A day spent in traffic topped off with starch, while bigots dropped the “N” word talking about how “they” should all go back where they came from, is not exactly how I expected to relive my childhood for a day.