Blue skies and sunshine greeted us as we left the hotel at 9:30, a late start for this trip. Our agenda is a light one today, it being Sunday and all.
We drove through a local Amish community on our way out of town. The road gradually narrowed and eventually turned into gravel. You’ve heard of washboard roads? There’s no better description to give the one we were on for five miles or so, until it changed back to paved. Beautiful scenery with farms scattered here and there, along with some beautiful homes, and some not so beautiful, were visible out both sides of the bus. One house in particular I wished I would have captured with my camera. It seemed that the home owners could not decide which architectural style they preferred. Red tile roof screamed Italy. River rock walls that rose from the foundation to within five feet, more or less, of the roof line, hinted at rustic cabin. Nondescript siding filled in the gap. Chimneys that looked like plain cement rose from the four corners of the roof. A purple barn (or at least one side of it was purple) set out back. And the whole place looked tired and sad. I wonder what the story is on that place. Someone speculated maybe the man and wife couldn’t agree on things. Whatever the reason, it was rather unsettling to see the chaos.
We stopped for a picnic lunch at the Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado. Adin spoke briefly for our Sunday meditation, followed by lunch prepared by Martha, our tour guide. Several of our group that had not climbed the dunes on prior visits headed out to try a hike to the top. I had done so last time and it was spectacular viewing from up there but I decided to forego such exertions this time. I walked toward the foothills at the base but cut that short when the sunny day turned into gray skies and possible rain. The prospect of finishing the day soaking wet on a bus did not hold much appeal to me.
Ernie and Lester had aimed for the summit but the wind was pelting them with sand and they decided after the half-way point to turn back. They still saw some great views from there. The size of these dunes reminded me of those we’ve climbed many times in Kitty Hawk, NC. Orville and Wilbur Wright launched their flying careers from those peaks and today it’s a favorite spot for hang-gliders.
Paul got out his guitar and those of our group who weren’t into hiking stayed at the picnic shelter, singing songs and letting their lunch settle. Barb suddenly stood up and was looking intently into the bushes. So of course did everyone else, to see what it was she was seeing. A mule deer had wandered to within a few feet of us and was motionless, listening to the music, not even moving when everyone pulled out cameras and began snapping away. We told Paul not to stop playing and it wasn’t until he paused that the deer continued on its way.
We re-boarded just before the rain started to fall and the afternoon was spent driving through more beautiful landscapes, moving up and down mountainous terrain. At one point I could see the road ahead and below moving in several different directions at several different altitudes. When we reached Wolf Creek Pass the bus pulled over for photo ops and Paul broke into song with “Wolf Creek Pass, way up on the great divide. . .” and a discussion ensued about whether or not there actually is a feed store in Pagosa Springs. It was decided that there is not. So did Earl actually run into it with his load of chickens, destroying it, or was the feed store only a figment of his imagination? No conclusion was reached but the discussion was entertaining anyway.
Whenever we have a long drive, the storytelling starts. Today the subject was pantyhose. It seems that Ernie was on the phone and was overheard talking about pantyhose and what size they were. Well, Verna overheard him and the look on her face demanded an explanation when he was off the phone. This led to much laughter from the back of the bus but only those in the surrounding seats could hear what was going on. So, since we had a long drive ahead of us someone suggested he tell the rest of the bus what was going on with the panty hose.
It seems that years ago someone he knew, a relative I think, had purchased a house and was renovating it. During the renovation plaster was removed and the innards of the old house was exposed. One day a pantyhose leg fell from the ceiling, dangling there but clearly not empty. Thankfully it wasn’t a human limb filling it up. Upon investigation the builders saw it was filled with money! Excavating further into the bowels of the house revealed the other leg, also filled with money. The obvious question: did the finders keepers rule apply? Well, no, unfortunately not. When the home was sold it was stipulated that the previous owner had hidden money somewhere in the house but he could not remember where so if it was ever found it had to go to his descendants.
The next obvious question: how much money was it? Ernie didn’t know but said it probably depended on the size of the pantyhose. Hence all the ensuing jokes about pantyhose, their size and the fact that the only good use for them, ever, is to store money in the walls of houses. All the women on board agreed that there is absolutely no redeeming feature to them and true progress in civilization was the demise of those stifling, useless garments. Kind of like Paul feels about neckties. He insists they were invented by women to strangle good men.
We reached our hotel in Durango around dusk. It was lovely as they have all been so far. Since our room on the fourth floor was just a few doors down from the laundry I thought it a perfect opportunity to wash some clothes. We have another week to go so seizing the opportunity seemed advisable. Well, not so much.
I told Paul to go eat and just bring me something. I was very hungry but I neglected to inform him of that. I got my first load of clothes in and running and went back to our room to do some writing. By the time Paul got back with food, what seemed a long time later, I had the clothes in the dryer and I was ravenously hungry. He handed me a cup of soup and when I say cup I am not exaggerating. If it was eight ounces I am surprised. He said he ordered the same for me as he had, a generous bowl of soup for which he paid $9.00. “You paid NINE DOLLARS for this?” I asked, looking into the half empty container. He nodded and expressed great regret that we hadn’t taken up Martha’s offer of leftovers from the picnic lunch. The soup was delicious but mighty small.
I headed back to the laundry to get the now-dry clothes, only they weren’t. So I popped in eight more quarters, pushed the ON button and . . .nothing. I pushed it again. Nothing. Ten more times yielded no action from the dryer. I unplugged it from the wall (ok, probably pointless but, hey, worth a try.) Pointless. I checked the clothes. Still wet. (OK so my food-deprived brain was not in top form). I slammed the door really hard. No reaction from the dryer. Yes, I then gave the dryer door a good knee kick. Still nothing.
I saw a phone on the wall so I picked it up and without even dialing got the front desk where the very sweet, fourteen-year-old receptionist expressed her sympathy and suggested I haul my wet clothes to the second floor and try that dryer. “I have no more quarters!” I said and I’m ashamed to say I did not sound like Jesus when I said it. She promised to reimburse me so I spread out one of Paul’s wet T-shirts, piled everything on top, pulled up the four corners and headed for the second floor.
Yep, you guessed it. The second floor dryer was in use. So I left my pile on the counter, went down to get my quarters from the front desk and returned with book in hand to wait until the person returned for their clothes. My imagination saw me sitting there for hours trying to decide if I dare remove their clothes if they don’t return. I didn’t have the nerve so when the dryer stopped I waited and prayed for deliverance.
Within minutes a young fellow came in and jammed all his clothes into his bag and left. I wondered if he was going to fold them later or just use them that way, then I realized I have bigger fish to fry and I didn’t really care if someone else’s child wore wrinkled clothes or not. With the dryer humming along doing its thing on my clothes, I returned to the lobby to buy a microwave Campbell’s soup for five plus dollars, returned to our room to heat it and was all ready to indulge when I realized I had thrown away the spoon Paul had brought from the restaurant. So. . . it was back to the laundry, where I had pitched my empty soup cup with spoon and yes, I dug through that trash, found my spoon, returned to our room once again, and washed it thoroughly before using it to eat my now luke-warm soup.
Eventually the clothes did dry and after repacking my neatly folded laundry, I fell into bed and passed out. Paul’s words of comfort in the morning were to remind me that at least I didn’t have to hike a mile to the river to wash like some people on the planet. I acknowledged the truth of this but couldn’t resist pointing out that they didn’t have to deal with our first world problems either. Then I felt ashamed. For a few minutes anyway.
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