The California Files

The Lay of the Land

"All work and no play make Jon a dull boy?" Phooey on that. All work and no play just plain annoys Jon.

So this weekend, no work. No unpacking. Hey, we're almost done anyway. Instead, we undertook to get the lay of the land. Exploration! Yay!

What we found pleased us both immensely. We found a cool winery, a gorgeous state park and the Sisters Folk Festival.

Yesterday we headed north with no greater goal in mind than to reach the little town of Madras, an hour, at most, away. Why? Because it's there.

Got there, looked around, then turned around and headed back with a couple of subsidiary goals in mind. We'd seen signs for something called the Faith, Hope and Charity Winery. A winery in Oregon's high desert? Hey, we just had to take a look.

Maybe 10 to 12 miles to the west of Highway 97, the main north/south road in this part of the state, this place is a little jewel. The wines, we thought, were merely OK. But both the setting and the grounds were gorgeous. We sat under the shade of an awning for about an hour sipping the wine being offered there, prolonging our tasting for as long as we could while enjoying the respite.

Oh, that name? There are a number of wonderful mountains that help give this area its character. They include Mt. Bachelor, Broken Top, and Mt. Jefferson. Three others are called the Three Sisters, named Faith, Hope and Charity. The little town of Sisters is close to their base, which is how it got its name.

Next, on the recommendation of my pal and former colleague Mike Swanson, now a copy editor at the Portland Oregonian, we checked out Smith Rock State Park. What a surprising, gorgeous place. Here are a couple of the photos I shot while there. As always, you can click on these to see them fullsize.

This place is volcanic in origin, and is far more than just a rock. It is an impressive collection of red spires and cliffs that soar above the Crooked River. This is hiking country. Also rock-climbing country. We weren't equipped for hiking, and we're not sufficiently crazy to try to climb, but we've vowed to return to sample those trails. The main one we saw leads down from the south rim of the park itself, across the river, and then either along the river or up, steeply, dizzyingly, up a trail that looks the way I imagine the Khyber Pass might look. I mean, it's steep! But that's after a set of killer switchbacks that start right at the river. I think we'll wait awhile on that one. I plan to explore the river walk, just to check out the fishing.

OK, that was Saturday. Today is another day. As they say. So we embarked upon a different kind of tomfoolery.

Last weekend Laura explored Sisters, the little town I mentioned earlier. She came back filled with enthusiasm for the place.

Sisters is known not just for its quaintness, cool shops and relaxed way of life, but also for its rodeo. And also for its annual folk festival.

Wait, did I say folk festival? Some of you will know that's right up my street. So we went over there today – Sisters is maybe 15 miles west of us – to take a look and maybe catch a little music.

What we found was a town absolutely dominated by acoustic music. We counted at least five large tents, with acts going in each one. We were told that there are more. We also found booths with lots of cool music-oriented stuff, and also food and drink, for sale.

The highlight of the day was catching the end of a performance by Laurie Lewis and Tom Rosum, two bluegrass greats who were here today as a duo, rather than with their usual band.

We stood and listened to their last song, a poignant one in which they had the audience singing the tune's chorus. It was about friendship, love and the shortness of time, and it was brilliant. When it was done, I was wiping water from my eyes. I noticed that Laura was doing the same.

So why weren't we there all weekend? This festival is so popular that by Friday, the day it opened, it already was sold out. So we could walk around and hear music wafting from the various tents, but no way could we get inside and actually enjoy a full set.

Ah, but next year, we will be prepared for all three days of this grand event.

Right? There's always next year. And as far as Smith rock is concerned, there's always next week.

And finally, this: At some point, I'm going to have to change the title of this blog to something that more closely reflects our residential circumstances. I'm pondering this. So stay tuned and don't be surprised by a change in the lay of the land.

-JFT

The Final Stanza

It has been not quite four weeks since we rolled into our new home at just exactly 9 p.m. of a Monday evening, introduced our two cats to their new home, and collapsed into bed (yes, we planned so that a bed would be ready for us) after a 12-hour drive to spend our first night as Oregonians. So far, it has gone even better than we could have imagined.

Except for the unpacking. That's rather a pain in the ass, but we're about done with that, too. And saints be praised, we have found almost everything and have gotten the essentials accomplished - kitchen, bedroom and bathroom operational and the TV and phone working, in other words.

Additionally, I have commandeered the fourth bedroom in the house as an office/studio. Laura did the same with bedroom 2. So my office is mostly set up, even if I can't find my two packages of 8.5 x 11 photo paper. Grr. Laura's office/studio is ready to rumble, too. Maybe she's commandeered my paper. I'll have to check.

In the unpacking process, I did find a number of treasures. The first is the plaque you see here on the upper left of my computer screen. (As always, you can click on the image to make it bigger.) It proclaims, "Editorial," and was in our newspaper's city room on the second floor of a decrepit old building at the corner of Brand Boulevard and W. Wilson Avenue, in Glendale, in, like, maybe 2006, before the geniuses that ran the paper decided we needed to move.

This plaque marked our hallowed territory, the way a coyote might, as distinct from such impure creatures as sports writers, ad sales people, etc. We liked it that way.

When we moved, since I worked nights, I was among the very last to pack up. To my surprise, nobody had scammed our little sign. So I did. And now it's here with me in Oregon, reminding me of what fun newspapering was. In spite of editors and ad sales people.

The second treasure - well, two of them, really - were the Ducati and Porsche logos I carved into planks of basswood this past spring and summer.  As I unpacked box after box, they failed to turn up. I thought perhaps they'd been lost. But no. They were in one of the very last boxes I opened. I was very glad to see them, as no way was I going to do this job over again. I immediately hung them on the board above my garage work bench.

And that prompted me to make that bench operational. I cleared away the detritus of moving, put tools in drawers, and as a final embellishment, I set up the garage high-fidelity system, then dialed in the local FM stations. Ah, with its two vintage JBL speakers, it sounds great. 

So now the garage is ready for trouble. Trouble is, I don't know from whence the next bout of trouble will come. I do know that it will not be the restoration of another motorcycle. (More on this later. Maybe.) And I do know that it won't be another book. Too much work, time and effort, not nearly enough reward. But I'll think of something. Or hey, maybe I'll just stick to fishing and hiking. A feller could do worse.

In the meantime, I can sit out there at the bench - hey, maybe I should make sure a banjo is handy there. Not a bad idea!

-JFT

Making Our Move

I retired nearly three years ago. In June, Laura merged her business with a large company from Chicago. She is, she says, finally ready to slow down. So we decided to make our move. Easy, right? No. This has been an odd, stressful and unsettling several months for us.

We've felt as though we are standing at an open door, peering into a fog, unable to make out any detail of what lies out there in the gloom.

Nevertheless, bold steps through that door seemed called for. So we took several. The first thing we did was sell our house. OK, fine. Now we're basically homeless. Unless we find somewhere else to live. Quickly. And we had to contemplate actually, you know, moving. Not easy, as we've been here in this house for 32 years. The inertia is considerable.

But let's go back a ways. I've been loosely planning and scheming for this for about four years, using Google and more to scan areas that might be a good fit for us - a good fit for the way we live, and for the way we want to live.

Over the course of that time, we have taken a number of road trips to check out areas that looked interesting. We both really like California's Gold Country. It holds great allure because it is close to Laura's sister and to the family ranch, which the two of them own. And it's close to the sites of California's most romantic and historic works - the California Gold Rush and the construction, over the Sierras, of the Central Pacific Railroad, the western half of the Transcontinental Railroad. I'm absolutely nutty about the histories of both and have been looking forward to exploring the landscape of both, camera in hand, in great detail.

But we also both also love central Oregon, the area around Bend. It is very beautiful and has everything we need. Including rivers for fly fishing (me) and for kayaking (Laura). And glorious clean air and bright sunlight. And a relaxed way of life. And smiling, polite people. And great restaurants. And abundant culture. And Trader Joe's. And Whole Foods. And Barnes & Noble. And excellent medical care. But it is a long way away from family. So even though there is a handy airport that will make commuting to see clients easy, we took the Bend option off the table.

We homed in on Placerville and El Dorado Hills, which possess the elements we wanted. Over the course of three or four trips, we looked at many properties. ElDo Hills emerged as our favorite of the two. But EDH, while beautiful, is mostly composed of tract houses. The older areas are great and contain some nice homes, homes we would be proud to own. But there wasn't anything at all like that available when we finally got serious. So we looked at a gaggle of newer homes.

What we found were houses tightly packed together on microscopic yards, rather like puppies snuggling in a small basket. It brought to mind Malvina Reynolds' wonderful tune, "Little boxes, on a hilltop, little boxes made of ticky-tacky ... and they all look just the same." But what really put us off was the seeming low-rent nature of the cabinetry, door and appliances. I mean, good god, these are expensive homes.

Laura for sure was just not going for it. She requires quality and craftsmanship, dammit! And some space! So did I. So we determined that we would explore our second option. Bend was back on the table.

Actually, our second choice was my first choice. I am eager to put behind me California's ugly sprawl, its density, its traffic, its drought, and its constant threat of both wildfires and earthquakes. But I was also eager to be completely sure that Laura was getting a home she really loved in a place she really loved. So when we moved on up the road to Bend for another look-see, our fate was hers to decide.

We now have visited the place three times in the last year, thinking that things just might come to this, and lemme tell you, it is flat wonderful. During this last trip, we spent the better part of two days looking at some really nice homes, each one seemingly nicer than its predecessor. Our Realtor is a very patient guy.

But before we looked at houses, I had a clue that this might just be a done deal. As we drove north and crossed into Oregon, it was clear that the landscape here are not nearly as stressed as it is in California, that the drought there, while present, is not nearly as grim as it is southward. During the drive, comparing the lushness of Oregon to California's parched and depleted landscape, Laura commented several times, "This is so beautiful!" And it was.

So we looked at houses until our eyes crossed. Homeless, remember? After serious serious confabulation about the homes we'd seen, we arrived at two final candidates. We spent part of an evening parked near our first choice in Bend itself, a gorgeous home with a nice big yard in a forested area, built with craftsmanship and care.

Uh-oh. Good thing we looked. This was a family area, filled with kids, bikes, campers, pickup trucks, noise. We both badly wanted more serenity than this wonderful home offered.

So we got serious about our second choice, a newly upgraded custom home on the 13th fairway of a golf resort out about 15 minutes north of Bend. We looked at it. Then returned the next day to look more carefully. And we made an offer. Which was accepted.

This place, our new home, is very beautiful. It has two stories, but with the master suite on the main floor. Though we wanted some size, it is larger than we thought we wanted. Why size? Shouldn't we be downsizing? Hey, we have lived for 32 years in a 1400-foot home. Beautiful and charming as it is, it is small. We wanted more space, more room. This place offers that. Our visitors know that our two extra bedrooms here in Glendale really are our offices/studios. Come stay with us, as we love for people to do, you get to sleep on a sofa bed in the larger of the two. Good, for sure, but not optimal. And you get to share our house's one bathroom with everyone else here. Also not optimal.

Ah, but now we have four bedrooms and three bathrooms! Think of that! The luxury! We also have a huge carefully and sympathetically landscaped yard. With all this space and garden, is almost as though we will be living in a great, rambling, French chateau. But we won't be. We will be living in a modern, airy home that is filled with sunlight. We are both so excited that we can hardly stand it.

We also are so stressed by all this that we can hardly stand it. Will both homes stand up to the inspection process? Will contingencies on both homes be lifted? Will everything go as planned? How many times will I sign all the necessary documents in the wrong place? Will Rio and Vivian, our two wonderful cats, make the trip north without driving us, and themselves, crazy?

We will be very glad indeed when both deals close and when we arrive, and happier still when the moving truck shows up several days later with all our stuff. With luck, we will be completely moved in and settled, with the place completely furnished and decorated, by Thanksgiving.

I'm imagining Christmas there, with the lights from the tree glowing through the vast and expansive front windows, great smells wafting forth from Laura's beautiful new kitchen.

And it snows there. Might we have snow for the holidays? We might.

So, right. Lots of stress now, lots of things to do. And the escrow clock is ticking.

When we decided to sell and move, we really had no idea what we were letting ourselves in for. We will be happy when it's over. And happy in the knowledge that this is a good thing, a thing done at the right time, in the right way, for the right reasons.

Or is it? We continue to question this, especially when we see the reactions of friends who are sad that we leaving. But the answers always come up the same. It's the right move for us, at the right time, to the right place. Oregon.

I hear that incoming Californians are required to spend time in an Oregon re-education camp. How to slow down, how to wear fleece, how to choose rainwear instead of umbrellas, how to be - well, nice. Fine. I'll do that. Then I'll be able to grumble, along with the rest of our new neighbors, "Dad-gummed, Californians, coming' here, drinkin' our beer, buyin' our houses...!

So, there we are. I will not be able to crawl around in old '49er mines or hike the CPRR's original right of way. And Laura will be farther away from her sister and their ranch than she might wish to be. But these aren't overwhelming problems.

That said, there is lots of stuff for us to do here - hiking, biking, skiing, fishing, kayaking and much more. Including a huge annual folk festival in Sisters, maybe 20 minutes away. And Laura is looking forward to much more golf and much more painting when she's not working. Tell me this isn't right up our alley. We are confident that this is a better deal for us both.

So now, at last, we have a clearer picture of What Comes Next. It looks pretty damned fine, as it includes beautiful country, nice people, good beer, and even banjos and guitars. We hope you visit us so that you can be a part of it, too.

- JFT

Making Our Move

OK, so, where were we? Oh, I remember - everything around here is a disaster. Here's the deal: We're on a crash program to declutter, clean and paint. You can't really do the latter two unless you get serious about performing the former. It is time for us to get serious. We've been in this house for a very long time and we seem to have accumulated stuff. Books. CDs. Clothing. Kitchen tools and appliances, and much more. Now, this house is tiny, with a paucity of storage. Every nook and cranny is stuffed full of stuff. The worst was the garage, so that's where I started. Cleaning this mess out, sorting stuff and getting rid of stuff, took me two weeks. Two dirty, dusty, weeks. Many, many trips to the local thrift shop. Why all the work? Why the hurry? We are selling this wonderful little house and moving on. The process is not easy for us. We're on our back foot with the pre-sale. We should be ready to stage by the 23rd, and to that end, we've had the painters in to spruce the place up. Plumbing inspected and repaired, termite inspector in, lots of stuff removed and placed in storage. So far, so good. We've had the movers in to specialty-pack crystal, Lladro, china, and other delicate stuff. It all takes time and not everyone works to our schedule. We really need to have the place listed over the July 4 weekend, the realtor sez. We both are stressed by the pressure of accomplishing this. And the poor cats, with all the workmen tromping through the house! They are not happy at all, and we live in fear that despite our admonitions, somebody will leave a door open and one or both will escape into what is, for them, the unknown. But at least after a hassle caused by the disappearance of the cable box, the TV now works again and we can record and watch stuff. Amid all this, I'm just back from a long-planned fly-fishing trip with my old pal Eric Herbranson. It was a bad time for me to be gone. It could not come at a worse time. But I arrived home to find that Laura had the kitchen and dining room almost completely packed in preparation for the folks who will stage the house. So it's more than half empty. Stressful that our familiar stuff isn't available to us. Computers, for instance. In fact, I'm writing and posting this on an iPad. Far from optimal. The thing is, we don't know where we're going to land. An upcoming road trip to revisit the places we're considering will help clarify that, I think. I hope. If we can manage to get the house listed on schedule, we might even be able to make an offer, should we find a house we really love. We shall see. But if we love this place so intensely, why are we leaving? That of course is the big question. We're leaving because after 32 years of life, love and careers here, it's time for us to find someplace we love even more. Someplace in which we can hunker down for - well, for the remainder. So, as I've said, we shall see. And we shall keep our fingers crossed.

Scandinavian Angst

I am very reluctant to write about this. In fact, even as I write, I'm not sure that I will be able to post this screed, as I suspect that most people probably aren't comfortable hearing about this sort of thing. Certainly I'm not terribly comfortable writing about it. But for whatever reason – perhaps someone else out there is feeling what I've felt and could benefit from this – I want to get it on paper. So here goes:

A friend and I have joked over the years about "Scandinavian angst," which I took as nothing more than an odd, unfunny joke about, or rather on, Danish, Swedish and Norwegian folk. But I also knew that there was something there, something I've felt, and that my father certainly felt, even though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.

In my dad's case, Laura and I thought that probably he suffered from depression. My mom thought so too. He was completely joyless, played solitaire all day when he wasn't napping, and generally lived an unpleasant last decade of his life.

For the last couple of years I've realized that I've become very like my dad. I have been taking no joy in the things I used to love to do. I napped frequently, my diet was out of control, I sought home and privacy rather than being with people, I questioned my ability and my worth as a journalist and my limited ability as a musician, and I couldn't make myself do things I knew I needed to do.

For example, I went to a medical appointment for something important and was given a prescription I badly needed. But I couldn't make myself go to have it filled. Came straight home instead, the only place I could bring myself to go, the place I needed to go. It wasn't that I didn't want to go for those meds; it was that I couldn't go. Laura went and got them for me the next day.

Clearly, something was amiss.

I was troubled by what was happening, or not happening, and at the end of the day, I didn't want my behavior to be like my dad's – no offense to him, he had many admirable qualities. But he missed a lot of life's joy and for me, this would be unacceptable.

So I went to my doc and reported what was going on.

He asked a number of questions and then said, "Jon, those are the symptoms of depression."

He wrote me a prescription for a substance that increases the production of certain chemicals in one's brain that help produce a feeling of well-being. Trolling the Web for information suggests that science isn't exactly sure how/why the stuff works.

I came straight home from that appointment. Again, I could not bring myself to head to the pharmacy; just couldn't do it. Had it filled the next day.

But once I got my hands on the stuff? It seems to work, in a subtle sort of way. I don't know how much of an impact it is supposed to have, or whether my doc will adjust the dosage. These are things I will learn down the road. It's early days, in other words. But there is progress; it seems to be having an impact on the way I live life. I guess we shall see.

So, depression, the black dog, Scandinavian angst, whatever you want to call it, apparently there are effective treatments. I'm hoping that over time, mine continues to be effective.

–JFT

 

Photography Out of Control

I have done photography since I was a student. I really like it. I like to make pictures and I like to look at them. But now, I think that digital photography has crossed an important threshold.

I think where the threshold is depends on how comfortable one is with ever-advancing technology levels.

And I find that I have not merely reached my threshold, I have stepped way past it.

First, last year I upgraded my DSLR camera body. As you probably know, these things aren't really cameras. They're more like computers that just happen to wear lenses. And this new computer/camera is very powerful. I won't say that I've mastered it, because I haven't. But at least I'm more comfortable with the thing than I was at first, and I now understand many, if not all, its functions. OK, so far, so good.

But once you make a photograph, what do you do with it? Do you download it to your computer's hard drive and then enjoy it and send it to friends as-is? I doubt many people do that and that's where, for me, the trouble starts.

I do use the Internet to send a few photos to friends and family. But when I find a shot I really like, I print it on 8^1/2 x 11-inch photo paper with a pro-level printer. I install the prints in plastic display sleeves and then clip those sleeves into one of my photo books, large three-ring binders, where I can look at them.

Again, so far, so good. But before I hit "print" on a shot, like almost everyone else, I use one of Adobe's Photoshop programs to enhance that shot – boost contrast and sharpness, make the sky a little more dramatic, bring out detail in dark areas, stuff like that.

Now, mostly these are all things we used to do in the darkroom. Back in J-school, I started out shooting a Speed-Graphic, which used 4 x 5-inch sheet film. You controlled focus, shutter speed and aperture. In the developing process, you controlled time and temperature and if you did that correctly, you got a decent negative. And in the printing process, you dodged and burned to bring out detail, and selected the paper grade to give you the contrast you needed. It was complex, but at the same time, simple.

We still have these elemental controls, but now our computers are our darkrooms. And in those computerized darkrooms, so much more is possible.

And the possibilities continue to grow. The problem for me is that every few months, the various Photoshop programs become more powerful and complex.

Because I have been unwilling to pay full-pop for the regular, full-featured Photoshop program, I have, for years, used something called Photoshop Elements. It's kind of Photoshop-lite. It's worked well. I started with Elements 3, upgraded to Elements 7 – which I used for a long time – and last year upgraded to Elements 13. And now there's an Elements 14, which promises many "wonderful advances."

Ah, but recently Adobe moved standard Photoshop to the Cloud and initiated a subscription program.

So, OK, the cost of a year's subscription was reasonable, I thought, so I bought the sub. What I got was not only Photoshop but also something called Lightroom. Both are incredibly powerful and also incredibly complex. I do not know what to do with it all.

And as if to make my point, aftermarket suppliers now are offering what are called plug-ins that automate the functions of these programs. With them, you hit a couple of keys on your computer keyboard and Hey Presto, the image becomes more dramatic. Or at least some programmer's version of what is more dramatic. This is supposed to simplify the process. I don't think it does.

I'm finding that the complexity of these two programs, and their attendant learning curves, get in the way of the enjoyment of, you know, actually making photographs. I mean, I don't even know what some of the stuff in Photoshop does. I don't want to be a computer geek and don't have the qualifications to be one. I just want to be able to produce photos that are halfway decent. Yes, I'm mostly satisfied with halfway decent photos, though I aspire to better than that - maybe three-quarters decent, relying on an excellent starting point, a really high-quality image from the camera. That would be pretty good.

So here's where I am: I've been fooling with Photoshop CC, as the Cloud version is called, for a couple of months now. I think that the advance of software functions has gotten out of control, providing functions that most of us hobbyists probably don't need. As a result, I find Photoshop CC very unwieldy and I find the few plug-ins that I've tried to be unsatisfying. Yes, I could haul myself over to Samy's Camera, the big camera shop here in town, and take one of the Photoshop classes the shop offers. That would be two days or evenings and a good chunk of money out of my limited supply of money and time. Or I could just backfill and continue using Elements 13, plug-in free. In a sense, that's like sticking with black-and-white film, I suspect.

I have no wish to revert to my little Kodak Brownie Hawkeye, an example of which I still have, or, for that matter, to the last great film camera I bought, a Canon EOS1 that is gathering dust in a closet. But I'm thinking that if I just stop and think, use my DSLR's abilities to their fullest, and then do what I've always done with Elements, I'll probably get results that are more than satisfactory and save myself much frustration.

So that's where I am, at least this morning. I mean, is photography, in its totality, an art? Or is it a technological exercise? It's a little of both, I suppose, and always has been, but on a sliding scale. But more and more, I feel the urge to back away, at least a little, from the technological side. That's because I think that this explosion of photographic technology has meant, at least for me, not more control, but less. At least, that's how it seems to be working for me. So I plan to step back across to the comfortable side of the threshold. We'll see, I guess, how long that satisfies.

-JFT

Creative Time-wasting

As a retired gent, I'm always on the lookout for interesting and creative ways in which to waste time.

I found one last summer when I did a bit of restoration and carving on an old wooden wine rack that Laura, always on the lookout for cool stuff, dragged home. You can see the result here. And as always, to see the images here fullsize, just click on them.

I'm not sure that I precisely recall from whence came the impetus for this next bit of madness. But it came. I found a vintage Ducati decal in the junk that litters my desk, a leftover from a restoration that did not go at all well. Which is why it is a leftover.

I thought that I just might try to reproduce that logo, which I find quite attractive, in wood. So I did. With, of course, a bit of artistic license.

First step was to obtain a bit of wood. I ordered that, a plank of basswood about 13 inches long, online.

Next, I scanned the decal, scaled it up, and printed it out on regular paper.

Next, I determined and marked the exact centers of the plank and printed logo, and applied orientation lines to both. Then I taped down a sheet of transfer paper so it would cover my work area, and then I taped the logo print atop that, making sure it was centered and dead square.

Then I traced the logo with a pencil, which left a carbon outline from the transfer paper on the basswood. I reinforced that outline with a pencil.

Next, I masked everything but the work area.

Then I started carving, using only hand tools, some of which easily date from pre-WW I Germany.

I do not have an artist's hands, much less an artist's sensibility, so the work was rough. I refined it as much as possible, managing to not slice fingers open with very sharp chisels, a result always to be sought. And when I thought I'd done all I could do, I started painting, using acrylics.

Here's the result. I'm pretty pleased with it. I have no idea whatsoever what I'm going to do with it. Hang it in the garage, maybe?

Or maybe sell it? Would the appropriate price be $750, or $851, or $906, all capacities of famed Ducati motorcycles? Or maybe $350, the capacity of the engine of my vintage racebike? Naw. Maybe I'll just keep it. In the meantime, I'm on the lookout for more ways to waste time.

-JFT

I'm Not Superman

As some of you know, I recently underwent a spot of surgery. This was aimed at solving a problem called spinal stenosis, which was wreaking havoc with my legs and knees.

I thought, "Well, fine, no problem." That's because I'm never ill, ever; and because I've undergone umpteen orthopedic procedures, including three knee replacements, and I've always bounced right back. And I mean, right back.

But this time has been different. I came through the surgery just fine, problem apparently solved. But I exited the hospital with a couple of stubborn infections. My doc has a handle on both and I'm feeling pretty good, though Laura and I both are gobsmacked at the concept of leaving the hospital sicker than you were when you went in.

But never mind. It's all good. I've told Laura I'm now ready to hunt bear with a broomstick. More to the point, I'm ready for a little trip we have planned.

Here's the conversation that followed during a chat about a return to normal activities:

Laura: Oh, no, you don't, buster. You are not Superman.

Me: Oh, yes, I am!

Laura, thoughtfully: Well, OK, maybe you are. But you're an older Superman.

Well, just how do I counter that? She is, of course, correct. As she always is. So we're still going to embark on our little weekend adventure. But I will practice as much discretion as I'm capable of, take it easy, let the meds continue to do their work.

Because this business of getting older is not for wimps. But it also is not for people who give up easily.

-JFT

Living A Dangerous Life

Over the fullness of time I've had to undergo a number of surgeries. This includes three knee replacements, a knee reconstruction, spinal surgery and so many knee arthroscopies that I've lost count. They've all gone pretty well.

It's all been the result of living what Laura calls "a dangerous life." So when the prospect of another surgery arose, I wasn't too concerned. But it turns out to have been more difficult than I thought it would be.

A week ago this past Friday I checked into Glendale Adventist Medical Center so that a neurosurgeon could perform a triple laminotomy on me, lumbar 3, 4, and 5. This has not been a walk in the park.

Walking in the park, as it were, was part of the problem. I take long power walks most days but the fun of this was curtailed when I noticed that my left knee was refusing to lock. Instead, it wanted to collapse. The problem was the sciatic nerve. Signals to these nerves, in both legs, were being interrupted and corrupted by arthritis and plaque on my spine. That had to be fixed. Hence the surgery.

I looked for a way around this. Nobody in his or her right mind submits gladly to this sort of thing. But at the end of the day, there just was no choice. So I figured, let's just get it over with. What could go wrong?

Turns out, plenty.

The doc began his three-hour cut at about 2 pm on Friday and by about 4 on Saturday, they turned me loose to go home.

I felt great on Sunday, pretty good on Monday, less good on Tuesday, even though I'd stopped the pain meds. I was experiencing abdominal problems. Opioid-based anti-pain meds do that to me. I got so jammed up that I might have well been sprinkling my diet with concrete.

Always in previous surgeries, I came home, rested for a day, and was up and around. Period. Even after all three knee replacements, I was up and functioning within a day or two. Not this time.

I felt awful on Wednesday, with a cough and a fever, so I remained in bed and made arrangements to see my regular doc, who saw me the next day, Thursday.

I try to not let this stuff get me down, but I felt so poorly that I could not face stopping at the pharmacy to fill a couple of prescriptions. Laura, who has, as always, taken stellar care of me, ran that errand for me. Good thing she did.

I will not go into the worst of it because it's just not very pretty. But at a minimum, I was hallucinating, seeing vivid colors and asleep or awake, imagining wild scenarios, things completely out of character for me. I wish I'd written it all down. When I closed my eyes to rest, this didn't stop - a movie was running full-speed on the backs of my eye-lids. This was, I'm sure, the result of the residual effects of the anesthetics and anti-pain meds. And I had a rollicking fever.

Thursday night/early Friday morning sometime – I'm not sure how awake I was for this – I had the very real impression that some dark entity stirred, took a long look at me, then disappeared. Fortunately, Thursday afternoon was when I'd started an antibiotic course designed to defeat a respiratory infection I'd picked up. I haven't seen that dark presence since. As for the cough and fever, was it pneumonia? Maybe. Whatever. It's about gone now.

I'd been focusing so completely on these problems that I'd almost forgotten about the issues that the surgery was designed to fix. Yep, those are fixed. I'm very happy about that. Mobility restored, ability to sit (which means drive) for long periods also restored. So it's all good.

And if it is, that's because, in no small measure, of Laura. As usual, she is tireless and has taken incredibly good care of me – better care than I would have been taking of myself. I'm very grateful for her, and for her help. Thanks, sweetie.

Also, thanks to my regular doc. The surgeon, meanwhile, did his job, I guess, but then disengaged - when he pulled my staples yesterday, that's all he did. He didn't ask me how I was feeling or if my legs were working properly. I'm really grateful for my regular doc, who continues to stay focused.

There is one little thing, though. I've noticed that the bottom of one of my front teeth is now chipped. It wasn't chipped when I entered the hospital. Go figure.

In any case, now, not quite two weeks later, I'm probably 80 percent good, with my back much improved. I'll take that. I just hope that I don't ever have to endure anything like this again. Clearly, it's time for me to begin living a far less dangerous life.

-JFT

A Day at the Hot-rod Show

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Today I took several hours to cruise the Grand National Roadster Show, a hot-rod and custom-car show at the L.A. County Fairplex in Pomona. The place was jam-packed with people on hand to view what must have been more than 1,000 cars of all kinds.

 

But wow! Lemme tell you about the people. A little bit of everything - though not many preppy, Ivy League-types. Lots of ink, lots of facial hair, lots of bald heads, some ink on bald heads, saw a woman with tattoos on her legs that began, with the same designs, where the tops of her cowboy boots left off. Also rather more obesity than I would have thought.

 

The big thing for me was just total awe at the amounts of money folks have spent on these cars. Incredible.

 

I found lots of the usual, seen-one-you've-seen-'em-all cars, but also a good number of interesting and unusual vehicles. Especially, I liked the race cars - a number of lakesters, several drag-racers. I thought I'd post pictures of just a few of them. When I can remember what the hell they are, I'll make a notation. But for the most part, just check 'em out and enjoy. And honestly, what you will see here barely scratches the surface - the variety was amazing.

 

Here's a nice, vintage lakester with plenty of patina. These things used bodies made from the fuel belly tanks of WW II aircraft.

 

 

Here's another lakester - a car meant for top-speed runs at Muroc, Bonneville, etc. What's cool about this one is the very pretty and carefully made hand-shaped aluminum bodywork.

 

 

This was, I gathered, a design prototype for the 1957 Chevrolet line using the old fastback look from the early 1950s. I really like this one!

 

 

I also liked this one a lot. A Plymouth, I seem to remember, with kind of an unusual look. And, naturally, a vintage Chysler Hemi engine.

 

 

Here's a take on a Caddy that I liked because it is so, so, so - well, wonderfully and extravagantly overdone. It it was a convertible it would be just perfect.

 

 

Love this! It's a hot-rodded version of a Lincoln V-12, the engine that powered the old Lincoln Zephyrs. Tell me: When did you last see one of these?

 

 

This is the only El Camino I found. It is so wonderfully overdone that it deserves an award, sez I.

 

Here's an Austin-Healy 100 with a big, honkin, American V-8 engine shoehorned into its flimsy little chassis. I assure you, this thing would be truly frightening to drive. And yes, I want it because, yes, I am crazy.

 

People will make hot-rods out of nearly anything. This is an ancient Dodge from the 1920s, I seem to remember. Yes, if I was smart, I would have shot photos of the data cards with the cars. It's very well known that I am not smart.

 

This is special. It's a Ford flathead motor wearing a pair of Ardun hemi heads, hunkering there under that blower. You just do not see these anymore. I once found a pair at the Harrah's Swap Meet in Reno. I didn't buy them. You will remember, please, that I am not smart.

 

And this, a kind of funky rat-rod that I also liked a lot. I especially liked the interior. See the next photo, please.

 

See what I mean? My pal Stew Crane, also a ranch kid like me, observed when I showed him this shot that he and I both have spent a lot of time in seats just like the ones seen here.

 

 

And that's it, for now. This was a very fun experience, a perfect way to spend a pre-storm Saturday. Yes, El Nino is slated to bring us a huge storm tomorrow. So this was a good day to be out while tomorrow will be a great day to remain in.

 

-JFT