Oregon Trail

When mother calls, you should go. When the open road calls, you gotta go.

The 1995 Chevy Gladiator is loaded with urbanite creature comforts needed to camp across the descending desert ecosystems. I am a 250 pound fly on the wall witnessing Brook and Teresa’s execution of well-organized vanning. Coolers of Tupperware, Rubbermaid bins, air mattresses, reinforced plywood split level sleeping area, and two travel size dogs that shed more than a Christmas tree in February. My role in this operation is of a small child’s: stay close, get out of the way, and don’t spill the dog’s water. If you gotta go poop little Jarvis you better go now, we only stop for gas and funerals. It will be your funeral if we have to stop for your gas.

With modern aviation advancements, fleet standardization driving down procurement costs, and the neutering of collective labor agreements, flying is a cheaper and faster mode of travel. Yet for this trio of Gen-Xers loading up a late-century family wagon to take advantage of Eisenhower’s post-World War II American exploration of the Interstate system far out weighs the ease of flight.

Bend, Oregon is on the GPS and the playlist is travel worthy. A long overdue item is soon to be checked off my maturing bucket list. Shortly after relocating my life to Las Vegas I began hearing yarns spun of the paradise on the Deschutes.

“Mothers love their children more in Bend.”

“Lou Reed smiled for the first time in Bend.

“Buddhist monks meditate on Bend insight.”

“The breeze breaths hallelujah when blowing thru Bend.”

“The Earth, water, and pleasure were created for Bend’s sake.”

I feel shame for admitting it took me nearly 25 years to visit this land of greatness. For high minded sake, the town’s slogan is, “Life is better in Bend.” In 1962 The Saturday Evening Post commissioned Norman Rockwell to capture Bend on canvas. He quickly turned down the offer in a formal letter to the editor.

Wedding bells over Bend

Love, marriage, and the pursuit of fainting goats

The last of the Sons of Scarlet is set to marry his love this afternoon. The celebration of Scot “EZ-E” and his bride Sheila will be the final wedding for the crew of boys from Rebel Swimming. We have a few more eligible bachelors, but they have no desire for a paper trail. Tonight’s festivities will be the last of the great nuptial for our crew. Perched on a hillside overlooking the expanding suburban scape, the country club is full of love tonight. Fitting our college captain from the swim team is the last to say “I do.” A reunion of sorts for most of us —  twenty years removed since we chased a black line in the same pool. Might as well been yesterday. Stories of glories only age with grace, reanimated with greater spectacle each time the boys hold court. Creative editing of the most egregious parts is assured until lady liquor takes hold, then it is every man for himself to guard reputation. Take me back to the time when our age was young. Take me back to the time when we all walked the same trail. Take me back to those times one more time before we leave this night! We came together for wedding after wedding with a different cast of characters to provide bulk for our celebration of wedding bliss. The wives welcomed with love and honor to this wonderful rage tag group of former college swimmers who are now forever friends.

 

The night progresses, the drinks steadily stiffer, and the celebration electrifies the masses. My time here has ended. Scot and Sheila are in good hands with these folks. A room full of the upper middle class winners. Enough credit line in one room to finance a thousand American Dreams. The smell of success is in the air. Not the blue blood, New England trust fund brat kind of success… rather the keep calm, tow the mark, stay in one’s lane and rise through the economic strata kind of success. No need to fear tonight, America has the enemy on their heels. The good guys always win in the end, so drink and be merry for tomorrow we drive.