The trip to Spokane for Dad’s funeral (held Dec. 07) was
one of those journeys that merit some thought or comment; for the purpose of
the trip and for the journey to and from itself.
Transportation:
I decided to take the Greyhound even though my sisters had offered to buy a
plane ticket. I just don’t like flying…. I don’t like it and I won’t fly as
long as there is time and an alternative to flying.
Options: Renting a car wasn’t an
option this time either because I wasn’t sure how well I could handle driving
on ice this time of the year; I haven’t had to do so since I lived up there @
1965. I would have taken the train because it was usually only a little less a
problem compensated by the comfort of the train: being able to get a snack and
to walk around whenever one feels like it. But the buses take a day and a half
and there are choices on the schedule for arrival times. The train takes
more than two days and there is only one choice for that and it arrives in
Spokane after 1:00 am. If one of my sisters were to pick me up I didn’t want
her to have to do so in the middle of the night.
The Bus: Dec. 05, 2013: schedules
have changed so much… been pared down and there is no bus that goes North from
SB like they used to. The all go to L.A. and then transfer to Bakersfield before it heads north to
Sacramento. It takes a roundabout series of transfers that could
only have been designed by a bean pusher with no concept of direction, geography, or convenience for the customer.
This being said, I must mention that
Greyhound has some beautiful new buses. When I boarded the first bus to Los
Angeles I was given a taste of what I would miss out on the rest of the trip.
This bus had very nice seats upholstered with a faux-leather-like material. It had
electrical outlets and even Wi-Fi! The Amtrak usually does't have Wi Fi except on commuter trains. I thought that this wasn’t so bad and I could
suffer the additional time on a bus if this was the case. However, this luxury turned
out to be a tease because, upon transfer in L.A., I boarded an old cow that was more typical until
the last leg of the trip (with the usual natty fabric upholstery, no electrical outlets or Wi-Fi).
The trip: The first transfer was
only a thirty minute break and it went smoothly. I had both seats to myself
and was comfortable enough. It went without any problems worthy of mention to
Sacramento except that the route it takes splits off from I-5 to Bakersfield and
stays with route 99, stopping along the way several times before, between and
after Fresno and Stockton with only an hour break while transferring at
Sacramento to the Portland destination. I was okay with that and it went fine.
The passenger demographic changed
slightly at Sacramento. Before Sacramento my travel companions were mostly
Hispanic. I think I was the only white boy on the bus. From Sacramento on there
was more of a mix. My three collegian black men sat in the seats across the
aisle, a couple of middle aged black women with one elderly black man had the
seats directly behind me. We were a congenial lot and it was fine. I am
grateful that texting on cell phones has replaced audible loud yakking on them.
We all got along fine and that made for a rather pleasant ride.
The first incident (Dec. 06, 2013):
The bus was only almost half an hour late by Medford but the driver promised he could
make up the time before long.
The elderly black man (my age) was seated directly
behind me. Before Red Bluff he tapped me on the shoulder, leaned over the back
of my seat and he asked, “I’m a Viet Nam Veteran, can I use your cell-phone?” I
obliged saying I'm a Vet too… he had a hard time figuring out how to unlock the phone so I dialed it for
him. No problem. After a few minutes, before Redding, he tapped me on my
shoulder again… he began a nonstop spiel in a low voice; “Mister, I’m a Viet
Nam veteran … I’m flat broke and need to get a hotel room when I get off this
bus… can you lend me twentybucks?… Gimme your mailing address and I promise
on my grandma’s grave I get it back to you….”
I felt badly for the guy but only
had a few bucks on me so I could be honest with him and say, “I’m flat broke
too. That’s why I’m on a bus.”
It was true, I spent my last bucks on this bus ticket. Money for the rip home would have to wait 'til my SSI check is deposited mid-month.
He hit me up to use my phone, once
more pleading, “I’m a Viet Nam Vet, I’m sick… the VA turned me out… can I…”
From the last call I knew he'd need help, “Give me the number… I’ll dial it
for you.” I had to interrupt several times… shouting over his nonstop spiel.
He got pissed, “Oh fuck it… you treat me this way... I’m a Viet Nam Veteran... I'm sick and that
is how I am treated… I don’t want your damned phone!” I heard him mumbling a complaint about assholes on the bus and how the VA turned him out and how he was sick... over and over and over again.
I watched the guy as he made his
rounds and noticed he wore sandals with no socks and no jacket… just a tee-shirt and jeans.
Anywhere there was an empty aisle seat he sat down and I suppose he probably continued
a similar proposition. Everyone started to settle down and most, including
me, were sleeping before Medford. In the mountains past
Medford everyone was awakened by the woman in the seat in front of me shouting, “Where’s
my wallet!”
In a low voice… “… mumble... mutter…
mutter, I ain't got your wallet... search me,” was all I could hear from him at first.
“Where’s my wallet!” again and
again, “Where’s my wallet! I saw your hand in my purse! Where’s my wallet.”
“I don’t have your wallet,” he
protested earnestly and loudly… “You're crazy lady, I ain’t got no wallet! Search
me! Dammit, search me!”
"I want my wallet. He had his hand in my purse when I woke up... I felt him tuggin' at it!"
Everyone was awake by then as this
woman had a great voice. In a flash a big white boy named Jason had the guy in
a headlock demanding, “Give the lady her wallet!”
The black kids joined in on the shouting
in unison, “Give the damned wallet back, you fool!”
The driver stopped the bus and came
back. He immediately saw what was happening. He told Jason to let go. Jason
obliged. The wallet and cell phone had been dropped on the floor by the old guy’s feet. Jason
found it and handed it over, “Check to see if anything is missing.”
She checked, “No, nothing is
missing. We must have caught him in time.”
The driver had the thief come to
the front of the bus as the guy protested all the way, “What did I do… I didn’t
do nothin’… I didn’t take a wallet… ii was sleeping… the woman is crazy!” and
so on.
Meanwhile the bus was sitting there
waiting for the police to show up. It was about twenty degrees outside by then
too. A half hour passed… forty-five minutes… still waiting… Oh good, I thought.
When the Oregon State police get there we will probably be delayed while reports
are written and so on. I was relieved when the guy demanded he be let of the
bus and the driver obliged him. It was crazy for the old guy. I hope the police
got there soon because he could easily get frost bitten the way his feet were
shod. I still think of him standing there freezing his thieving ass off…
I would help any Vet... especially a Viet Nam Vet... but a thief, Vet or not, has to be reckoned with. Still, I wish I could have helped him. Karma.
We took a short break at Grants
Pass where the driver passed out incident forms for everyone to fill out as a
light dusting of snow began to fall. From there the driver was trying to make
up for lost time but, as the snow started to fall more heavily towards Roseburg…
about a half inch by then.
We were probably about twenty miles
before Eugene when the bus slowed to a crawl. The first one… a car had taken a spin
off the freeway up ahead. There was about two inches of snow. By the time our
string of the morning rush hour got through that there was another one and the
snow had increased to four inches. We got through Eugene (scheduled for 5:30)… it was approaching eight am by the time we
got to Corvallis and the driver told us there were two more wrecks ahead. We
got through Corvallis by 8:45am and the snow was up to five or six inches.
Through Salem a crawl… it was after 10:00 am by the time we got through
Woodburn (the transfer to Spokane in Portland was scheduled for 10:00am).
I figured that Greyhound would have
a contingency plan for those of us who missed our transfer. I could not have
been more wrong. We arrived in Portland after noon. No one knew anything about
us. We had to change our tickets there but no one told us anything about that
and we wouldn’t have even known about that little detail had not one of our
group been at the counter and overheard it.
The manager in Portland was pulling
her hair out by this time and fled to her office when any of us approached her
with questions leaving our angst to the ticket clerk who knew nothing. I
cornered her once and she snapped back saying, “It’s the weather… you can’t expect
us to do anything the weather.” I asked her why there was no contingency plan
for weather… like a back-up bus. She fled back into her office. It was only
after our persistence that someone behind the counter (not the manager) informed
us that we had to transfer our tickets for Seattle…. We were all compensated
with ten dollars in Portland for a meal on Greyhound’s grudging behalf. It was
about six pm before we boarded a bus for Seattle. We waited at the station in
Seattle from about 8:00 pm to then transfer at 11:30 pm for Spokane. I wrote a
nasty complaint via the Greyhound site comment section.
(Dec. 06-07) I would have liked to
say the ordeal was over by then but, sadly, it was not. The arrival tie in
Spokane was supposed to be 5:30 am. I was hoping we would get there later as I
didn’t want Barbara to brave the early morning hours to pick me up. The bus we
boarded was one of those brand new ones like the original bus I got on in Santa
Barbara. I felt so good about that. I immediately went online to check e-mail
and so on. We were only a few blocks away when the driver stopped the bus. We
had barely left the station!
Some lights on the consul warn him
that there was some kind of problem. The later the better I thought. His
dispatch had him take the bus to the yard where a mechanic could figure it out.
We sat in the yard another hour. Now, that was just fine with me by then. As this
was the day of Dad’s funeral at 11 am, I was a little worried but as long as we
got in Spokane in time to change clothes and shower I was okay with it. We had
to change buses and got one of the old cows. It made for a slightly less
comfortable ride and we got in Spokane with no further delays between 7 or 8
am. Barb and Mike picked me up, I took a shower and we made it to the church on time.
I swore I’d never take the Grey Dog again… it is Amtrak, rent-a-car, or airliner from now on… I swear! I swear! The damned dog just won't hunt.
The ride home on Amtrak was, as
usual, a pleasant one with only a few minor hitches to start with that go along with
public transportation or travel in the north country... like in December. I will write about that soon. I loved it regardless of
the time it took.
geo
My Daily Reflections book reminds me that I just lived a sober
life through another 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600
minutes. What a gift and I have little to regret this year. Even the passing of
my father is something I can be grateful for. He was a good man and a glowing
example of love and tolerance. To end one year reflecting on the wonders of the
year before prepares my spirit for the year to come.
I have been thinking of some of my dear
friends who have passed on into the void at young ages…Lisa; found on her
kitchen floor days after she passed out, face pressed flat so that it stuck on the linoleum by the time they
found her. To Scotty; whose body was found in a booth at the Adult Bookstore on
State Street with his rig dropped on the sticky floor… Jimmy whose body washed
up on Hendry’s beach after he fell drunk one night out of his skiff… to others who passed in emergency rooms with as
much dignity as could be afforded on hospital beds with tubes and wires keeping
the body going long after the spirit had left it. To so many others… they were
friends of mine… and while some were betrayed by compulsion, heart-break, addiction
and fears, and longing; a few others, but only a handful, like Big Al and my
father went peacefully, surrounded by loved ones.
The
basic unit of geometry is the point. The point is almost unperceivable until it
is seen as the shortest distance between two points: a line. The arrangement of
these points becomes a line that arcs itself into a perfect circle. The strongest
form within that circle is the perfection of three points of that circle, equal
distances from each other, composing an equilateral triangle.
I have heard my friends say that they
don’t watch the news or read the papers (how antique can you get!) because it “bums” them out and shapes
their thinking negatively. I understand and even agree to … well, a degree. However,
I do have a variety of sources available to me today that my parents had not
even imagined to exist. And I don’t accuse others who are less interested in
the news of the day of sticking their heads in the sand though. I know that the
most important thing is to act compassionately.
Taking
a few minutes to pause this morning opens me up to an end-of-the year
reflection. The winter solstice has passed and the sun rises a hardly discernible part of a minute earlier as the weeks pass. Everything changes… one thing
that can be guaranteed… nothing stays the same. Oh yes, I live in the same
house I lived in yesterday but experience has taught me that there is no assurance
that this roof will be here tomorrow. I do pay the rent and keep up with my
bills. Being responsible for these gives me a little security but the next few
seconds can change everything.
CHRISTMAS CAROLS FOR THE
DISTURBED 
When you have learned through
discipline, to simplify your life, and so practiced the mindfulness of
meditation, and through it loosened the hold of aggression, clinging, and
negativity on your whole being, the wisdom of insight can slowly dawn. And in
all-revealing clarity of its sunlight, this insight can show you, distinctly
and directly, both the subtlest workings of your own mind and the nature of
reality.
There are times that I don’t want to meditate, go to
meetings, or have anything to do with giving of myself to anything spiritual
in nature. This condition isn’t because of disillusionment, self-pity, despair,
lack of faith, or anger with God. It is simply indifference and indifference is
a spiritual bog that can be waded through. I just want to rest but, because of
past experience, I trust that there is another side to it… so I trudge.
All beings tremble before violence.