YOU JUST KEEP ON PUSHING MY LOVE OVER THE BORDER LINE

My youngest daughter cannot drive, so I end up being her primary mode of transportation.

I usually end up driving her any place further than three blocks from her apartment that the city bus doesn't drive to.

We drive up to Tucson to a specialist in pain management usually once a month - but at least we pass a Costco, so I can 'catch two pigeons with one bean' (isn't that kinder than 'killing two birds with one stone'? It's Italian).
And today it was Douglas; which is only about 45 miles.

But I have to drive back to pick her up about 23 miles - then past where I live, and on to Douglas - then past my home again the 23 miles to her apartment - and then 23 miles back to my home.

So round-trip, about 136 miles.

Of not really wonderful scenery.

Do you see why I have a headache tonight?

I do love driving. Long-distance driving. I've been from Maryland to Oregon - Michigan to California - Arizona to Hawaii.... no, wait a minute, I guess I didn't drive that, did I?

But it's been not quite three days since I was been slammed to the hard ground by a hungry 900+ lbs. horse, bruised my kidneys and am still aching incredibly across my shoulders, back of my neck and the back of my head....

Whine, whine, whine. But it wasn't quite a pleasure drive this time.


Add to this the fact that it was to Douglas. Douglas is... well, it's a border time, adjoining to Agua Prieta, Sonora, Mexico, which is... well, it's one of those places you've heard about in the news lately. A lot of bodies. People kidnapped. Mayors and police chiefs who have either disappeared or came over to the U.S. requesting asylum.

So after two hours plus at the place, we headed back home... only to be turned around by the Border Patrol on the only direct highway back home. There was an ambulance with sirens on - couple of autos smashed - a helicopter flying overhead - bunches of Border Patrol, Cochise County Sheriffs and unmarked vans....

Well, I think you can guess that it wasn't a elementary school outing.

So we turned back - hung out at the local Pizza Hut for 45 minutes - and then drove back when the highway was re-opened.


I need to take three more Tylenol extra strength now just from writing about it.

GIVING INSTEAD OF TAKING

Sometimes conversations just flow. Maybe the stars are in perfect alignment - more likely it's the fact that you've drunk way too many Diet Mt. Dews, it's after 11:30 p.m., and you simply can't shut up.

But sometimes they don't. Awkward pauses that hang in the air for possibly decades. Stilted efforts - no give and take.

Might be one of the reasons I love my dog so much. He looks up at me adoringly not matter what I am saying, and never interrupts.

Not so much my horse. He's a little more demanding, and if it isn't a subject he's comfortable with (i.e. carrots, hay, scratching his belly), he'll simply walk away.

And my cat? Forget it. If it's ain't about him, it ain't worth listening to.

It's easy for me to ignore people (my partial deafness can sometimes be used to an advantage), and it's just as easy to let my selfish ego take control of a conversation. and become the dominate speaker.

Tomorrow I am going to be spending a minimum of six hours in some sort of transport going up to and then back from Phoenix. And I am determined to ride that middle ground - to be an active and involved listener, only keeping up my end of the conversation by making concerned and sincere inquires that I legitimately am going to (try to) be enthusiastic about hearing the response

Report by 8 p.m. tomorrow night. Wish me luck.

PEDAL TO THE METAL

Los Angeles was not designed with public transportation in mind. In the age of cheap gasoline and cars, Los Angeles grew up wide-spread orange groves, scenic mountain and beach views and always the dream of the future right on the horizon.

So public transportation, at least in the 60's, was underfunded and unwelcome. I do remember benches at bus stops, but they always seemed to have a drunk sleeping on them or desperately poor Mexicans waiting for something.

An automobile was not a luxury by any means but a simple necessity. The cars of my childhood were long, wide and always very, very clean. Seat belts were there, but I can't recall ever using them. Air conditioning was rolling the windows all the way down and driving fast.

The Pasadena freeway, the first real freeway in L.A., was designed at a time when 35 mph was speedy. So on-ramps were non-existent, multiple curves were not considered hazardous, and speed was king (again, with 40 mph pushing the limit).

I vaguely recall my dad teaching me to use a stick-shift in the huge parking areas of Santa Anita Racetrack, and I know I could ride my brother's motorcycle when I was 12. Yes, 16 was the legal driving age, but since I was already 5'10" by 13, no one even thought to question me about minor things such as a license.

So when my dad was teaching from the home studio, I was free to take the keys and just go. It is amazing that I didn't get in more trouble than I did - no one ever kept track of where I was.

But to get a license, you did have to take the driver’s education class in high school. And Mr. Penn was the instructor.

Back then I still had a complete brain, so I could doze through the classes and still pass the exams. The actual on-the-street driving was only interesting when one of the other students got to drive. Her first time behind the wheel, my friend, Robin Yamamoto, literally floored the gas pedal to get the car moving. And others would wander all over the left and right sides of the road, although I only recall jumping the curb once.

Even then, I could only assume that any teacher got some form of hazardous duty pay for classes such as this.

But Mr. Penn always let me drive last, drop off all the other students' at their homes, and then drive myself home while he graded papers. And then I would jump out, and more often than not, hop right into one of my dad's cars and drive myself to my friend Annette's or McDonalds.

Guardian angels of naive underage drivers, thank you again for all your protection. And allow me to call on you, especially when my granddaughter turns 12.