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Mt. Pilchuck — time well spent is time alone!

So long, Seattle!

I just had to escape my family today. We woke up, stopped at the University of Washington’s campus for breakfast and a short tour, and then drove from Seattle to Mt. Pilchuck State Park. The ride was scenic—and by that I don’t mean full of scenery (even though it probably was). But there is no possible way to enjoy any kind of beautiful nature when you have the following scenes playing out: George grumbling about how his Washington guide book got destroyed by the rain; Ray belly aching about his belly aching; Mom stressing over the thought of her two “babies” climbing a strenuous hike; and all the while, Glenda trying to make us halfway interested in Douglas firs and hemlocks.

So I thought of an idea today that I stole from the Vegas Vacation movie. I suggested to the group that we all take an “alone” day and just take in the scenery ourselves (except for Ray who wouldn’t let go of Mom’s hand as he cringed in pain— his own fault for having two bags of Skittles for breakfast). Even though they all probably knew I was just plain annoyed with them, I think I stated it rather eloquently:

“Loving parents, adorable brother, and respected teacher, I bring you all together today to make a slight suggestion. Feel free to take it or leave it, but I really hope you take it. Here’s the deal. It’s early on in the trip, and we have a long way’s to go. If we’re going to do this correctly, we can’t all want to rip each other’s hair out by the time we get to Montana. I say we take a day for ourselves at Mt. Pilchuck. Dad is severely depressed, Ray apparently needs to go to the ER, and Glenda… no one cares about trees, for the love of God.”

I got a few grunts and grumbles from the gang, but in the end, I got the day to myself. And boy, it was one of the best yet. If you are in the Seattle area, this park is a must.

The main recreational attraction of the park is the three-mile trail to the summit and the old fire lookout. The trail begins at 3,100 feet above sea level and winds through an old growth forest to alpine heather and large rocks at the summit of Mt. Pilchuck (5,324 feet above sea level). I was the only one who was in any kind of shape to make that ascent, so I went myself. The trail was packed though with summertime tourists. I even made a couple of friends along the way.

There was a nice young newly engaged couple camping out in the area for a few nights. Originally from Ohio, they gave me a whole bunch of pointers on what to do when I get there—Cedar Point, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and something to do with Christopher Columbus. Good thing I have this blog to keep track of sites for me, since all of these places and city names are running together!

It took hours and hours to get to the top. We saw lots of cute animals along the way—chipmunks, deer, blue jays, squirrels, and even an eagle! I trudged through dirt and even bits of lingering snow. It was beautiful, but I was not nearly athletic enough to endure this. I was huffing and puffing like an old man when we got to the top. I wish I would have been a little more alert with the photos, but I had a constant grasp on my water bottle so my hands were occupied.

I did take one at the final summit. At the top, you can see an amazing view of the Cascades, the Olympics, and Puget Sound. For that, I finally put the Nalgene down and took a few photos. Feast your eyes on this prize.

A view worth the hike-- Mt. Pilchuck State Park

Yes, the alone day was a good idea. Mom and Ray stayed back and went to some kiddie attraction where Ray probably consumed more sweets. And George and Glenda eventually took part of the trail, where I’m sure they bonded with talks of useless trivia and boring stuff. So, OK, maybe it was just an alone day for me. But either way, I liked it! Now it’s back to some family time for a movie tonight nearby. Tomorrow we’re sleeping late and then visiting some sites in Olympic National Park. I can’t get enough of this Pacific Northwestern scenery—how can the rest of the country possibly top this?

The great American way to pass time

I’ve never been much of a sports fan.  But George grew up cheering for Seattle, just one state over.  Hey, if he’s taking us all the way to Kentucky and Disney World, I guess I can stomach a stop for a baseball game.  Good thing Ray’s excited about it too.  A happy Ray is usually not an annoying Ray.

For those of you a little unacquainted with the stadium, this is Safeco Field, home of the Seattle Mariners.  The stadium’s not even 2,000 feet from the ocean.  Catch some rays at the beach and take in a baseball game.  Seattle’s got a cool set-up. At sunset, the view is breathtaking. See for yourself:

Safeco Field, home of the Seattle Mariners

Snagged this from some brochure: This stadium has a seating capacity of 47,116, costs $517.6 million (yikes!), and there’s a retractable roof.  Boy, I’m glad that thing was retracted.   The view with the city skyline popping over the seats was beautiful.  I kept my eyes focused on the view and ignored most of the game Ray and George were cheering for.  Mom and I were in love with the afternoon sky as the blue slowly creeps to orange and then to darkness, with the office lights in the buildings framed by it. Although it distracted me from the game, the sight around me was picturesque. A little more picturesque than a pitcher’s mound and a few diamond-shaped bases.

I was overwhelmed at the food selection. I thought we’d just get to choose from hot dogs and nachos.  Nope!  During this game I kinda didn’t care about, I was able to get my choice between sushi, barbecue, burritos, teriyaki, stir fry.  Quite a spread for ballpark cuisine. The stir fry was delicious.

Sorry, there’s not much in ways of talking about the game.  Frankly, I did little more than just gawk at some of the slugger studs coming up to bat. (Jason Vargas and Dustin Ackley, call me!) I know they played the Minnesota Twins. It’s weird to think I’ll be visiting that state sometime in the next year too– and all of the other big American hot spots. I wonder if we’ll be seeing baseball games at all of them. Luckily, I think the season ends soon. I see now why they call it the great American pastime– you have to look for ways to “pass the time” while you’re there. Nine innings? Jeez.

All in all, the game was pretty fun. We’re heading down the street tomorrow to check out Mt. Pilchuck State Park.  Not even half an hour from the ball park, there are several different national parks. Readers:  Seattle’s got everything.

Hello Seattle!

Amazon headquarters in Seattle

Have you ever bought books online? Or not lived under a rock? You’ve probably heard of Amazon.com then. Turns out it doesn’t just exist on the Internet through a laptop. The headquarters are here in Seattle, WA. I’m finally here, after a quick pee stop in Olympia and a day in Tacoma, I made it to the birthplace of Starbucks. Speaking of which, I could really use one right about now…

This is Amazon’s headquarters in Seattle. George was driving slow enough for me to grab a fairly decent picture of it as we drove by.

Driving through this city is nothing short of an absolute joy. There’s just snow-capped goodness everywhere you turn. Even in the summertime!

Seattle sprawl. The white caps are snowy mountaintops, not clouds!

It’s a little picture heavy. Forgive me – there’s just so much to see on this drive. Now I really feel like a tourist, since I’m not in my native state. I’ve been snapping pictures like a madman, and lucky for you, only the best ones made it to the blog. My last post was a little more on the nature, so why not a bit of the personality of the area for now?

On my way to school not too long ago, a song came up on the radio that changed my attitude about everything, “Smells like Teen Spirit.” It was dirty, nihilist, and full of angst. And just plain fun. My parents did NOT appreciate it. They grew up pretty straight-laced, and after discovering Nirvana, I was anything but. Black nails, dressing in dull pastels, I looked and acted a mess. That was a good adolescent phase I went through. It lasted the better part of a week. Anyway, Seattle spawned Nirvana during the wake of the “grunge” music scene. You’d never guess that anything with the label “grunge” could come out of here, surrounded by mountains and beaches just outside the city, and views like the Amazon headquarters.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Owl City’s “Hello Seattle” since I’ve been here. I thought they were from here, but I looked it up and they’re from Minnesota. Either way, it gets me in the Seattle mood. Speaking of music, there is also a unique museum called the Experience Music Project Science Fiction Museum. George was intrigued when he saw a storm trooper signing autographs outside. We had to go in. For sci-fi nerds like my father, there is plenty of Star Wars and Star Trek geekiness to eat up. For music lovers, there is a lot of awesome rock & roll stuff– even a Jimi Hendrix exhibit!

The Seattle skyline, immediately recognizable by the Space Needle

There is an interesting feeling you get when meeting the people around here. They’re trendsetters, they’re creative. They love what they do and are serious about who they are. Doing a little looking online, Seattle’s also the most educated city in America. (I can learn a lot more from people like Bill Gates and Richard Karn than I can from Glenda, trust me.) Some people might think the people are stuck up because of this, but they’re really not! Many are very gracious and gave us some great help finding our next destination when George got hopelessly lost on I-5 coming out of Tacoma.

Clean air. Clear skies. Clean water. Innovative personalities.

And not to mention—the Space Needle! Ray was being a pest and was too afraid of heights to make it to the top. But George and I checked it out. We got some great shots of the city.

George is a bit of a baseball fan, but we’re all just a tad stinky right now. We’re all going to get showered and clean and hit up Safeco Field to catch a Mariners game since they’re in town when we are. The only thing I know about them is that Ken Griffey, Jr., used to play for them and he was a pretty big deal. I’m not much into baseball, but a little sporting event in a crowd would be a good side trip.

Cheese, trees, and ocean breeze

Seeing the Pacific Ocean for the first time was ineffable, which means that I can’t describe it in words, so I use this word, ineffable, to explain that I can’t explain it in words, which must mean that it was so *something* that it took my breath away or I was lost for words, which I could have just said in the first place. Thank you, Glenda’s vocabulary lesson on the way to Mount Hood, for giving me the wordiest way to say I was at a loss for words.

In any case, it was a remarkable experience, which I will remark on further. At first, I was angry with my parents for withholding this opportunity from me, but similarly to the Lost Lake conundrum, I couldn’t stay mad because I was just too overcome with wonder. We have poets for these things, and anyone who has even been on the coast knows what I’m talking about, so it’s pointless for me to attempt to explain anyway, so I don’t know why I’m still trying.

We drove straight from Lost Lake five hours to Lincoln City on the coast. We headed straight for the water, and this was my first vista of the Pacific Ocean:

My first look at the lovely Pacific Ocean

The whole trip was anxious, restless, and nonstop. The nicest thing about traveling in an RV, according to George, is that you don’t have to stop for bathroom or food breaks, and he took this to heart. We all sat in silence, Mom pacing up and down the 20-inch-wide hallway and Ray cross-referencing the map with the odometer every five minutes while I rocked in place with my face glued to the window for four straight hours until I fell asleep and woke up alone at an overlook. George had parked the Falcon 2.0 so that the window where I was perched framed perfectly the tide pool all the way to the horizon. Not that I could see the horizon. Oregon has a knack for haze, but the effect was all the same to me. I think that may be the nicest thing George has ever done for me.

We checked into an RV resort right on the water and spent the day flying kites on the beach and skimming in the tide pools. You’d think that in the summer the ocean would be warm, and you’d be wrong. Ray and I rented full-body wetsuits, and my teeth were still chattering the whole time we were on the beach. The groundskeeper at the resort told us that in the fall and spring you can see pods of gray whales migrating off the cliffs of the park. Unfortunately, we would miss their trek, but Mom said it’s just an excuse to come back later. I’m excited that this trip is inspiring her to want to travel more (granted, it is early in the haul so far). For dinner, we ate scallops, salmon, prawns, clams, mussels, and Dungeness crab, which is a Pacific Northwest specialty, and I fell asleep watching a light house spin round and round and listening to the surf.

A huge rock in the middle of the Pacific blanketed by haze

We stayed another day and night at the RV resort and cruised up the coast the following day, stopping at every scenic overlook and natural attraction. We stopped in Pacific City for a quick surfing lesson. After getting totally beat, I retreated to the shore to rest and warm up. As I sat, staring at the surfers disappear into the haze, a large, dark figure began to emerge about 100 feet out into the water. It took a good five minutes for the fog to slowly dissipate until I realized that a giant rock stood before me. I pointed for Ray and George to look behind them in the water, and Mom snapped this picture. I couldn’t believe that it had been there all along as I surfed, or pretended to surf, and swam just in front of it.

We continued north up the coast, stopping in Cape Lookout State Park and Tillamook, Land of Cheese, Trees, and Ocean Breeze! Trees and ocean breeze are easy to come by in these parts, but the cheese was a welcome novelty. Of course, the Tillamook Cheese Factory being the most popular tourist attraction on the Oregon coast, we had to stop. Because, after all, we are tourists. We made a lunch out of the plentiful, various cheese samples and wrapped the meal up with some dessert of their ice cream samples. They had 38 creamy, delicious flavors to choose from, my favorite being the cake batter!

Cape Meares

We then headed over to Cape Meares to check out the Three Arch Rocks National Wildlife Refuge where two-thirds of the seabirds in Oregon nest, including the largest breeding colony of puffins. One flew over our heads as we stood at a lookout over the cliff nests of the common murres. Glenda had out a bird book and her binoculars, which has to be the dorkiest thing I’ve ever seen, and was identifying every bird, its nesting and gestation periods, when it migrates, and all this stuff I won’t remember. The rocks off the peninsula were like those out of The Goonies when the boys use the metal amulet or whatever to line up the arches in the distance.

We stayed the night in Oceanside, where the shore houses rose along the cliffs like LEGOs, which looked like a little Greek town, but hazier. Now that I feel like an official resident of the entire state of Oregon, I mostly see why Mom would say that everything we need is in Sweet Home. But the fact that there are so many amazing places mere hours from my house makes the promise of farther places all the more enticing. Off to Washington, the Land of Vampires!

Mount Hood as I’ve never seen it before

The next day, after my parents recovered from one too many homemade brews, we set out on the Columbia River Highway, which is part of the Mt. Hood Loop Highway that runs along the Columbia River Gorge and then hooks around Mount Hood and back up to Portland. George couldn’t decide if visiting Mount Hood would be a waste of time. We’d certainly seen it when we hiked and camped nearby, but we’d never actually scaled it. A feat worth pursuing, I think.

The view of Mt. Hood and the Columbia River Gorge

Along the scenic highway heading east, there is a series of high, disappearing waterfalls to the right and the awesome expanse of the gorge to the left, which borders Washington. Ray wanted to stop at every single waterfall, but with about 90 flowing into the gorge from Oregon, that would prevent George from saying we “made good time,” which I think he has a compulsive need to say when we drive anywhere more than an hour away.

The Columbia River Gorge, which can get up to 4,000 feet deep, creates a wind tunnel because of pressure changes off the mountains or whatever, so winds can get up to 35 mph, which makes the river a hot spot for windsurfers and kiteboarders. Pretty cool. Cute boys abound. At one point, when we were driving particularly close to the edge of the road, where the cliff dropped directly to the water, a kitesurfer whipped up out of nowhere and almost ran George and the rest of the Falcon off the road and into the river. George is not really a fan of sports, especially extreme ones, unless of course they involve lightsabers or hovercraft.

So we stopped at Latourell Falls, Shepperds Dell, Bridal Veil Falls, Wahkeena Falls, Multnomah Falls (the biggest), and Horsetail Falls, to name a few. Don’t get me wrong; I love waterfalls as much as the next waterfall enthusiast, but come on. It’s water falling. Period. See it every day. And if I went a couple days without seeing it, I wouldn’t feel deprived. But I get it. The sound is amazing. Much like going to the beach, I imagine, and will get to find out soon enough.

Multnomah Falls, the tallest of the falls in the gorge area

We even went on a side road up to Larch Mount Lookout, which provides an unobstructed view of Mount St. Helens, Mount Rainier, Mount Adams, Mount Hood (whoop dee doo!), and Mount Jefferson all at once. It was worth the 14-mile detour, even though George griped, and a tear came to Mom’s eye. I have to admit it was pretty amazing–amazing enough, in fact, that I forgot my camera. I left it with Glenda, and we left her at the bottom of the mountain. She insisted we take our time but refused to even ride to the top in the RV. My parents probably should have included “no fear of heights” in the Craigslist ad. This is a climbing family.

After the waterfall extravaganza, we barely had enough time to make it to the campground at Lost Lake, which was off a really long winding road in the middle of nowhere between the river and Mount Hood. It was dark by the time we arrived, and we went right to bed after so much loading and unloading that day. I had no idea what I was in for the following morning when I woke up to this:

A breathtaking view of Mt. Hood and Lost Lake

Are you freaking kidding me? Sometimes things this beautiful look fake to me. Even though I’ve seen Mount Hood plenty of times, I can’t seem to reconcile the vista with some block to accepting its extravagance. Even now, this picture looks unreal. But believe you me; it’s real. At one point, I almost got mad that my parents had never brought me to such a glorious place mere hours from our house. But I got over it pretty quickly after spending the day canoeing, fishing, and hiking with this vision constantly in my sights. We had a real campout and roasted marshmallows. I was afraid we would miss out on such things staying in an RV. But I should have had faith in George. All in all, it was the best Mount Hood experience we’ve had. Maybe our best as a family.

We stayed another night at Lost Lake, and no one wanted to leave in the morning. But we all knew without saying it aloud that there was the danger of falling back into our groove, our pattern, and we had to press on. There were still 49 states to see and an ocean nearby. We whizzed past Mount Hood without stopping, back up to Portland, and headed straight for the coast.

FYI: Mount Hood is the highest mountain in Oregon, something I already knew.

Traveling as a tourist is all about facts. The tallest this, the fastest that, the largest whosie-whatsit. They’re all over the guidebooks and brochures and signs. Overblown assertions of random facts. I guess it’s an attraction, yes. But will I remember that Multnomah Falls is the second highest yearlong waterfall in the country? Or that Powell’s is the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world? Probably not. I’ll remember they’re impressive, sure. But the facts may float away to some inaccessible file in my memory bank or disappear completely. Who knows?

The fact that Mom and George basically made out under Bridal Veil Falls while Glenda took their picture will never leave me, however. The image is permanently etched into my brain and keeps playing over and over when I close my eyes, like an unchanging flip book or old home movie. The mnemonic of the veil is helpful, of course, but give me a break! Ick! The fact that I had the longest pee of my life after observing about a million waterfalls and getting no time to go to the bathroom (or bathcloset, as I’ve been calling it) in between each one is a bittersweet and lasting memory. And finally, the fact that the HOTTEST GUY IN NINTH GRADE messaged me back today will forever be the greatest moment of my life (Trish, I know, right!). These are the important facts you won’t find in any guide book about Oregon except my own. In other words, I appreciate knowledge and all, but I feel like it’s more important to make it into your own record books.

(Note: Most of those “facty” facts came from Glenda, so who knows if they’re right?)

First stop: Portland. Smell the roses!

One moment on an Oregon road

For those of you following at home (hey Trish, what’s up?), I’m still alive. I just haven’t gotten used to this whole bloggin’ thing yet. I have been keeping an active diary throughout the week and have just now transcribed it to Internet form. I will take advantage of the WiFi I have from one of the gazillion Starbucks around here in Washington to update you on the trip so far.

Embarking out of Sweet Home wasn’t as momentous as I had imagined. I thought finally feeling unfamiliar with my surroundings would come as a shock or cause some sort of significant reaction, but I was wrong. Maybe it was the close quarters with my family, which was nothing new, or appreciated. Maybe it was Glenda, chirping at every branch and pebble that it was a national landmark and telling us to write it down. How can a tree be a national landmark? It’s a tree, just like every other tree, surrounded by trees, and eventually it’s going to die. Maybe it was the fact that, from the road, everything looked the same as home: trees, rocks, rivers, rain. Maybe my mom was right. Everything we needed was there in Sweet Home, and not crowded into a shack on wheels. Granted, we were only two hours out, but I was getting dizzy with claustrophobia and boredom.

George could tell Ray and I were getting disillusioned that the Big Bang of our cross-country, statewide tour was such a flop. He thought to start things off right we should head to the Mecca of Oregonian youth, Portland, the City of Roses. Portland had always been characterized as some sort of oasis among the kids in my town. An urban respite in a state packed with nature. I never had much interest in it. I knew Portland was no New York City, and in the back of my mind, I probably thought I would never venture out of the mountains and valleys of my state anyway.

George also planned to only stay in the city for the day because it was expensive to park the Falcon 2.0, and we would have to get to more rural ground to camp out at the end of the day. Ray was freaking out about some giant bookstore; Mom wanted to stop and smell the roses; and George just wanted a beer. Glenda piped in.

“Raymus is right. Powell’s is the largest new and used bookstore in the world, spanning an entire city block.”

Take that, New York City!

Powell’s was pretty cool, if not overwhelming. We bought a few travel guides on the Midwest (I think even George was already getting nervous about what to do there), sipped some coffee (because it seemed required), and headed for the rose garden. On the way to the Falcon 2.0, which some guy had generously agreed to park in front of his corner store for $20, I noticed a couple of sleeping bags laid out on an abandoned stoop, cans of food strewn around and a few long-sleeve shirts stacked inside the bags. There was a cardboard sign leaning against a step that said, “I don’t steal from YOUR home.”

I asked Glenda, “People live there?! Or are they just camping out?”

Glenda told me that Portland has a sizeable homeless population, especially among young people.

“The city, as well as the state, is consistently ranked high by numerous reports for homeless populations. Often, transient people move here looking for other people like them and because the city is rather supportive of the homeless, but with an unemployment rate of more than 10% and climbing and an already-stressed homeless services system, living on the streets easily becomes the only option.”

Homelessness was one of those exotic things, like war, hurricanes, or strip clubs. I couldn’t believe it could be so prevalent in my own state. I’d never seen a homeless person in Sweet Home, let alone someone sleeping on someone else’s stoop. Portland seemed like such a nice place. It was incongruous to watch a business man rush past a kid sitting on newspaper, holding a sign in one hand and a ferret in the other.

We stopped by the International Rose Test Garden, which consisted of my mom and Glenda oohing and aahing at every stinkin’ bud and George, Ray, and me relaxing in the RV. We ate lunch on the Willamette River. Lots of young couples jogged by with their babies in running strollers, and we could see bridges for miles. We left out of the city to the east, where we planned to stop for the night in Troutdale.

Beer is big in Oregon. This is something that I already knew. My friends’ older siblings rode into Eugene on a regular basis to sample the breweries. Trish’s older brother even majored in fermentation science at OSU and was in the process of opening his own brewery. Honestly, I have very little interest in beer. I can’t drink it, and I wouldn’t want to if I could.

Even so, my parents couldn’t resist visiting a brewery-distillery-winery combo in Troutdale that they’d heard so much about. Edgefield was one of many hospitality joints run by McMenamins Pubs & Breweries. They had tens of pubs, breweries, hotels, movie theatres, and other venues all over Oregon and Washington, many of which were remodeled schools, hospitals, and old buildings. So even though I wasn’t too excited about Mom and George making us sit in a bar all night, Edgefield turned out to be an amazing place. Ray and I toured the grounds while mom and George drank beer after brandy after Bordeaux. We walked through vineyards and herb and vegetable gardens, climbed a water tower, traipsed through a soaking pool, and stole cheese off a tasting platter. We saw a statue of someone named Jerry Garcia. He must be important.

There are those places that kids go and those places that adults go. I sensed that I was somewhere in between — here and everywhere I went.

A Great American blog

So now I think you’re caught up. All of that was back in June. Now it is nearing the day before departure, and I finally started this old blog. We are scheduled to leave in less than 24 hours, and I still am waiting for the day when my parents sit us down calmly and Ashton Kutcher pops out to say, “PUNK’D!”

But, alas, our house is in the shambled state of a family who is about to travel around the country for a year. If you can imagine what that kind of house looks like, feel free. If you can’t, I’ll help. It’s a cross between the house of a family who is actually moving out for good and the house of a family who has just flat-out lost their minds.

Our entire collection of picture frames, vintage movie posters, and miscellaneous artwork still adorn the walls. But the functional stuff is almost entirely obsolete. For example, I tried shampooing my hair last night and I had to go grab the “family size” one from Mom’s shower.

“Everything else is packed, dear,” she said sweetly.

Boy, have I heard enough of that line lately.

Even the sweetest tone in the world would not calm my nerves at this point.

Oh and here’s the other killer. There is now a monster of an RV parked in my driveway, officially alerting the neighborhood of our obvious insanity.

“It’s the Falcon 2.0,” George announced proudly as he showed us his new $90,000 toy – a Concord model Coachmen RV, with a cobalt and white exterior and plush leather interior.

“I feel like I’m in a traveling circus,” Ray said dryly. His boyhood excitement had vanished somewhere mid-July when he realized he could no longer be in the community soccer league with his friends.

“Don’t expect that feeling to change,” I reminded him. “We’re being kidnapped by a couple of clowns.”

These days, I’ve gotten used to surprises becoming ordinary occurrences. And then they don’t feel much like surprises anymore.

I tried pinching myself to wake up from this zany dream when I was introduced to Glenda, our 67-year-old tutor George hired from Craigslist. She has wiry, black, Medusa-style hair and tiny, purple wiry glasses that make her eyes look purple too. They might as well be, because I’m pretty sure she is an alien. Ray is convinced of it.

“Hello, Rehnquists! I can’t wait to be a part of this adventure!” she exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader. “The learning adventure, that is. Oh but the traveling should be great too!” She snorted.

George has instructed her not to begin lessons until August 16, since that is when we would technically be going on summer vacation. Until then, we are on summer break and she is just some bizarre woman living with us.

She is a sweet woman and all, but she is overly optimistic about everything. She thinks a power outage is “an electrical pause” and a thunderstorm is “a bowling party in heaven.” I cannot take a person seriously who speaks purely in euphemisms.

And she uses every available moment as a teaching opportunity, which can be condescending at times. When George was cooking meat loaf last week and left the oven on, she taught Ray and me a full lesson about kitchen safety. Personally, I think George should have been the one receiving that lesson.

My parents assured us to just think of her as the “kooky old grandma” we’re bringing along on our trip.

“And if she gets totally crazy, we can always dump her off somewhere in New Mexico,” George said with a laugh.

Depending on how things go, I might follow up with him about the seriousness of that offer.

But for now, she is Glenda. She is goofy and her clothes never match. But other than that, she kind of gives me this Mary Poppins vibe, and maybe that’s something I can get used to.

Most of my friends don’t believe I’m actually going on this excursion either. When I told Trish she asked me if I had taken drugs lately. She called George for verification and when he confirmed it, she almost hit the floor.

Trish and I have been best friends since we were toddlers who had to share a mat during naptime because our classroom didn’t have enough. Ever since then, I never really needed any other friends because I could always easily find her. Four blocks down and then the sixth house on the left.

Now I have no idea where I will be in the next six months in relation to her house, or in relation to anywhere for that matter! What if she makes a new best friend?

“Write to me every day, Ami-zing!” she pleaded, tugging on my denim jacket after she accepted the reality of the news.

“I’ll send you postcards from cool places,” I assured her gently. “Like Hollywood, New York City, Las Vegas…”

We were sitting in Mrs. Hamper’s language arts homeroom class on the last day of school when we were discussing this. Mrs. Hamper, being the sly eavesdropper she has been trained to be as a schoolteacher, casually walked over to my desk during our conversation.

“That sounds like a marvelous opportunity!” she congratulated me. “But what will you do about schooling?”

I was supposed to start high school next year at Sweet Home High School. I was actually very disappointed about missing that particular year of school because it meant I would not be eligible for the school yearbook in 10th grade. You see, in order to apply for the yearbook staff as a sophomore, you need to take an introductory writing class and submit writing samples as a freshman. I would never get my chance to write the exposé on rodent infestation in lockers or write the personality profile of the prom king, who would undoubtedly be my boyfriend, making it easy for me to obtain such a story.

See, if you couldn’t tell, I’ve already been thinking about this.

Anyway, I told Mrs. Hamper about the hired tutor (who I did not yet know as Glenda) and explained the home-schooling proposition my parents had.

Mrs. Hamper seemed a little more at ease after that. “Well, you’ll have to keep me updated on your travels. A postcard from each state!”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s a lot of stamp money, Mrs. Hamper.”

Just then, her eyes lit up like an Einstein-light-bulb idea. “How about you send e-mails from each state then? You can upload pictures to your computer.” She paused. “How about you write a blog?”

Trish and I both started laughing. To us, blogs seemed like a mundane hobby of a geeky day trader or a baseball card collector who still lived in his parents’ basement.

MySpace is the closest we would get to straddle that line of Internet exploitation.

Before I had the chance to give Mrs. Hamper an official “no” to her suggestion, the bell rang and class began. I had all but forgotten about the prospect until she pulled me aside later as I was leaving class.

“Ami, I really think you should consider the blog idea,” she repeated. “I know it may not seem like the ‘cool’ thing to do, but it will be an easy, convenient way to keep everyone else posted of your latest travels. And not to mention it will make a great memoir of your trip for years down the road.”

I cringed. “I appreciate your advice, but I don’t think anyone would want to read what I write, Mrs. Hamper. Myself included.”

“Well, then what makes you think anyone will want to read what you write in the school newspaper or yearbook?” She smiled. “Ami, I’ll tell you what. If you at least try to start this blog, I will talk to Mr. Brighton at Sweet Home High and see if you can use those blog entries as a writing sample for the yearbook application.”

My jaw dropped. “You would do that?”

“Darling, there is nothing more powerful than the written word. Or in this case, the typed word,” she said. “You are about to embark on an amazing adventure that very few, if any, other people have ever had the chance to do. It would be a crime for you not to record it.”

I nodded slowly. She was right.

I knew I always liked her.

“OK, Mrs. Hamper. You convinced me. I’ll give it a shot,” I promised. “Just please don’t comment on it when I make grammar mistakes, OK?”

Mrs. Hamper laughed. “I can’t promise you that. But I doubt you will be making very many of them. You’re a strong writer, Ami.”

I don’t know why this woman was boosting me up so much, but I really liked it. I blushed. “Thank you. I want to write novels some day.”

“We’ve got so many great American novels out there. What we need now is the great American blog. I’m looking forward to reading your first published work.” She put her hand on my shoulder reassuringly. “Remember, Ami, the future is unwritten. Only you can be the one to fill in the blanks.”

And that was where Bloggin’ America was born.

Thank you, Mrs. Hamper. I know you are one of the five people reading this so I figured I would do a personal shout out.

P.S. I’m sorry for the colloquial wordage in my title, Mrs. Hamper. But Blogging America is already the name of some political book out there. Plus it’ll be kind of cool when I’m perched on top of Falcon 2.0 in Nowheresville, Wyoming (where hopefully there will somehow be WiFi), and some unassuming Wyominger will come up to me and say, “Hey there, girl. Whadya doin’?”

And I’ll say, “Oh, I’m just bloggin’ America.”

Maybe he’ll go buy a computer to read it!

An idea is born.

However, the next day was actually quite different from all the other “reclaiming fatherhood” days George had marked in the past.

SPOILER ALERT: This is where the story finally gets interesting.

George’s red Corolla pulled up to Sweet Home Junior High School promptly at three o’clock. I climbed into the Falcon (yes, like the Millennium Falcon) and was jealous to see Ray in the passenger seat with a root beer float from A & W in his hand.

“Ugh, you got Ray a float?” I asked with envy.

“Relax, kid, we got you one, too,” George took another float from the cup holder and handed it back to me. “I’m taking you guys to the park. We have lots to go over.”

I punched my straw into the lid and braced myself for what I could only imagine would be an afternoon involving an uneven game of trivial pursuit and a lecture about conifer leaves at the neighborhood park, Strawberry Hill.

George had something a little different in mind. When we arrived to the Hill, George unloaded the car with our picnic blanket and a basket of unidentified objects. I assumed the travel-size trivial pursuit game had snuck its way in there.

“I love seeing the perennials in bloom,” he said casually as we climbed to the top of our favorite hill. It wasn’t much of a climb, but when I was little, it seemed like a large feat. My parents would have us reenact the “Jack and Jill” story as we went up and rolled down. We hadn’t been back in at least a year.

I wasn’t interested in making small talk with him right now. Especially about late-spring flora. I was much more concerned with whatever he had up his sleeve. And in that basket.

I laughed and muttered something incomprehensible to show him I had heard what he said but didn’t really care to continue a conversation about it. I suppose that’s typical teenager behavior.

“Kids, sit down.” He laid out the blanket on top of the hill. Ray immediately jumped on it, bringing some dirt from his sneakers with him.

“I don’t want to play board games,” Ray said before George had a chance to take it out.

Wow, the kid was smarter than I thought.

George chuckled. “No board games today. I want to show you something.” He opened the basket and removed what appeared to be nothing but… maps. Folded up road maps with drawings and highlighter marks all over them.

The maps were all of different regions of the United States. There were two maps of the entire country. The first had all of the states color-coded in some way, while the second one had a date in each state.

“Is this a geography test?” I groaned.

“I know all fifty state capitals!” Ray exclaimed. “Montgomery, Alabama; Juneau, Alaska; Phoenix, Arizona–”

George put his finger up to silence his son. “No, Ami, not a test. And Ray, that’s great. I’m so proud of you for doing well in school. But wouldn’t you like to actually go to these states instead of just reading about them? There’s a great big country out there…” He trailed off.

“You mean we’re taking a summer vacation outside of Oregon?” I squealed. “Where are we going?”

“I want to go to New York!” Ray yelped. “Or Disney World! Or Kentucky!”

George laughed. “Check, check, and check.”

“No,” I butted in. “I want to go to Hollywood or Las Vegas. Or actually… Niagara Falls.”

George nodded at each place mentioned. “Consider it done.”

My excitement slightly faded as I shot my father a bewildered look. “George, all those places are really far away from each other.”

George winced a little when I called him by his name. He then switched back to the confidence of his plan. “Yes, I know. But we’ll have time. A year should give us plenty of time to see every stinking bit of this country we’ll ever want to see.”

My jaw dropped simultaneously with Ray’s. “A year? What? You must be joking.”

“In all your years of knowing me, have you known me to be much of a joking man? I have everything planned out. Ready?” He took a breath as though he knew he was about to launch into a very prepared and highly anticipated explanation of this insane idea.

“We are renting out our house, buying an RV, and hitting the open road. I figure we can start by finishing off whatever we haven’t seen in Oregon on our way to the Washington border, head to Spokane and Seattle, then scoot on over to Montana, snake down to Idaho and then Nevada. Then, of course, you’ll get to see Vegas, Ami—”

At the sound of my name, it brought me back down to Earth. I shook my head and cut him off. “Do you hear what you’re saying? You can’t possibly think we’re going to pick up and leave everything for a year to go travel the country. Just because we’ve never been anywhere else, it doesn’t mean we have to do it all at once.”

George cut me off again. “What better time than now? I want to make sure I get to know you guys before you run off to college in a few short years. I have already arranged with my colleagues to work remotely for the year.”

I gasped. I couldn’t believe he had already started making plans for this outrageous idea.

“What about school? Does that mean we’re done with school?” Ray asked anxiously.

“No, we will hire a tutor for both of you to keep you aware of your grade’s curriculum so you won’t be behind the following year. But honestly, what better way to learn than to be out traveling and experiencing the world around us? Fifty states in fifty weeks. You’ll see it all.” George smiled smugly. “I’ve got every question you kids can dream of already answered.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve got one. What does Mom think of this?”

George bellowed with laughter. “Nice try, Am. She is shopping for RVs online as we speak.”

Reclaiming fatherhood

So, the initial concept of traveling was planted into our brains in late May. The subject was dropped until two weeks later when Mom and George were getting into one of their post-dinner arguments. I say “one of” them because they happened so frequently these days. And each time, they always seemed angrier and louder than the night before.

Ray and I were loading the dishwasher in the kitchen and eavesdropping on the discussion at the dinner table. But as they kept raising their voices, I’m sure they knew we were listening.

“… You just don’t understand, Ellie,” George was saying sternly. “I’m the one who works hard to make all the money and give you the life you want to live. You can’t keep demanding more of me at home and expecting more money to come in at the same time!”

“You’re not the only one who works, George! You think you’re exhausted after long days at the office? Those 50-hour weeks are tough, I’m sure, but do you know what it’s like to work 100-hour weeks as a full-time mom, nanny, and chef? When do I get to put my feet up after a stressful day? Guess what, my job never ends.”

“You need help? Hire a nanny. We can afford it,” George shot back nastily.

“Oh, great idea. So you can have yet another person raise your kids instead of you?” Mom lowered her voice before saying this, “You want to know something? Ami doesn’t even call you ‘Dad.’ She will only call you George. And that’s not even your real first name. You just idolize that goddamn Star Wars and live in your fantasy world all day long. Well, this is the reality.”

This was always the go-to finale of the argument. Mom would attack his Star Wars obsession, and Dad would say she doesn’t know what “passion” is and how it is the foundation of all stories of our generation. Blah, blah, blah. Then he would run off to go read the continuing Star Wars novel series or watch The Empire Strikes Back with commentary.

This time, he did not address that part of the attack though. He did not quote Obi Wan Kenobi or Yoda. He used his own words. “She…she… doesn’t call me Dad anymore?”

“Anymore?” Mom scoffed. “She hasn’t since she was Ray’s age.”

It’s true. I never really thought much behind the reasoning, but he just looked more like a George than a Dad to me. Plus, since he wanted to be George Lucas so badly, I figured it was a compliment to refer to him as such. It was never meant in a resentful way for his lack of “fatherhood.” I just didn’t see him in that way. I didn’t go to him for all the serious, parent stuff. Neither did Ray. That was always Mom’s department. Now I can see why she felt like she was doing the job alone.

I think it hit George even harder that he actually hadn’t noticed me calling him George in all these years. It’s not like I would do it behind his back.

He sighed. There was a long silence.

Ray and I exchanged worried glances. I don’t know how much of it he had heard or understood, but he looked upset. We hurriedly finished loading the dishwasher and snuck out the back door of the kitchen through the patio so our parents wouldn’t know we had heard all of that.

That evening, I was rushing through some pre-algebra homework so I could watch TV before going to sleep. With only two weeks left of junior high school, I had already mentally started my summer.

As I was frantically packing up my backpack to catch The Real World at 10 p.m., there was a soft knock on my door. George opened it before I granted him access.

“Hey, Ami,” he said with a smile. “You need any help with homework?”

Well, this was already unusual. At this time of night, George would be in his study reading or watching the news before bed. The only time he would come knock on my door was to see if I wanted to watch A New Hope with him (that was the least boring of the six).

I found his shallow attempt at an overnight fatherhood a bit offensive. I shot him a puzzled look. “I’m all set. Thanks, Father of the Year.” I rolled my eyes.

He sat down on my bed. “I deserve that.”

I turned on the TV just as the opening credits began rolling. “You don’t have to do this, George. You don’t have to come in here tonight and have a heart-to-heart. It’s not that big of a deal if you’re not here much. We still love you.”

I tried to be reassuring in the quickest way possible so he would leave and I could watch my show.

Luckily, George wasn’t looking for a father-daughter chat tonight either. He wasn’t too good at expressing his emotions, and I wasn’t comfortable sharing mine with him.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know, I’m off work tomorrow,” he announced.

“On a Wednesday?” I gasped. George usually works six days a week, with only Sundays off. He runs his own business, but he runs it like an army commander. He has always stressed the importance of committed business practice.

“Yes, on a Wednesday. Your mother needs a day off, too. I’m going to take you guys to school tomorrow and pick you up. Then I thought we could all go out to dinner and spend some time together,” he said quickly and excitedly, like a child talking about a new toy.

I didn’t take my eyes off the TV. “Uhhhh, OK, sounds great.”

I knew what he was trying to do. Spend some time with us for a day and then make up for all those years of lost time. We would be best friends by the end of the day, and then he would go back to work on Thursday and everything would resume normally. He would have these epiphanies about once every six months and that’s usually when we would take day trips to the mountains or something. Tomorrow, I’m sure, would be no different.