First of all, let me say that it is currently 93 degrees in Mountain Home, ID, where I am sitting outside a Jack in the Box restaurant listening to a small dog cry out for help as it slowly asphyxiates in someone's car. Whence the city's name, you ask? No idea. Oddly, it's not really in the mountains, nor even at their feet. From the interstate we saw a lone peak about 20 miles to the west, but even that was nothing to write home about (and yet, observant reader, here I am writing home about it! Perhaps the sheer lack of other distinguishing features offers, in that vein, some clue to the mystery of the naming). We woke up before dawn this morning and were ready to go by 6, only to discover that Bonesy had a flat tire. Still, we knocked down 60 miles by noon and earned this two hour shady respite. The dog is still barking.
When we wake up in Boise tomorrow, we will be only 60 or so miles from Oregon! Idaho-rribe week of riding not withstanding, that puts us about eleven days from the coast, and we are starting to get excited. I think my Ocean Mist-scented Car Freshener (R) is growing more potent as it feels itself nearing its home. Bonesy just came back with one of those fast food chain "large" sodas more aptly described as "benthic," and it is full of cold, sparkling lemonade and only cost a dollar six.
Speaking of lemonade -- still barking -- we were just talking yesterday about how our moms alays used to make lemonade from concentrate, which seems in retrospect to have been a little out of character, and how now we have developed associations along an axis between motherhood, refrigeration, and Minute Maid that probably in themselves provide enough material for a French novel. Then this morning when we stopped in a diner for eggs I asked the server if their OJ was from concentrate and she didn't know what I meant, and obviously it was, and I felt like a prat for being so particular and besides it was strangely comforting...
It turns out that the dog (we investigated) is sitting comfortably in a well-shaded and equally-well-ventillated vintage Winnebago, and is just freaking out, apparently, because his master is out of sight. That's good, because I don't know what we were going to do otherwise. 40 miles to Boise on a beautiful July-daho afternoon.
Ride on.
MOTHERS UNITE! Having made my share of fresh squeezed lemonade for my tots (I think maybe two pitchers), even the most Mother Lodish of all of us has to decide 1. Whether an hour of squeezing sour lemons, mixing w super fine sugar and floating blueberries in this unforgettable beverage has priority over a. reading A.A. Milne or Little House on the Prairie w curled up kinder in or spilling off my lap b. feeding them or c. nurturing barking dogs who also want to get in on the action. 2. It wasnt Minute Maid. It was generic. 3. Said concentrate was really propped up by the limes/lemon rounds I added; thus making it more sour and somehow assuaged (said phonetically) any guilt over "cheating".
ReplyDeleteDo you think Im sensitive about this issue?
When next we meet would you like to look at the "brat" issue of being particular which does seem to plague you now and again... I take no responsibility though I did feel a tad uncomfortable when I observed you lifting up the beef pattie (your were 8) to check it out on one of the rare dining out episodes of your youth. You guys always wanted my food... what kid doesnt.
Today's morality lesson: Always check on barking dogs.
Oh I love you so.
another obnoxious post script: Mountain View was originally a town about 8 miles from Tutville (named after a certain Mr Tutweller who opened a store in a tent along the Oregon RR. Welll. When RR was up and running the postmaster from Mountain View pulled up stakes and moved said office to Tutville which instantly (maybe) became Mountain View due to the address of moved office. Which still does not clarify why a town on the plain of Snake River is a misnomer. Alas: thats what googled up.
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