Adventure 213: Covered Wagon RV Park/Phoenix, AZ/Post Q

Another day in paradise.

The buy out worked. Stumpy ran away with this morning's game. I'm 0-1 (Let's hear it for creative math). In other news, we crossed the ten mile mark today, and what's more, we rode at a real biking pace (15 MPH). We even climbed a little. We drove out to the canal where it intersects off Northern and 16th Street. We rode south until the trail petered out, first to gravel, and then to the entrance to the Wrigley Mansion, a huge white monolith on top of a hill. The mansion has a three-sxity view that must have been magnificent before housing developments filled in the spaces below. It still commands a nice position, and it appears that the mansion houses an upscale dining establishment. We didn't go in; instead, we ogled at the view for a while and then rode back to the car. The ten miles took just under an hour and Judy says her knee feels fine. After the ride, we braved the masses inside a Target store where we bought a cute sun dress for Anne Marie, my niece Tina Valentine Pitts' daughter. Anne Marie is about nine months old and we get to see her tomorrow. When Tina was her daughter's age, I used to babysit her and my son, Steve. it's mind boggling that so much time has traveled down the canal. For the night's entertainment, we met Russ and Kathy at the girls state basketball semi-finals. We saw two games, both exciting, and both won by the underdog (I always love that). It's one of the beauties of sports. As they say, "That's why they play the game." In the late game, Desert Vista, the top rated team in the tournament, lost to Millennium. Desert Vista has a very talented player, Kristine Anigwe, who has orally committed to California. She is a dominant 6'4". By accident,  I was sitting next to her mother. As usual, I was taking pictures. Her mother, in a not so friendly tone, barked, "Stop taking pictures of my daughter." I replied, "Say what?" She continued, "I saw you taking pictures of my daughter. Please stop. It's awkward." I didn't stop, but I did take less (my battery was dying). I was taken aback by this women, and I'm still bothered a bit. I can't quite put my finger on it, except to say I don't take reprimands well, especially in a public arena in a fee country surrounded by several other photographers and at least one home movie buff. I can't imagine what was awkward about the scene other than I'm a elderly bald white guy and she's a very tall African American teenager, but then she wasn't aware that I was taking photos (I don't think). I can say I that I have no interest in this girl other than to document mown adventures. I did see her pose for a photo right after her team lost ( I found that awkward, but the photographer was a black man, so maybe that made it all right). I also saw her make eye contact with her mother during the game when it was clear the Millennium team had secured the win. I must say, as good as she is, it wasn't this girl who impressed me. The point guard on the winning team, a junior named Raina Perez was the one. She met very solid, physical, and athletic defense with poise, and she showed a determination that all winners have. She made big plays throughout the game, especially down the stretch (Including one very smooth tear drop that she eased up and over Anigwe). She and her teammates faced a more talented team. They did it together. They prevailed. Though Mountain Vista counter punched, as good teams will, the Millennium bunch just would not be denied. I just don't know. I'll have to think about things. On the one hand, we saw games tonight that present the best of what sports offer. On the other hand, I think I saw one of the unfortunate aspects of sport: Unrealistic parents. Perhaps it was something else. Russ, Kathy, Judy and I were the only Casper Milk Toasts in the immediate seating area, so maybe it was racial tension. Or perhaps it was something altogether different. I will never know and none of this matters. By tomorrow my own Alzheimer's will have set in, and I will be off to another adventure. Once again, all I really can say is that life is good, especially today.

 The back entrance to the Wrigley Mansion's cafe.

 The view to the west.

 The view to the east.

 The biker babe, tricked into climbing a kind of steep (Short) hill.

 Lunch on the veranda looks like it would be quite pleasant.

 Candid selfie.

 Kristine Anigwe. Yo'll be seeing her on TV in the years to come.

 Kathy and Judy (It's better when you warn them).

 This is a poor picture, but this girl, Raina Perez, played a magnificent game. It was fun to watch.

Adventure 212: Covered Wagon RV Park/Phoenix, AZ/Post P

Work hard, if you must.

Too busy living the Life of Riley to post yesterday. We lounged the morning away with our normal routine, except that now that I'm doing Master Stewart's form, Master Kai Ying Tong's form, the Tiger Mountain exercise, and my usual breathing exercises, my Tai chi practice takes nearly two hours. This is good (It is the reason we came to Phoenix, after all), but it cuts into the adventure time. Speaking of adventures in politics, I've neglected to update the cribbage wars (Just playful games, really). The Wily Cager ran into a little bad luck and lost five consecutive games including a smelly skunk, which put her behind by six. Her little doe face, as mournful as a Mexican Madonna, almost made my hard heart break (I thought about throwing a couple of games, but never really seriously). I did offer her a deal: double or nothing on the next game. She lost: down a dozen; she redoubled. She lost: Down Two dozen. At that point, she, being one of those interests that is too big to fail, you know like Smith and Barney or Fred and Barney or Enron or Enrigue or Massey Ferguson or massively meaningful or whatever. In any case, she rejected the buy out of pride or good conscious, and she redoubled the bet. She won, so we're tied going into the last two weeks. Trust me, it's better this way (That's what the Smith Barney guys said, too). Yesterday, we met Russ (Judy's cousin) at Grand Canyon University to watch the Division I High School Girls State Basketball playoffs, which if you know me, is pure joy. We'll catch some more this weekend, since GCU is about two minutes away. This morning we left the trailer about 5:45 A.M in order to drive to the summit of South Mountain to watch the sun come up. We started out on I-17, but it was tail light bumper to bumper in the dark, so we took the side roads instead. I'm pretty sure most of them were going to work, but not all. As we drove up the summit road, we passed three cars and eight cyclists. The view from Dobbins Point, painted a pastel purple and orange yellow made the idea worth it. As dusk lifted, the city lights twinkled away into the morning haze. Even though we dressed for it, the cold morning wind had us huddling like hamsters, but what can be better than that for a couple of young lovers like us. For breakfast, we tried the Market Cafe (Sister restaurant to the St. Francis). It was a fairly good walk up deli style order place. It's a mixed bag, however. The food is well prepared with locally grown foodstuffs, but the seating is mostly large picnic tables, it's noisy, and the prices are high end. The efficient staff is young and the music, catered to them, blared loudly, playing mostly New Age/Jazz. I left feeling the place didn't really have its identity nailed, but probably it just isn't marketed toward retired tourist rubes from No Place, Washington. Whatever. I would have most likely been happier eating a three dollar breakfast burrito at the Atoyac. Not to worry because as Joe Bonino used to say, "These are not really my concerns." Thoughts of the day for those of you still working: First, retire if you can. Second, if you must work, don't get a headache or call in sick because in this environment you could very well end up like Wally Pipp who is regarded as the best power hitter in the dead ball era. He played for the Yankees, led the league in home runs two years running, and was a crowd favorite. The story goes he asked to be benched because he had a headache (Hangover?). He was replaced by a guy named Lou Gehrig. The rest is history. The moral is: If you must work, work hard and when you play, play hard because as we all know by now, it's best to remember that life is good, especially today.

 They call it basketball.

 Sunrise: February 26, 2015.

 Not too many tourists here yet. This is a little of what they missed.

 Two huddling hamsters. Notice the wind fluttering Judy's hair.

 Art shot of the day.

 This little bunny tried to hop away.

 Palo Verde tree in morning light. 

 Shadow verdes in the morning light.

 Pretty to look at. No touching, if you please.

 The Market Cafe.

 Biscuits and Chorizo Gravy; Frittata with Cheddar, Red Peppers, Pesto, and Tender Arugula. Cribbage War:Even Steven as it were.

Adventure 211: Covered Wagon RV Park/Phoenix, AZ/Post O

Half a day well spent and more possible for those able.

Albeit a bit chilly for most of the locals, it was just another day in paradise for us. We met the Valentines at the Heard Museum just after 10 A.M. The museum, which focuses on Native Americans, is simply spectacular. The building has evolved around the original Indian School in Phoenix. The art work is placed in a way that suggests the peace and beauty of the desert. The exhibits pull no punches in terms of Native pride and the abuses of the Great White fathers. Of special note were the exhibits in the school itself. The orderly classroom, the organized barracks, and White man's sports offered a stark contrast to the temporal nature of the desert. Quote after quote recounted the pain of mistreatment, mistrust, and mismanagement. One quote that echoes in my mind sums up the government policy of the day: "Kill the Indian, save the man." The idea at the time was to take infant Indian children from their natural homes, gather them in faraway places, and "civilize" them. The schools were run like military institutions, full of daily regimens, long days, and lonely nights. One photo that spoke volumes pictured a cemetery. The names on the stones were those of Indians from all over the Southwest and further. One Indian sentiment related mournfully, "The only way to go home was to die." In contrast to the sobering nature of how the white man treated the Indian, the exhibits presented the creativity, pride, and excellence of the indian peoples in ways that showed compassion, understanding, and appreciation. One room detailed the history and separate lives of various tribes. Around the room at ceiling height was a striking series of murals chronicling the painful Native American history as seen from the Indian perspective (I can't remember the artist's name-sorry). Once again, my ignorance (Or the corruption of my education) showed through. I had no idea how many Indian schools were managed by our government, or for how long. It reminded me of how little I knew of Texas history last year. It's one of the best parts of traveling because if a person has eyes to see, many things can be seen. Judy's knee began to tire after about three hours, and the Doctor got a little winded, too, so we headed for lunch at the top notch St Francis Cafe. We had to wait about twenty minutes, but a very cordial and efficient waiter brought us water, lit the heat lamp (Can you imagine?), and we waited in a very comfortable outdoor seating area. Our lunch was stupendous. Judy had the flat bread (Oblong pizza, really) special of the day; Rita ordered the meatballs on the advice of her son-in-law; Jim had an Italian cold cut sandwich; and I had Pork Chili Verde. We also had a head of roasted cauliflower. I'm always happy eating food that's better than I can prepare myself because I love the fact that someone brings it to me, and it's always a joy to experience eating great food. Our waitress, Heather, was quite cute, very pleasant, humorous, and efficient. The decor was warm, and since it was lunch time, the place was jumping. I'd recommend the place for those who like an upscale lunch (Or dinner-the evening menu looked good, too). We parted ways and Judy and I headed back to the trailer just in time to button up the awning, chairs, and table before an amazingly dark cloud full of powerful wind and thrashing rain rushed through. We watched the trees shudder, the leaves flutter, and the rain drops splatter. An hour or so later, the bright sun came back out, the fresh blue air settled down, and we decided to enjoy a short afternoon walk. Like many places, the stormy weather here comes in like a lion. Not too long later, it got so nice, we decided to give Frac a bath, and now she's as shiny as a brand new penny. Therefore, as you can imagine, life is good, especially today.

 Sculptures, deftly placed, accented the museum's presence.

 A well of deep sadness filled the space.

 These murals actually circled the room at ceiling level, telling a painful story. The intense colors screamed in the silence. See if the agony bleeds through of you.

 The first thing that happened at an Indian school was a haircut. In the government's eyes, it was the first step to citizenship. In the Indian's eyes, it was a stripping of identity.

 Thousands of artifacts filled the museum: fearful masks, incredible pottery, intricately woven baskets, glimmering silver and turquoise jewelry, blankets and shawls, and about a thousand Hopi dolls from the collection of Barry S. Goldwater. Come see. I couldn't post them all. 

 The Eagle's spirit presented itself everywhere.

 As did the circle of life.

 Come here!

 Judy, Dr. Jim Valentine, Mrs. Jim (Rita) Valentine.

 Judy's flat bread.

 My Chili Verde.

 Rita's meatballs.

Jim's Italian sandwich.

Adventure 210: Covered Wagon RV Park/Phoenix, AZ/Post N

Music is good for the soul.

Hey, Daddio! Rock-a-Billy, Boom, Shocka, Boom, Shockalocka, Boom. Oozing with rhythm, sounds, culture, and geography, we spent most of the day roaming the exhibits at the MIM (Musical Instrument Museum), Phoenix's number one must see in the guide book for rich white folks (Dos entradas: $54.00). Everybody there looked like us, except for one class of well behaved fourth graders on a field trip and one obnoxious eighth grade twerp who kept talking too loudly, not quite aware of the effect of his head phones, and who cut in front of me twice to change the screen I was watching, while his exceedingly patient and enabling mother cooed, "Now, now, Michael".  I want to string him to the neck of one of the guitars and launch him like an arrow off the nearest precipice where he would land in a startled huff on top of his dazed mother. Instead, I just left. After all, I am the mature one, and besides, there were rooms full of pleasant images and sounds more appealing than the voice of an ineffective parent. For example, the second floor is organized geographically, beginning with Africa and its myriad of drums, masks, rattles, gourds, and creatively made string instruments. We traveled around the world (In about four hours) until we ended up in the U.S. where the exhibits had me flashing back like an old hippie on an acid trip. Janice Joplin screamed for me to hold on; a mutton chopped Eric Clapton fingered Muddy Waters riffs; Waylon Jennings took me back to Luckenbach, Texas ; Elvis squealed hunka, hunka burning love; Buddy Holly peered through his horned rims; and some women I'd never heard of played eery sounds in the air on an instrument called  a Theremin. After I'd enjoyed as much of that intensity as I could stand, I suggested to Judy that we take a break for lunch. We adjourned to the cafeteria. We ate a very nice (Airport expensive, organically chic) chicken salad, a goat cheese, cranberry oatmeal cookie, and a bottle of diet Coke (In view of all that health food, I craved plastic sugar). We were lucky to find a table, and that's when I noticed that everyone in the place looked like me: a fair thee well boomer tourist. It's not a condemnation (After all, I am one), but just an observation. I wondered what it would take for inner city school kids to muster a field trip to the MIM. I suspect the class we saw were kids from Scottsdale or Happy Valley. They sure weren't from Glendale. After lunch, we toured the down stairs exhibits. There you could play instruments, listen to instruments that played themselves, and relive performances from various artists. It was a nice day, but like all places that are jam packed with artifacts, history, culture, inspiration, and lore, it would take a lifetime to fully appreciate the place, and that's assuming it could be done in that time. The museum also has an area that restores antique instruments, but the artisans weren't working today. In all, it's a fabulous place, and only the most dour curmudgeon would bark, "Once ya' seen one guitar, ya' seen 'em all", or worse yet, "Call an ambulance, I think that kid fell off the balcony." Just kidding. It was a delightful day, not just for the mystery of the place, but also for the warmth and protection because today it rained, and when it rains it pours in the desert. So as warm, dry adventurers enjoying this vast magnificent world, we thankfully threaded our way (Albeit briefly) through a world of music, which made life good, especially today.

 A glimpse of last night's sunset from our living room window.

 I took a 150 photos in poor museum light. Instruments of all shapes abounded, and the museum holds over a hundred thousand (My guess) artifacts. After a while, I quit taking photos and just enjoyed the music from each exhibit.

 Many of the African stringed instruments were formed into figurines.

 Many were intricate and ornate.

 There were flutes of all kinds.

 Some were merely reeds wrapped into spiral windpipes.

 A few instrument showed their age through their lovingly worn faces.

 Some held mysteries.

 The masks, mute as they were, spoke volumes.

 Ornately carved flutes are present in many cultures.

 I only saw this one steel guitar, but it was a doozy.

 Among the most ornate guitars were European. 

 This Spanish lady wore a delicately sensual Flamenco gown.

 Accordions squeezed themselves in many cultures.

 The chicken salad went down without a cluck.

 Judy played the marimba.

 I banged thel bells.

 Carlos Santana's guitar.

 The back weave of an amazing drum.

 Drums of all types: Many like this one were shaped like goblets.

 Rat a tat, rat a tat, rat a tat tat tat.

 Even landscape was lyrical.

And the skies moved like a symphony.