Road tripping (or, Why one should never ever drive through New Mexico)

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Middle daughter Megan and her hubby Preston moved to the Arizona desert right after they got married in 2006. Jim and I have visited them—and our subsequent grandsons—several times since then. Always by air, though, never by car.

We decided to make our most recent trip there by car. "We gotta do it at least once," Jim said. So we did. And here are some of my ever-so-deep thoughts and observations about our road trip from the mountains to the desert and back again:

• Other states (and even the nether regions of my own state) are home to some pretty awesome wildlife, according to road signage. My fave previously unseen caricatures posted along the Interstate: elk featuring impossibly massive racks and bear resembling bumbling buds of Yogi.

• New Mexico has an unbelievable number of crosses along the Interstate, memorializing loved ones who had lost their lives along the way. Really, an unbelievable number. Like 50 or more just on the route we traveled. Jim says it's because New Mexico drivers are the very worst <cussing> <cussing> drivers in the nation. I think it's more because of the high Hispanic culture in that area, folks who are likely Catholic and more likely to honor the departed with the tributes. (I kind of liked my explanation but apparently Jim is correct. According to the NHTSA: New Mexico's crash and fatality rates are consistently higher than the national average. But, I must add, it's not because NM drivers are the worst but because it has become a heavily traveled "bridge" for travelers and freight.)

• Traveling through New Mexico will always and forever remind me of the first time Jim and I did so together. With the girls, we headed to Carlsbad Cavern and spent many hours of the drive looking for roadrunners. Roadrunners that looked like THE Road Runner, because we were young and naive...and hadn't traveled much...and certainly had never seen a roadrunner. Imagine our embarassment—which we kept to ourselves, of course—when we saw postcards in a tourist spot of the real roadrunners that speed along the New Mexico highways and byways.

• "Safety corridor"? What the heck is a "Safety Corridor" along the Interstate. Signs told us when we were entering one. Signs told us when we were leaving one. But never did we see a sign that told us what the heck it was. Were we supposed to duck? Lock the doors? A sign did tell us to turn on our lights for safety...which made no sense in the middle of the day in the desert, but we turned them on anyway. Much to our surprise, we got through safely...and were never transported to another time or dimension. (Well, I just researched the term for this post and gave thanks we made it out alive. The areas are named such by the DOT because of their high numbers of fatalities. I would think a more appropriate name would be a NOT-Safe Corridor. That's the government for you, I guess.)

• Being stuck for three freakin' hours between miles and miles of semis on an Interstate brought to a standstill by an accident sucks. Really. If you follow Grandma's Briefs on Facebook or Twitter you found out in real time on Tuesday how much I thought it sucked. Because of posted photos such as these:

• I'd always driven the highways and byways with the notion that when it comes to road ettiquette and challenges between semis and smaller vehicles, the semis always win. That's not always the case, I now know. When two semis tussle and tangle, neither wins, evidenced by the disastrous (and surely deadly) accident that caused the aforementioned traffic jam.

• Listening to Tina Fey reading "Bossypants" by Tina Fey is an enjoyable way to pass the time while on the road. Jim and I both agree.

• Listening to Kirsten Kairos reading "The Darkest Evening of the Year" by Dean Koontz is not. Jim and I both agree. (But we finished it anyway since we had hours and hours to go before we could sleep...or stop. And because I'd not gotten around to putting "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay" by Michael Chabon on the iPod.)

• When driving 15 miles per hour over the speed limit at night, what scares me most is the possibility of one of those wild and wacky animals mentioned above—or deer or skunk or fox or Road Runner with Wile E. Coyote on his tail—running out in front of me. Even more so than signs declaring icy bridges and falling rock. (Although not quite as much as becoming one of those crosses. Well, on second thought, hitting an animal while going 90 miles an hour just might result in exactly that, so yeah, the animals are still scariest.)

• Roads? Where we're going we don't need roads...at least not anymore. At least not for visits to the desert. Because we'll be flying next time. And every time forever going forward. Yeah, I know, life is a journey not a destination and all that blah, blah, blah. But when my grandchildren are the destination, I'll take that over the journey any day.

(Plus, now that I've researched Safety Corridors and New Mexico traffic fatality statistics for this post, I can guarantee you we will never, ever drive that route again. Nor will I ever encourage friends and family—or strangers—to take a road trip that way. Take the plane, folks. It's safer—and I can provide statistics to prove it, if you need them.)

(One more thing: If you live in New Mexico, get out! Now! Run for your lives! Better yet, take a plane...it's safer. Again, I can provide statistics to prove it, if you need them.)

Today's question:

How do you pass the time when on road trips?

October expedition: The North Pole

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As you likely deduced if you saw yesterday's photo, our family made the highly anticipated trek to the North Pole last week. What a jolly time it was! So much to see and do, including a ride or two with Bubby down the Peppermint Candy Cane Slide I waxed once upon a time.

This slideshow was a casualty of my site makeover but you can find it in my Brag Book: NORTH POLE — 2011.

After the delightful outing, I've decided October is definitely the best time to visit the North Pole. Not only is the early autumn weather perfect for an afternoon halfway up Pikes Peak, the aspens on the hillsides all around are just beginning to change, lines for the rides are non-existent, and Santa has plenty of time for long visits plus strolls throughout the park during his breaks—which meant we ran into the Big Guy on several occasions, and each time he remembered Bubby by name.

 

I'm so thankful for the holiday-themed expedition with my very most favorite people. 'Twas a memorably festive occasion, indeed.

Today's question:

What percentage of your holiday shopping have you completed...or considered?

Doing time at the North Pole

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Brianna (back) coming down the Candy Cane Slide with her cousin Tiffany in 1987.I live in the mountains. So high up in the mountains, in fact, that I'm within a 30-minute drive of the North Pole. THE North Pole. Where Santa Clause lives.

Having lived in this area the majority of my life, work at the North Pole—Home of Santa's Workshop was a viable employment option when I was a teen. I worked at the North Pole the summer I turned 16 years old and could drive myself through its enchanting gates.

Jobs for teens at the North Pole were aplenty. Teens worked as shop attendants, ride operators, food servers, magician assistants, and Santa's assistants...more commonly known as elves, with the most sugarplum of assignments being Santa's dedicated elf, the one who hangs with Santa in his house and takes the photos of all the good little girls and boys who come to visit him.

I never got to be Santa's personal elf. In fact, I never got to be an elf at all. I wasn't perky, pretty, and personable enough in the job interview, apparently, to have the honor of being named one of Santa's sweeties. Nope, I was named a "front ride operator." Meaning I helped with the rides at the front of the amusement park.

For the duration of the summer, I covered business at the bouncy house, or took tickets and strapped kids in on the miniature car ride or the Shetland ponies walking in an endless circle. The north ride I was assigned to most often of all, though, was Santa's Candy Cane Slide.

As gatekeeper of Santa's Candy Cane Slide, my duties included not only taking tickets and handing out gunny sacks for sliding down in, I had the honorable task of waxing the spiral slide from top to bottom every single morning before the park opened. With a bar of wax, I'd crawl backward down the slide, waxing on (never off) all the whole way. Then I'd grab a gunny sack, start at the top, and shimmy my way down, shining and slicking from side to side with my gunny-sacked tush. Then I'd climb the stairs again, plop down at the top of the slide and take the first slicked-up ride of the day.

Each morning, I reported to duty in my navy blue slacks and red North Pole T-shirt. I arrived uniformed and ready to roll. No need to join the hundreds of girls in the elves' dressing room, giggling and gaining friends (and fodder for future comparisons to Santaland Diaries) as together they donned varied but equally festive jumpers, skirts, pinafores, peasant blouses, vests, jolly tights, elfin shoes and hats.

As I waxed and tore tickets and rescued kiddies freaked out midway down the peppermint spiral, the elves greeted guests with smiles and squeaky voices and frolicked festively about the grounds of the North Pole.

On breaks, I'd enter the cafeteria alone, eat alone, leave alone, while pairs and trios and more of the happy little elves nibbled their nosh together, complaining about their hard work of playing happy all day long.

The elves went home smelling like the candle shops or candy shops or whatever jolly joint they'd been assigned. I went home smelling like sweat from sitting outside the spiral slide in the sun all day long. Or like ponies.

I once was bitter. Today, though, I am bitter no more.

Bubby, Baby Mac and Megan are visiting next week, and today I added to the schedule of Fun To Be Had while they are here a visit to the North Pole. Bubby is the perfect age for hanging with the real Santa in his real off-season digs. For marveling at the reindeer roaming the place. For riding the Ferris Wheel, the Christmas Tree ride, for sliding down the Candy Cane Slide. And for giggling about all the elves happily helping out here, there, and everywhere throughout the North Pole.

When we visit, I will tell Bubby all about Gramma working there. About waxing the slide to make it as slick as can be, then getting to be the very first one to go down it each and every day, savoring the slickness no one else would know. He'll think that's pretty darn cool, I'm sure.

Bubby would not think it's cool, I'm sure, if I told him I were once an elf at the North Pole. For if I once were an elf, why would I no longer be an elf? Slide operators grow up, move on, become Grammas who no longer live at the North Pole. But elves? Once an elf, always an elf. Or that's how it should be. What disgrace would I possibly have brought upon myself to be kicked out of the elf kingdom and made to live in a regular house as regular folk instead of with Santa?

Sharing news I once was an elf surely would get my oh-so-bright Bubby wondering how that could be. Gramma's not an elf now, so how could she ever have been? Is it all just made up? Is the whole Santa story simply a sham? Like I said, Bubby's at the perfect age for marveling at the magic, for visions of sugarplums and candy canes and dancing reindeer and all things great about the story of Santa, the North Pole. I would hate to be the one to ruin that for him.

So if having once been an elf might ruin the magic for Bubby, I'm all for proudly owning up to having been a north ride operator instead. A ticket taker, a slide slicker. There's no shame in that...and may even hold an "ooh" or an "aah" at the nifty job Gramma once had.

So, yeah, I wasn't an elf. Today I've decided that's okay. Today I've come face to face yet again with proof that things—regardless of the disgruntlement they may cause at the time—really do happen for a reason.

Preserving the magic for Bubby is reason enough for me.

Today's question:

What summer jobs did you have as a teen?

Grandma and the haboob

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The recent earthquakes and the hurricane news reminded me that I forgot to share with you all my haboob story.

As many of you likely know, a haboob is an Arabic word for a violent dust storm or sandstorm. Arizona has seen a few of them this summer, with a particularly violent one shaking things up on July 5. (HuffPo documented it well HERE.)

Another took place last week as I was trying to escape the <cuss> heat of the desert fly home. I'd gotten to the airport just fine but as I settled into my seat to await boarding, Megan called to ask if I was okay and how long of a delay I was facing. I had no idea what she was talking about; my flight wasn't delayed, all was fine and on schedule.

Five minutes later that all changed as every flight out of the airport was halted and delayed. The haboob had hit Sky Harbor.

From Megan's vantage point at home, this is what she saw on the news:

From my vantage point inside the airport, this is what I saw out the window: 

Megan texted a few times to make sure I was away from windows and safe. Bubby was concerned after hearing on the news that "the haboob swallowed the airport" and needed direct confirmation that Gramma was okay.

I confirmed that I was indeed fine, albeit feeling a bit claustrophobic with all windows showing nothing but a dust cloud:

Within less than an hour, things cleared around the airport and flights began taking off. About that same time, Megan sent this picture of the house across the street from her as the storm arrived in her neighborhood: 

At least she got a mini rainbow.

All I got was a delayed flight as the plane I was to board had been diverted to Vegas to avoid the haboob. Once it arrived and we boarded, there was another delay because of mechanical problems. We de-boarded, took way too long to board another, then finally, nearly six hours later than scheduled, we took to the now-friendly skies, headed for the mountains.

Having little to do with the haboob and much to do with the incompetence of certain airline staff, it ended up taking me longer to get from Megan's door in the desert to my door in the mountains by plane than if I had driven the entire distance by car.

Which is exactly what I plan to do the next time I visit the desert.

Seriously.

Today's fill in the blank:

My most frustrating travel story was the time _______________.

Imagine that

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Life in the desert—where Bubby and Baby Mac live—is a wee bit different from life in the mountains—where I live and where Bubby and Baby Mac's mommy grew up. For one thing, it's often too hot in the desert in the summer time for kiddos to play outside. Seriously too hot. As in Extreme Heat Warnings from the National Weather Service hot.

That certainly doesn't mean, though, that there's no fun to be had.

When temps get too hot and high in the desert, folks simply take the fun indoors. They forego sizzling playgrounds and descend upon indoor play areas instead. Air-conditioned play areas.

One of Bubby's favorite indoor play centers is called Imagination Avenue. We visited last week, and he certainly exercised his imagination while there.

He imagined himself as a policeman, a fireman, a doctor, a grocery shopper.  

He also baked cookies and cupcakes, worked puzzles, played school. And he built houses and boxes and a tunnel for taking a break from the workout.

With so much to do and the myriad imaginative options to explore, the fact we couldn't play outside no longer mattered one single bit. Not to Bubby, not to Megan, not to me.

Not even to Baby Mac.

Imagine that!

Today's question:

What is your favorite indoor activity on hot summer days?