This was our first day on this trip to experience a gated community. The community had a single entrance, a sign saying to check in with the head office and a speed bump. Along the right side were about eight single-wide pre-fab homes with space enough between to walk. On the left was a equal nunber of RVs permanently connected. In the center of the cul-de-sac were several more RVs. The residents acted like a big happy family, at least what we saw. At the end of the cul-de-sac was dock and patio overlooking a beautiful lake with mountains as a background and full of fish. And a bit of mercury from mismanaged explorations in the past. From Jack and Shannon’s deck on the third home from the lake, the view was equally awesome especially of a cool Californian evening.
Jack is one of the blessings of our lives, a single fellow we met in Trapper Creek and with who we shared many adventures and slices of rhubarb pie. He married and we were there at his first child’s birth. Since then he married again accumulating about eight step-sons and step-daughters. If we were to return home today the trip was worthwhile.
After a shared Thai meal down street and a second night in the RV, we journeyed up and down winding through the big hills or small mountains, out onto a flat fruit producing central valley of California and back up and down and around through similar hills to Reno. The schedule flip-flopped on us and we continued on to Hawthorne, Nevada. This too is new territory for us. It’s the childhood and now retirement home of a good friend and college classmate – Paul.
Hawthorne, beyond the south end of badly depleted Walker Lake, is the largest military ammunition depot in the world with semblance of appearance to that of the Umatilla military depot with rows and rows of identical half-buried structures. However, on the opposite of Hawthorne is the mountain range Paul loved, explored, hiked and talked about. He told us someone had told him once that Hawthorne is colored in multiple shades of brown. We agree. Not a tree or a blade of grass. Just sand and barren brush.
Paul sought his PhD in English after we parted ways but ended up repairing and selling phonographs in the ‘70’s. He never married but fostered and supported many a teenaged boy. His stories of their successes were a pride and joy among his tales as we reminisced and caught up on life. Back in college he started writing a fictional Western based on his adventures in the canyons of these hills. He continues to delight himself in writing and rewriting the novel which may only ever live in his heart. He commented several times on the time it takes to put together a one-hour radio program on classical music with commentaries on their histories and composers. It’s been 56 years since we graduated from college. I doubt if I will see him again in 56 more.
We shared a meal in the local casino, essentially the only eating place in town, swapped a couple more stories and crawled into our sleeping quarters. The nearly full moon shone down on us with a smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment