Sow There!

During my first few years of school, my father worked an odd schedule. For a while there, he spent the first few hours with me before I went to school. Mom was at work, and my older sister made the trek earlier.
We would eat breakfast and watch "Big Valley" on the 13-inch black and white TV before he rode me on his bike to school.

Later, still in grade school, I'd get Dad time by tagging along on afternoon tasks that no one else in the family wanted to do. Dad and I would venture off to search the junk yard for a car part, or take the trailer to the dump.
Sometimes we would stop at places like the Berkeley Pier to watch the fishermen, where Dad taught me to sing Otis Redding's "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay."

These were the times when I got Dad all to myself.

We made up games to play in the car, using characters from "The Six Million Dollar Man" and "Star Trek," and my favorite "Big Valley."
The AM buttons on the radio in the faded orange Vega became our secret transmitter.
If the cattle got loose on the Barkley Ranch, Dad would push the radio button to call Scotty and "beam them up," while Steve Austin raced at lightning speed to repair the fence.

One summer when we lived in Benicia, Dad had an injury at work and several times a week we went sailing on the Carquinez Straights in the "baby boat."
In my early teen years, before I became boy-crazy, I spent a lot of time learning how the distributor sends sparks to cylinders to transfer energy to the crankshaft.
While Dad worked on the car in the garage, I'd sit and ask inane questions, and sometimes he'd ask me to use my smaller fingers to reach a bolt.

In adulthood, there are no long, slow summers and Dad takes his car to the mechanic instead of spending Saturdays with his back on concrete.

Dad's wife Lynda makes a big effort to ensure there are several family get-togethers a year, and even those are sometimes difficult to schedule.
Last month Lynda organized a family trip to Las Vegas, which again brought us all together. When we returned, I had one more day before driving north again to Chico, and Lynda had a party she was attending.
I almost went home that day, thinking I had so many things to do before my work week started again on Monday.

And I would have missed my "Dad Day."

He dusted off his black Mustang convertible and we headed in the general direction of the coast.
Soon after we crossed the San Mateo Bridge, the air turned cooler and the road turned narrow, with trees on both sides.
At one point I reached my hands above the windshield, and stretched as far up as the seat belt would allow, bellowing "woo-hoo" to nobody in particular.

We dipped down into Half Moon Bay, where there were greenhouses on the side of the road. We planned to stop on the way back, but the way back would turn out to be much later than the nurseries were open.
Soon there were places to pull over about every 10 miles along Highway 1 from San Gregorio, past Davenport, until Santa Cruz appeared around a corner.

At one stop, a European tourist snapped our photo just as a wave caught us off guard. At Pescadero Beach, Dad spotted seals having quite a tussle in the water, just far enough off shore we had to point them out to the children rummaging nearby.

At Pigeon Point Lighthouse, I posed with and without the rubber chicken.
Then another turn and we lingered to watch a dozen kite surfers, the colored sails high above the sand. On past artichoke fields, there were real surfers near a rocky outcropping.
At dinner, near a window overlooking the amusement park rides, our waiter was a wee bit tipsy, but we decided to tip him anyway. Then the sun set and we walked the boardwalk just as the kids and their families were headed home and the teens were coming out for date night.

I can't think of anything in Chico that day that could have been more important than driving around in the black convertible with my dad.

OFFER: Bidwell casaba melon seeds for planting next year, courtesy of my friend Sally.

My friend Sally at work is quite the gardener. We've been to her house for get-togethers and a garden tour is always one of the highlight of the afternoon.
She's also one of my valued sources for fruits and vegetables during the summer.

Sally likes to order a few different types of seeds each year to keep things fun.
This year she planted Bidwell casaba melons.
Sally recently brought a big, ripe casaba into the newsroom and she let me watch as she cut into it. (Later I was also allowed to munch).

Gen. John Bidwell received the casaba seeds from the Department of Agriculture in 1869, and somehow his name got slapped onto them.
After we ate our fill of the sherbert-colored melon, Sally saved me the seeds from the center. I washed them and dried them on wax paper.

I will gladly share a few seeds with readers who send me their address. I reserve the right to request a self-addressed, stamped envelope if the number of requests starts to eat into my lunch money.

Of course, these will need to be planted next spring, but you'll have to claim them now. By winter I'm sure the bag of seeds will be lost in the chaos of my gardening supplies.

During the Hacking family's most recent trip to Las Vegas, we took in the usual decadence of the casinos, although not at the frenzied pace that we have in the past.
This year my dad's wife Lynda tracked down a great deal on a rental home several miles from the Strip, which gave us our own pool to splash around in during the day and a kitchen table where we played cards.

I must say, the odds of keeping Uncle Bob and Aunt Joanne's money were better than my chances at the tables at the Four Queens. Although, like casino winnings, my money came and went during the family game of Michigan Rummy.

(For game rules: www.michigan-rummy-rules.com/michigan_rummy/rules.htm).
On our travels, family members are encouraged to throw out ideas for off-track adventures. Last November, for example, we found the Pinball Hall of Fame at 1610 E. Tropicana.

This trip, Auntie Joanne directed us toward South Las Vegas Boulevard to the Gold & Silver Pawn Shop.
Joanne had seen the show "Pawn Stars" on the History Channel, described as a cross between "Antique Road Show" and "American Choppers."
Somehow Dad managed a parking spot right up front, which was about the last of his good luck for the trip. Several taxis were circling around and there was already a line at the front door,

After a family photo shoot with the rubber chicken, we gained access to the riches inside.
The crowd was shuffling past glass-encased goodies -- vintage guns, paintings and shiny cocktail rings. I would have lingered longer at the necklaces, which looked like they might have been worn by showgirls and priced at tens of thousands. But a booming voice from the back of the room scolded the crowd for hanging out and taking pictures.
If we wanted a photo with the "Old Man," we should hustle to the back of the room, the voice bellowed.
It was, however, OK to linger near the special cash register assigned to selling T-shirts and coffee mugs.

Uncle Bob's big request was to cruise out to the Colorado River Bridge at the Hoover Dam, which is still under construction.
Seeing what man has built at this location is impressive, with the giant slabs of sun-bleached concrete holding back the Colorado River.

While the new bridge is 2,000 feet wide, it didn't seem nearly as big when placed next to the gargantuan dam complex. If you looked closely, tiny specks near the support beams of the dams were actually orange-vested construction workers. This made me thankful I don't have a loved one on the construction crew.

The bridge is due for a completion ceremony Oct. 16 and will allow traffic on Highway 93 to whiz past the throng of tourists who made passage on the dam bumper-to-bumper.

Because we ate most of our meals at the rental house, my special request was to eat at one of the casino "troughs."
Uncle Bob saw me drooling over the goodies at the Jean Philippe Patisserie at the Aria, and made sure we found a buffet with as much floor space dedicated to dessert as main entrees.
The good thing about dining with a group is that you don't feel quite as gluttonous when you load two huge plates of desserts to "share" with the table.

Despite valiant efforts, no one in our group won thousands of dollars on this trip. Yet, that's hard to do when each of us stuck to penny slots.

Some days I really love my job.
This week I went on assignment to the peach orchard at the University Farm off Hegan Lane.
I've been in peach orchards before, but these were glorious peach orchards. The fruit was the size of a softball, some of it ripe enough to eat right then and there.
If you get there early, you can literally just reach up and take the fruit from the lower limbs.
The peaches are $1 a pound and will be on sale for the next couple of weeks.
Hours are Monday through Friday, 7 a.m. to noon. Bring your own containers.
To get there, take Park Avenue to the south part of town, then turn right on Hegan just before the Cemetery.
The farm is on the left. It's easiest to turn left at the second entrance to the farm. Follow the road past the farm buildings and out toward the orchards.

(If this was my tomato plant, I'd be very proud as well. Perrin has been harvesting so many tomatoes that she's been kicking down some of the bounty to her neighbors.)

Early in the season several readers sent in photos of their "first red, ripe tomato."
This was a lot of fun, and made me envious of folks who were having good luck.
My friend Perrin, from Oroville, tried Smart Pots" this year, and has been having very good luck.
I've tried a bunch of gizmos over the years. If you have the money, its always fun to try something new.

I did an online search on this product, and the Smart Pot is is a soft-sided fabric container designed to provide better soil aeration. Perrin used the 25-gallon size, which is mighty big.
Perrin said they worked for her in Oroville. She combined use of the pot with Amazon potting soil and has bee sharing tomatoes with neighbors.
"I made three jars of salsa from my tomatoes so far. The other tomatoes I put in the ground has only two little green ones on it so far."

Driving in a car for nine hours, much of it through the dusty Central Valley and onward across the Mojave Desert, gave me time for reflection.
Stark beauty and contrasts were the basic themes last week as my family journeyed to Las Vegas.
I've driven this desert many times, and usually find it long and hot -- a conviction that remains.

The July weekend along the Mendocino Coast made me envy coastal residents, who get to enjoy as weeds the plants that die in Chico's hot climate.
In Vegas, I took note of the plants that survived, many which I would later note still lived in my own Chico backyard.
But when I had enough time to watch the slowly transforming landscape of the desert, I gained respect for the terrain as well.

In the heart of the desert, scraggly bushes form periodic patterns, each plant blown toward the east, guided by the hot wind.
Colors that would wash into the background in a normal world become noteworthy. Yellow patches scattered here and there reminded me of the grass in orchards after it has been doused with Round-Up.

I marveled at man's tenacity to find ways to harvest stones and sand in a land best suited for lizards.
Even the random or sometimes neat rows of broken-down cars at the edges of towns give a chronology that is like modern-day "found art," or in this case "broken-down art."

I was grateful to have a destination and air conditioning as we whizzed by towns like Barstow, Boron and Baker.
What would a teenager think as they looked out the window of one of those trailers and watched cars and semis traveling fast past their hometowns? What would it be like to be a member of a high school football team, suited up in protective gear to play on the only patch of green for miles?

I couldn't help but think these were towns where people somehow "ended up," although I'm sure there are people who seek dry earth and solitude.

While we passed by Boron, we stopped for a leg-stretch at a gas station. A woman sat in a dusty car with the door wide open. A five-gallon gas tank pointed toward the freeway. A sign in her rear windshield read "need gas."
We didn't see anyone helping her out.

In my head, I pieced together possible stories. What was so important that she was driving across the desert with not enough money to ensure she made her journey?
Was there a relationship in Vegas she was desperately trying to hang onto? Was her mother ill? Was she trying to run away as fast as she could, the only way she could think to run?
I thought she would have better luck with her requests if the sign read: "Please help me get out of this forsaken town."

But of course, all of these thoughts came to an end as Las Vegas began to emerge, like a rock outcropping.
Here the focus shifts sharply, from the long drive and subtle changes to sensory overload.
Mardi Gras colors are blaring. Light streams from every angle. Billboards emblazoned with male and female flesh fade into the backdrop.
An hour ago, plants waited patiently for a little rain. In Vegas, we can't wait to see the Bellagio fountains.

Luckily, we humans are capable of adapting. All it takes is copious amounts of coffee, and I was ready to sacrifice sleep to take it all in.

(One of our first stops, once the family assembled in the car, was the "Worlds Largest Gift Shop." Here I was delighted to find a large vat filled with purple dice).

(Vegas is known for its opulence. One table lamp in the casino likely was worth more than my car. I wish I had begun taking photos of the casino restrooms earlier in the trip, to have an entire travelogue of loos. This one, at the Wynn casino, was especially ornate).

(Again, at the Wynn, or was it the Encore casino?, trees were decked out with giant flower bouquets, which hung like Christmas ornaments. I looked closely, and the flowers were fake. Good thing, because if there had been tens of thousands of dollars of orchids hanging nonchalantly from trees, I might have gagged).

(Overindulgence is necessary in Vegas. I don't drink and nobody wanted to go see the Chippendales with me, so we splurged on thousands of calories at a buffet. Funny thing about Vegas ... since I don't do some of the sinister things available in Sin City, for some reason I found myself tempted to litter and waste water).

(Unless Dad made a big casino win and didn't tell us, our family likely lost money overall at gambling. However, Uncle Bob scored one day on a slot machine, and had the good sense to walk away before he gave it all back).

(Yes, we managed to get in a few cultural moments, which included the visit to the Hoover Dam, as well as a American Indian gift shop nearby. We lingered for a while, until the heat beckoned us to an air conditioned Dairy Queen back on the main road).

(This surveillance sign is almost as silly as the rubber chicken).

I don't have children, a fact upon which I have spent some time reflecting, regretting and at times rejoicing.

Many of my friends my age are struggling through their children's teen years.
I have heard enough to know this age is difficult for a parent -- all that "letting go," while worrying about what they're wearing, where they are going and what vices might be hoisted into their hands.
Through my friends' children, I have concluded that most kids are mostly good.
Without the day-to-day dealings that come with procreation, I'm thankful I'm able to spend time with other people's children.

Being an aunt or friend of a family is a very easy way to enjoy children. Someone like me can pop in, not worry about rules or discipline, and leave just about the time the kids begin to get cranky.

Yesterday I was at the Jesus Center working on a story and they had a big box of beautiful eggplant.

I'm one of those who appreciates eggplant more to look at than to eat. I've tasted fantastic recipes, but every time I go to cook it, it tastes like tofu. I understand that like tofu, eggplant absorbs the flavors of other food, but is rather bland on its own.

If anyone has some recipes to share, I'd love to hear about it. Hopefully this would include recipes that don't involve breading and deep frying. In my experience, even dirt tastes good when deep fried.

Come to think of it, when visiting Mexico City in 1994 we ate escamoles, (ant eggs), which were delicious when they absorbed copious amounts of grease.

Google definition:
Escamoles are the larvae of ants of the genus Liometopum, harvested from the roots of the agave (tequila) or maguey (mezcal) plant in Mexico. In some forms of Mexican cuisine, escamoles are considered a delicacy and are sometimes referred to as "insect caviar". ...

(Vinca rosea is my champion plant this summer, blooming when everything else is tired of the heat).

Midsummer is a time for pause. Except for maintenance watering, there's not much sense in putting in new plants, unless you thrive on disappointment.
Before and after work I still do the ritual garden tours, deadheading a few papery flowers or putting rancid fish in gopher holes.
But it's fairly depressing to see the crispy-fried nasturtiums, sallow snapdragons and struggling dianthus.
The birch tree was taken out in late May and the once-sheltered planting areas are now taking the sun's onslaught.

Those perky impatiens are fairly frazzled. While I'll give them a chance to rebound, I grabbed a six-pack of summer-loving Portulaca grandiflora (moss rose), and planted it in between the remains of the spring flowers.
That's about as far as I ventured into the soil.

Funny, how if you're in a certain mood, all you can see are the things that are dead and dying.
Then, I heard that voice that reminds me to be grateful for the many beautiful things that remain.