With all of the crazy, scary things that can happen each and every day, I often find myself reflecting back to different times in my life that have brought me to where I am today. Frequently, I am drawn to memories of when I moved west of South Carolina. And when I recall that part of my life, I usually wonder what the hell I was thinking. What the hell were my parents thinking, letting me peace out in such a manner? I will NEVER let my kids do that. NEVER.
When I finished a semester-long Outward Bound course in Texas, Mexico, Minnesota, and Ontario, I came back to South Carolina without any desire to remain; I was bored as soon as I stepped off the plane. These were the early days of the internet, and I used this new technology to look for odd-jobs in interesting places. So, like any completely carefree 20-year-old, I found a job in the desert in Utah. And, I waited until my parents were in Connecticut to tell them that I was buying a plane ticket to Vegas and a bus ticket which would take me from Vegas to a truck stop in Green River Utah where someone from the resort where I found a job would pick me up and transport me 2 hours deeper into nowhere. Hmmmm. And they let me.
My plane was to fly out the day after they got back from New England. My mom helped me fit all of my earthly belongings into 3 suitcases and one large carry-on. She dressed me up in a goofy Talbots dress (her favorite store...or at least it used to be. Thank goodness I got her to change her ways), because everyone who's headed for a truck stop has to look like they're going to church on Easter Sunday. I wouldn't dare think of offending the cashiers in regular shorts and a t-shirt. My parents took me to the airport, begged me not to go to the state where I would inevitably be abducted by aliens, cried, and sent me on my way. And I was ready to go.
As soon as I stepped off the plane in Vegas, I felt a warm rush of dry, desert air greet me. Bright flashing lights and the clanging of slot machines took over my senses. I hurried to the shuttle that would take me to the Greyhound station just off the Strip. Why, you may ask, did I have to take a bus to my new home? Well, that's because there is NOTHING there. The closest grocery store was 3 hours away in Moab. Hell, the bus wouldn't even take me out there. The only air transport out there was directed to a dirt landing strip, and I wasn't so interested in risking my life in that manner just yet.
The shuttle courteously dropped me off a good 2 blocks from the station, which sucked, because I had 3 large suitcases and a carry-on to lug down the flipping sidewalk. Great. It didn't help that I had a scummy, creepy bum offering to "help" me with my bags. No matter how many times I declined his offer, he wouldn't quit following me. Damn Talbots dress. Evidently, I had a sign over me as bright as the one over the Palms Casino flashing "THIS GIRL IS ALL ALONE AND FAR AWAY FROM HOME. COME FREAK HER OUT." When I finally got to the Greyhound Station (mind you, I had never taken a bus before) I learned a lesson about who takes buses in Vegas. And they ain't pretty, folks. It was stinky in there. And hot. Single mothers with 5 or 6 dirty kids. Skinny, teethless men with raunchy looks on their faces, and food stains on the fronts of their pit-stained shirts. I imagine that jails out there look similar to this place.
I had a 6-hour wait before my ride was to depart, so I stowed my stuff in a locker, and, with the bum still in tow, I called my mom to let her know I had made it safely to my first destination. (These were still the days of pay phones, and I couldn't help but think it was funny that the phone kept cutting out. This will come back to haunt me one day, I am sure.) With my free time, I made a break from the homeless man and ventured onto the Strip for some sight-seeing. It was amazing, but since I wasn't 21, and since I didn't dare use my fake ID, I couldn't partake in the fun. I had some pizza and wandered in and out of the casinos, entranced by all of the old people throwing their money into the slot machines, holding onto their oxygen tanks, smoking cigarettes, and wearing shirts that said "Spending My Kids' Inheritance." After getting my fill of the midgets and showgirls walking around on stilts, I mozied on back to the station.
Boarding the bus was wild. By this time, it was dark out, probably around 9 in the evening, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I REALLY didn't want to have to share a row with ANYONE on the bus. For obvious reasons. And I didn't want to sit close to the back where the toilets were. For obvious reasons. So, I waited until all of the weirdos had settled in with the rest of their family reunions before selecting a seat near the middle. As soon as everyone had taken their places, 2 border patrol agents wielding badges and guns got on the bus. What. The. Hell. They went up and down aisles checking IDs and bags. Fortunately, they were looking for a couple of people smuggling vegetables from Mexico. Or so I heard someone say. Or so I told myself. When the avocado dealers had been removed from our luxury ride, the bus pulled out of the station.
After a few hours of sleep, I once again became the object of some odd man's interest, and he chatted me up off and on for the next 5 hours. Jeez. "Can't a girl catch a break?" I kept thinking. But, he was friendly enough, and before I got off the bus in Green River, he left me with a dime to call home (last I checked, it was 25 cents, buddy) and some Fig Newtons.
The bus dropped me off at the truck stop at about 4 in the morning, and I bid farewell to my Fig Newton friend. And as soon as I got off, I was ready to get back on the bus. Truck drivers at any time of day are scary, but right before the sun makes an appearance, they are down right spoooooky. I parked myself in a corner of the waiting area and built a fort with my bags. That didn't really help, and before I knew it, some burly, hairy, greasy dude was offering me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to drop everything and cruise up and down the West Coast with him and his pitbull. "No thanks," I told him. "My ride is on the way."
After several hours passed, I determined, that my ride, in fact, was NOT on the way. I called the woman who had hired me, Coy Lynn, and asked her when I could expect someone to rescue me from the hell that is a truck stop in Green River, Utah, and she surprisingly said, "Ohhhhh. I thought you were coming tomorrow. I'll send someone right now. They'll be there in a couple of hours." Thanks, lady. Way to be on top of your game.
Finally, finally, Security Ed showed up in a Bullfrog Resort and Marina courtesy shuttle. Finally. He was an affable guy who had grown up in Utah in a Mormon family. He loved the desert, and he was excited to introduce me to what I came to know as one of the most awe-inspiring, breath-taking places in the world. And so he drove me even farther away from everything that was familiar to me. For all I knew, he could have abducted me into a desert clan, but I didn't care about anything except getting out of that truck stop.
The ride out to Lake Powell was amazing. Truly, there is no place on earth like the Painted Desert. When we arrived at my final destination, I knew that it was all worth it. But I will NEVER EVER let my kids do that.
When I finished a semester-long Outward Bound course in Texas, Mexico, Minnesota, and Ontario, I came back to South Carolina without any desire to remain; I was bored as soon as I stepped off the plane. These were the early days of the internet, and I used this new technology to look for odd-jobs in interesting places. So, like any completely carefree 20-year-old, I found a job in the desert in Utah. And, I waited until my parents were in Connecticut to tell them that I was buying a plane ticket to Vegas and a bus ticket which would take me from Vegas to a truck stop in Green River Utah where someone from the resort where I found a job would pick me up and transport me 2 hours deeper into nowhere. Hmmmm. And they let me.
My plane was to fly out the day after they got back from New England. My mom helped me fit all of my earthly belongings into 3 suitcases and one large carry-on. She dressed me up in a goofy Talbots dress (her favorite store...or at least it used to be. Thank goodness I got her to change her ways), because everyone who's headed for a truck stop has to look like they're going to church on Easter Sunday. I wouldn't dare think of offending the cashiers in regular shorts and a t-shirt. My parents took me to the airport, begged me not to go to the state where I would inevitably be abducted by aliens, cried, and sent me on my way. And I was ready to go.
As soon as I stepped off the plane in Vegas, I felt a warm rush of dry, desert air greet me. Bright flashing lights and the clanging of slot machines took over my senses. I hurried to the shuttle that would take me to the Greyhound station just off the Strip. Why, you may ask, did I have to take a bus to my new home? Well, that's because there is NOTHING there. The closest grocery store was 3 hours away in Moab. Hell, the bus wouldn't even take me out there. The only air transport out there was directed to a dirt landing strip, and I wasn't so interested in risking my life in that manner just yet.
I had a 6-hour wait before my ride was to depart, so I stowed my stuff in a locker, and, with the bum still in tow, I called my mom to let her know I had made it safely to my first destination. (These were still the days of pay phones, and I couldn't help but think it was funny that the phone kept cutting out. This will come back to haunt me one day, I am sure.) With my free time, I made a break from the homeless man and ventured onto the Strip for some sight-seeing. It was amazing, but since I wasn't 21, and since I didn't dare use my fake ID, I couldn't partake in the fun. I had some pizza and wandered in and out of the casinos, entranced by all of the old people throwing their money into the slot machines, holding onto their oxygen tanks, smoking cigarettes, and wearing shirts that said "Spending My Kids' Inheritance." After getting my fill of the midgets and showgirls walking around on stilts, I mozied on back to the station.
Boarding the bus was wild. By this time, it was dark out, probably around 9 in the evening, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I REALLY didn't want to have to share a row with ANYONE on the bus. For obvious reasons. And I didn't want to sit close to the back where the toilets were. For obvious reasons. So, I waited until all of the weirdos had settled in with the rest of their family reunions before selecting a seat near the middle. As soon as everyone had taken their places, 2 border patrol agents wielding badges and guns got on the bus. What. The. Hell. They went up and down aisles checking IDs and bags. Fortunately, they were looking for a couple of people smuggling vegetables from Mexico. Or so I heard someone say. Or so I told myself. When the avocado dealers had been removed from our luxury ride, the bus pulled out of the station.
The bus dropped me off at the truck stop at about 4 in the morning, and I bid farewell to my Fig Newton friend. And as soon as I got off, I was ready to get back on the bus. Truck drivers at any time of day are scary, but right before the sun makes an appearance, they are down right spoooooky. I parked myself in a corner of the waiting area and built a fort with my bags. That didn't really help, and before I knew it, some burly, hairy, greasy dude was offering me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to drop everything and cruise up and down the West Coast with him and his pitbull. "No thanks," I told him. "My ride is on the way."
Finally, finally, Security Ed showed up in a Bullfrog Resort and Marina courtesy shuttle. Finally. He was an affable guy who had grown up in Utah in a Mormon family. He loved the desert, and he was excited to introduce me to what I came to know as one of the most awe-inspiring, breath-taking places in the world. And so he drove me even farther away from everything that was familiar to me. For all I knew, he could have abducted me into a desert clan, but I didn't care about anything except getting out of that truck stop.
we'll do everything we possibly can to help you with this...but first to set the record straight...this certainly wasn't what your dad and i allowed you to do...remember...you demanded that we buy you those tickets and hand over some cash you your new, safe adventure...knowing none of this was taking place until we read your blog today...so eye opening...but i regress...only to visit the following summer with kent and find this beautiful place to visit but not a safe place for our baby girl to live...so off to colorado with you to complete your college education and live in a more populated community...to be called again after meeting this great guy who loved widespread panic as much as you...so could we send some more cash so you could go with him on a month long trek to see the...to be introduced on your way to florida or was it georgia, to this nice, cute, smelly young man who you thought...knew was the one...who's parents were living in nc after moving from ny where he grew up...to find out that you two would be moving back east YA!!...to go back to school...to be proposed to on thanksgiving down at ourlake...to have the wedding in may....NO JUNE...you agreed to wait till june after our school year was over...to have created a wonderful, crazy life...to be very well-educated, to have the two most precious, beautiful, ever in the whole wide world grandchildren...so now let your momma give you a bit of advice...do as i did...PRAY to our Father in Heaven for the safety and well-being of our two most precious children and grandchildren ever...as i will do till i take my final breath only to be reunited with my Lord and Savior, my parents, and all who have been in my past...GOD and God alone saw you through those crazy experiences...and maybe one or two of those crazy men was actually Jesus walking beside you...i can only hope...we love you and your most precious family far more than the beautiful painted desert you write about...
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