Monthly Archives: September 2010

Kin Under the Skin

Posted on September 30, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

"It's just like a chicken." That was my first thought when I got a good look at the shoulder muscles and joints of a human body. They fit together very much the way a chicken's wing attaches to what would be its shoulder, if chickens had shoulders.

The comparison wasn't meant to be frivolous or disrespectful. It's just that I have more experience with chicken bodies than human bodies, having cut up quite a few chickens back before I got prosperous enough to mostly let the grocery store do it for me. (Which reminds me: our paper's food section yesterday featured a Community Education class on how to cut up a chicken. I can almost hear my grandmothers laughing themselves silly at the very idea.)

But I started out to talk about humans, not chickens. My knowledge of human bodies was expanded considerably this week by going to the Bodies Human exhibit that has been at our local mall for several weeks.

It's a display of real bodies and body parts, partially dissected and preserved through a process called "plastination." The idea may make you shudder. The reality, however, was awesome. The "eeew" factor was completely eclipsed by the "oooh" factor.

A kidney is much smaller than you might imagine. A heart looks a lot like the pump that it is. Lungs resemble sponges and are not nearly as tidy as most pictures show them. Muscles are layered over one another and connected in complex partnerships. Intricate networks of nerves and blood vessels thread across and through the muscles and bones. The human body is such an incredible, complicated, delicate machine that it's astonishing we work as well as we do.

I was lucky enough to see the exhibit in the company of my daughter the massage therapist, who is the family's resident expert on human anatomy. Her explanations added a great deal to the somewhat limited information that was printed with the displays. We weren't allowed to touch the exhibits, of course, so from time to time she demonstrated something on the nearest live human body—usually mine.

Actually, I noticed that all three of us who were there did the same thing. "Oh, that's the way the knee joint works," or, "That end right there is the funny bone in your elbow." And we'd be feeling our own bones or joints to compare them with what we were seeing.

The one drawback to the plastination process was that it made it harder to remember that the bodies were real, once-living human beings. The exhibits were prepared in a laboratory in Taiwan, where unclaimed bodies are often used for medical and scientific purposes. For that reason, I assume these people hadn't necessarily given permission for their bodies to travel here for the purpose of showing us their insides.

Nevertheless, I hope they might have approved. The opportunity to learn more about the miraculous inner workings of the human body was an amazing gift. I'm grateful to have been able to see it.

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No Fair Skipping the Q

Posted on September 23, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

If you're going to entertain yourself on a trip across western South Dakota by finding the alphabet (in order, and no cheating by skipping the Q) on billboards, I'd suggest starting well east of Kadoka.

That's assuming you're traveling from east to west. Going west you're heading toward the Black Hills, with its tourist attractions eager to catch the attention of I-90 travelers. Going east, don't bother with the game, because the billboards are so sparse that between one and the next you'll forget which letter you're looking for.

The challenge of the billboard game, of course, is finding the rarer letters: X, Z, and the infamous Q. The X (as in "exit") isn't a problem along the Interstate. The Z is rarer but not impossible, thanks to the CraZy Horse carving and occasional other amaZing attractions. Q can be more of a problem; thank goodness for Quick stops, antiQues, and Quiet campgrounds.

The hardest letter to find here, surprisingly, is J. This is why it's important to start east of Kadoka, where there is a sign advertising the Flying J truck stop near Rapid City. (Back when it was a Conoco, J's were really scarce.) For the discerning, there is also an inconspicuous J near the bottom of a billboard at the Kadoka off ramp. If you miss either of these, you might as well start hoping someone passes you in a Jeep.

During a recent trip across the western half of the state, I noticed quite a few new or freshly painted billboards for Black Hills tourist attractions. Based on this as an informal indicator of economic health, South Dakota is doing well.

I do have a few suggestions, though, for tourism businesses. As long as they're refurbishing billboards, how about making a few additions? Wall Drug could advertise its Zany cowboy Quartet and Quirky back alley and let us know the roaring T-Rex will make us Quiver in our flip-flops. The 1880 Town could add a Quick-draw contest. Reptile Gardens could promote its Jumping cockroaches and Jungle flowers—or maybe they could add a Jaguar or a Zebra.

You may think by now that I am a fan of billboards. Not so much. I do think they have their place—which probably includes the long stretch of Interstate across western South Dakota.

Still, creative travelers don't need billboards to entertain themselves. My daughter used to keep herself occupied by counting road kill, which she wrote down in a notebook under various categories: pheasants, deer, rabbits, raccoons, skunks, and UFO's (Unidentified Flat Objects).

Even someone who likes billboards might have to admit that there are way too many of them along the last few miles east of Exit 61 as you approach Rapid City. The road is littered with billboard after bigger billboard after enormous billboard, flashing lighted ads, and such an ugly clutter of signage that you can hardly find the exit. It isn't exactly the best way to welcome travelers to the beautiful Black Hills.

It reminds me of a parody by my favorite poet, Ogden Nash:

I think that I will never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
I'll never see a tree at all.

Maybe some of the Exit 61 signs could be removed and spread out along I-90 eastbound. Only, of course, if they have plenty of Q's, Z's, and J's.

Categories: Just For Fun, Travel | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Wolf Creek Pass, Way Up On the Great Divide

Posted on September 16, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

If you're young enough or sophisticated enough that the title of this post didn't trigger a tune in your head that involves trucks and chickens, you might want to do an Internet search for C. W. McCall. Another choice would be to call me and have me sing you the chorus. I recommend the first option.

For the rest of you, feel free to hum along while you read. You can thank me later for getting the song stuck in your brain for the rest of the day.

Traveling spontaneously, without a schedule or advance reservations, can be wonderful. It gives you the freedom to change your plans, go where your fancy takes you, and follow your impulses.

After a hike down into—and back up out of—Canyon de Chelly on the Navaho reservation in northeastern Arizona, we headed for Colorado. Our plan was to spend the night at Durango and then head east and north in a relaxed and spontaneous manner. It was an excellent plan, made in blissful ignorance that on Labor Day weekend there is a motorcycle rally in the southern Rocky Mountains.

When we ambled into the Comfort Inn at Durango about 7:00 p.m. and said we wanted a room, the young woman at the desk was too polite to say, "Are you nuts?" She merely explained that every room in Durango was full. She suggested we might find one 60 miles east at Pagosa Springs.

A bit discouraged but still spontaneous, we drove on to Pagosa Springs, where we trotted into the lobby of the first motel we came to. "Sorry," the clerk said. Everything in town was full. He did think, though, the very expensive lodge just down the street had a couple of suites left.

We negotiated our way through a maze of service roads to find the very expensive lodge, screeched to a halt in front of its very expensive looking lobby, girded up our wallets, and hurried in—just in time to hear a biker tell the desk clerk, "Your last room? We'll take it. Guess it's our lucky day, huh?"

Certain that this same biker had passed us on the road a few miles outside of Durango, and wondering why there was never a highway patrolman around when you needed one, we went back to the car.

According to the map, the next town was South Fork, 44 miles away. The road, up and over Wolf Creek Pass, was marked as a "scenic route." Since it was after 8:30 and full dark by now, this designation did not cheer us. We were tired, cranky, and carefully not thinking about either the possibility of sleeping in the car or the intermittent grinding noises the brakes had been making all day.

In a dogged but spontaneous manner, we headed up Wolf Creek Pass. It was a classic mountain road, winding its way higher and higher around sharp curves and steep grades and switchbacks. There was an occasional scenic overlook. We didn't stop.

Finally, near the top of the pass, we did pull over and get out to stretch and wake ourselves up with a little fresh air. It felt fresh, all right—about 40 degrees fresh. Still, we stood outside for as long as we could, looking at the scenery.

Yes, scenery. Stars. At that altitude and distance from any town, the stars were visible in a way most of us in our street-lighted communities rarely see. The Milky Way was a bright path across the sky. Constellations were vivid shapes against the darkness. It was (at least to the non-geologist in the party) even more awe-inspiring than the grandeur of the canyon we had explored at the beginning of the day.

Eventually, shivering, we got back into the car and headed down the mountain. A few miles further on, we found the elderly but clean Wolf Creek Ski Lodge. It had one room left. We settled in gratefully and slept the sound sleep of those who enjoy relaxed and spontaneous travel.

We were even more grateful the next day that we hadn't had to drive another 120 miles to Walsenburg. They were hosting a classic car rally.

Categories: Just For Fun, Living Consciously, Travel | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

George Washington Wouldn’t Have Slept Well Here, Either

Posted on September 10, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

Seventeen hundred miles, five states, six days, cell phone coverage that was intermittent on a good day, and a car that started making funny noises a thousand miles from home on Friday evening of a holiday weekend. It sounds like a bad road-trip movie.

In fact, it was a mostly good road trip. A little too much driving, maybe, but enjoyable company and some interesting sights and sites along the way. Not to mention an opportunity to compare the amenities at several different motels.

There was the older chain motel with furniture that you might have called "vintage" if you were being polite or trying to sell it. The sagging easy chair must have been salvaged from the curb outside a college dorm. An historic lodge in a tourist area had an old, solid wood desk that I would have been tempted to steal if I thought it would fit in the car.

One downtown motel called itself the town's "quietest." True, it was several blocks away from the railroad tracks at the edge of town. But the air conditioner made so much noise that one of us seriously considered sleeping on the bathroom floor until we decided it was preferable to shut the thing off and pretend it wasn't 80 degrees at midnight.

Most of these places offered continental breakfasts. It wasn't always clear, however, which continent the food may have come from. One place had two choices, white bread or frozen waffles, topped with anything you wanted as long as it was either strawberry jelly or syrup. There was coffee, of course, and a few tea bags, but if you wanted hot water to go with the tea you had to ask the desk clerk to go into the back (probably to her own kitchen sink) and fill your cup with water so you could heat it in the microwave. The quality of the breakfast really didn't matter much anyway, because the lobby reeked so strongly of incense that you couldn't actually taste the food.

At least, despite the current attention they're getting, we didn't encounter any bedbugs. At least I don't think we did. Without my glasses, I wouldn't have been able to see one, anyhow.

Finally, on the sixth night, we found a place that had a very comfortable bed. The bathroom was supplied with extra toothbrushes, homemade soap, and big soft towels. The wireless Internet was located at a real workstation that had good light and a comfortable chair, even if the desk was terribly cluttered. There were laundry facilities, though the last people to use the room had left their dirty sheets in the hamper.

The kitchen was clean and fully equipped, but breakfast was meager. We found peanut butter, homemade chokecherry jelly, and even eggs, but the closest thing to bread was a couple of frozen hamburger buns. There was tea and coffee, but no milk. The fruit was one nectarine and a plum, both of which looked a bit battered, as if they had traveled several hundred miles in someone's cooler.

The housekeeper assured me this was not the usual state of affairs and it would be better after she made a trip to the grocery store. She also claimed there was usually homemade bread and said someone would mow the ragged grass in the next day or so.

We'll see. If she's right, we might stay here a while. Actually, come to think of it, we'll have to stay here a while. The car did make it this far, funny noises and all, but it's now in the shop. After we pay the bill, we may not be able to afford another trip.

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“Orange You Glad You Saw the Game?”

Posted on September 3, 2010 by Kathleen Fox

In South Dakota, seeing hordes of people wearing orange only means one thing—opening weekend of pheasant season. In a certain part of southeastern New Mexico, seeing hordes of people wearing orange only means one thing—opening weekend of football season.

For whatever reason, possibly including its proximity to Texas, where high school football is less a sport than a religion, this is a town that takes its football seriously. How seriously? Well, the windows of all the downtown businesses display pictures of the players, the cheerleaders, and the orange bulldog mascot. And if Halloween happens to fall on the Friday night of a home game, they postpone it (Halloween, not the game) to the next night.

It pretty much goes without saying that on game day, practically everyone in town wears something orange. Even though we were going to the game, I didn't exactly have a dog in the fight. Nevertheless, trying to be polite and blend in, I dug through my suitcase for the closest thing to orange I had, a coral-colored tee shirt.

As soon as we walked through the gate, I realized this was not high school football as I have ever known it. To me, a high school football field is just that—a field, with reasonably groomed grass, goal posts that may or may not have a fresh coat of paint, a few sets of bleachers, a concession shack, and maybe a couple of bathrooms.

This was a stadium—with tiers of seats on both sides, a high concrete walkway circling the field, at least two concession stands, end zones made up of orange and white squares of artificial turf, a giant inflatable orange bulldog mascot at one end of the field, and skyboxes, for Pete's sake. Plus fireworks at the beginning and end of the game. (Most of it privately funded, I should note, for anyone concerned about the wise use of tax dollars.)

And orange everywhere. Blaze orange. Tangerine. Yellow-orange. Ochre. Faded rust. Not just shirts and caps, either, though both were plentiful. Shoelaces. Lapel buttons. Seat cushions. Bags. Hair ornaments.

No orange hair, though, which I found surprising and a little disappointing. There were some kids with orange goop smeared on their faces and hair, but they looked less like football fans than members of a struggling wannabe grunge band called Zombies of the Pumpkin Patch. This may explain why that particular look was limited to a handful of junior high boys.

The moon came up, nearly full, at the beginning of the second half. It was—I am not making this up—orange.

Amid all this color, my well-intentioned coral shirt looked very, very pink.

On the other side of the stadium, supporters of the visiting team, from a town some 60 miles away, were out in force—and in blue. I kept my feet under the seat in front of me so no one would notice my potentially disloyal blue socks.

Oh, and the football game? The visitors made seven touchdowns, were ahead by 14 points at the end of the first half, and scored a total of 49 points. The bulldogs made nine touchdowns and ended up with 63 points. It was the best high school football game I've ever seen. Also the longest; the second quarter lasted an hour.

By the end of the game, I had a better understanding of why football here is such a big deal. It was almost enough to make me think about buying something orange. Not a tee shirt, though. A seat cushion.

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