Barbara J. Hamby

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Whirlwind Trip Through California

In late summer, Al bought a 2005 Ford Focus Station Wagon. We took it on a one-day trip to the Oregon coast. Because we had a flight to London with a European cruise already scheduled in late August, we didn’t get to ride around in the Ford very much until early October, when we took a trip to California.

We left on October 7th, and stayed in Redding the first night. From Redding, we drove to San Jose to visit my father’s youngest brother and his wife, both 92 years old. My dad and the middle brother are both deceased.

With the aid of a computer-generated map, we found the mobile home park where my uncle lives quite easily. We arrived during the lunch hour, so we parked near the clubhouse and lunched on leftovers from our car refrigerator. We were afraid we’d get lost if we looked for a restaurant, and we didn’t want my uncle and aunt to think they had to feed us.

We found my Uncle Paul quite depressed. He had recently lost his driver’s license. He felt he was unjustly treated. Between the lines of what we heard from him and Aunt Iris, there was a hint that he probably shouldn’t be driving. She has never driven, so they have lost their independence. That’s a very sad moment in any life. Probably it’s worse for a man than a woman, especially a man who always drove Lincoln Continentals at high speed.

Al and I both know that day will be coming for us. We are about sixteen years behind him in age. The aches and pains of aging and the uncertainties of memory loss and health concerns are bad enough. The prospect of becoming dependent is overwhelming.

On a lighter note, we enjoyed the stories both Uncle Paul and Aunt Iris regaled us with. When I mentioned my age, he retorted that he knows exactly how old I am. He was there when I was born. As a disgruntled teenager, he was sharing a twin bed with my father in my grandparents’ house while my mother gave birth in the marital bed. He made it very clear that no one was sleeping and that my father was up and down all night. According to my birth certificate, I was born at 6:20 a.m. Since that event, I’ve never been a morning person.

We had brought pictures from a couple of our trips to share with them, if they were interested. I explained I wouldn’t insist they look at all the photos and asked Uncle Paul if he would like to see them. He replied, “Not particularly.” Al and I looked at each other and managed to squelch smiles. Aunt Iris, however, was quite interested in our Alaska cruise because she had lived in Nome years ago. She went through the pictorial record of the European cruise, also.

Before we left, Uncle Paul insisted Aunt Iris tell us the story of how they got married. She giggled and began, in her cute Carolina accent. (For privacy reasons, I’ll use the pseudonym “Doe” for their last name.)

It seems they met about 22 years ago when he was becoming legally disengaged from a very short marriage. They moved in together while his divorce was still in process and decided that, if they got along, they’d get married in a couple of years. The years went by, and he didn’t bring up the subject of marriage. She told us, “I thought that old man was never going to ask me to marry him.” She became upset when questions about her last name arose. After all, their generation was a little uptight about this sort of arrangement.

About ten years ago, Uncle Paul was convalescing at home after being hospitalized, when a visiting nurse came to the door. She asked my aunt who she was. Aunt Iris had decided, with the help of her daughter, that she would identify herself as Mrs. Doe after an embarrassing incident at a neighborhood function. So she told the nurse she was Mrs. Doe. While the nurse was interviewing my uncle, she asked him who the lady was. He replied, “Oh, we just live together.” My aunt was furious. Through clenched teeth, she said she might have strangled him if there weren’t a witness.

She fussed and fumed after the nurse was gone and then called her daughter. Her daughter told her, “I’m going to fix this.” On her next visit, the daughter told my uncle she had made arrangements for their wedding. To her and her mother’s surprise, he concurred, “That’s fine with me.” The rest is history.

When it became apparent the couple were getting tired, we said goodbye and proceeded on our way toward Death Valley. We drove through Los Banos, where I had lived for several years as a youngster and on to Tulare where we spent the second night. The Motel 6 outdoor pool was still open. Kids were swimming in it, so I assumed it was heated. I assumed wrong, but I got some vigorous exercise.

The only other time I swam on the trip, I braved what I’d been told was a “solar heated” pool. It must have been a long time since the sun was out there. I don’t remember where it was, but I felt very noble getting aquatic exercise in the ice water.

From Tulare, we went through Porterville and Bakersfield to Ridgecrest where. we stayed Sunday night. After we left Ridgecrest, we encountered the remains of Ballarat, a ghost town in desert country. We took pictures of several decaying buildings, including a stark-looking former jail.

Shortly afterwards, we entered Death Valley National Park and drove Northeast through Stovepipe Wells, then down through Furnace Creek to Badwater. Al exclaimed at the majestic hills and rock formations in the desert. The elevation at Badwater is 282 feet below sea level. The sign stands on a cliff way above ground level.

Badwater boasts a giant salt flat with a small creek running through the front of it. The National Park Service is working very hard to protect the environment in the park. They’ve made improvements in that area since I visited more than twenty years ago. A long boardwalk with handrails goes out onto the salt flat area, with a bridge that crosses the little creek. There are also more signs with information about the area.

From Badwater we worked our way Northeast to Beatty, Nevada, where we spent that night. Near Beatty, we passed through another ghost town, Rhyolite. Apparently it was populated as late as 1906, the date on one of the buildings we photographed. The masonry casino and Rhyolite Mercantile, constructed of wood, looked as if they may have been occupied longer than some of the other buildings that were in much worse states of disrepair.

The following day we drove to Scotty’s Castle and took a guided tour through its many rooms. The flavor of the elegant old building had changed since I had last been there. The original cooling system, water flowing over a wall, had been replaced by modern heating and cooling equipment. That change attracted rats to the building, resulting in rattraps being placed in strategic locations.

The guide’s story of the history of the Castle was not as colorful as the one I’d heard in the early 80’s. It was still clear that the man who financed the building of what he called Death Valley Ranch was a wealthy insurance executive. Scotty, a desert rat of the human variety, was befriended by him and spent a lot of time at the “castle.”

The alternate version, presented by a different guide on my first visit, alluded to Scotty posing as the owner to hide the net worth of the actual owner from the IRS. Whatever the true story, construction was never completed. This time we were told that neither man had actually owned the property the castle is on while it was being built. When the financier discovered the deed he held was for a plot of ground located elsewhere, he managed to arrange a trade, but had lost his wealth by that time.

The Spanish architectural motif on the outside of the castle followed through the interior, as well. For the most part, the rooms have been preserved. Spectacular tile and marble surrounds some fireplaces. Elaborate chandeliers hang from the ceiling. A pair of metal candelabra-style stands lights either side of one fireplace. Ornate carved wood and metal is featured throughout the many rooms.

In the huge dining room, with its giant table and individually decorated chairs, walls are lined with shelves full of various styles of glasses and dinnerware. Runners, for tourists to walk on, partially cover the Oriental rugs throughout the “castle.” The original leather drapes in one room have been protected as much as possible from sun damage.

After a short walk around the grounds to take pictures of the exterior and the giant unfinished swimming pool, we left Scotty’s Castle about Noon and headed for the slopes of Mt. Whitney, where we drove to the 10,000-foot level. We wound back down between all the gorgeous greens and yellows on either side of the road, through Lone Pine and on to Big Pine, where we stayed overnight in the shadow of the mountains.

At Big Pine, we learned we were just a few miles from Bristle Cone Pine National Park, so naturally, we went up there the next morning. These pines are reputedly around 4,000 years old and grow only in this location. As a valuable tourist attraction, they are jealously guarded and protected from fire. At the ranger station, we learned that unique climatic conditions allow them to grow here. They look as old and gnarled as the elderly specimens they are and they’re covered with cones as bristly as an old man’s two-day beard.

While at the ranger station, I spotted hardwood walking sticks and purchased one as a memento of the trip. Picturesque and functional, it’s made of hard wood--not pine that is too soft to be durable for that use.

We drove through Yosemite National Park, which I hadn’t seen for nearly seventy years. We then traveled to Sonora, where we stayed the following night. While there, we called my aunt in Chico to tell her we would stop by for a short visit the next day.

On Thursday morning, October 13th, we set out for Chico, to visit my aunt Vergie, the widow of one of my mother’s younger brothers. When we arrived, we checked into a motel, looked at our Mapquest map and found our way to my aunt’s home. She didn’t answer the door. We waited awhile, because we had told her approximately what time we’d be there.

In need of bathroom facilities, we drove around the country roads, through almond orchards, and finally found a little shop open. The manager allowed us to use their restroom and we had a long chat with her about the store and the neighborhood. I looked around at all the curios and almonds for sale. I bought some “amm-mund” butter. The people who grow and sell almonds around Chico, don’t pronounce the word, ah-munds, or al-munds, but “amm-munds.” My Aunt Vergie lectured my sister and niece about the proper pronunciation on their last visit to her.

All of that took about an hour, so we decided to go back by my aunt’s house to see if she had returned. We found her there with her brother-in-law. They had been getting a car serviced and she had forgotten we were coming. Aunt Vergie was very apologetic and wanted to take us out to dinner after our visit. I begged off, pleading stomach problems, which was not a fabrication.

Over all the years and numerous visits to Aunt Vergie and my late Uncle Jerry, I can’t remember a single time when they didn’t have at least one thigh-slapping funny story to share. This time I had been admonished by my cousin, their son, not to laugh when she told us about her instant wrinkles. My cousin and his wife live in Scappoose and we see them fairly often.

Sure enough, she began to tell us about her eye surgery when she had to lie face down for nine days. She declared that, in all her eighty-eight years, she had never had a wrinkle before, but now her face is all wrinkled up. She said, “I looked in the mirror and wondered, “who’s that old hag?” I’m pretty certain she believes that. It apparently hasn’t occurred to her that the reflection in the mirror is clearer with her improved vision. We chuckled all the way back to the motel.

After an early dinner and a good night’s rest, we headed for home. We arrived late and tired on Friday night, the 14th of October.