I'm Baaaaaack!

     In general, life, for most people, is always getting in the way of what they really want to do. Consequently, I let little things, usually unimportant, stop me from writing this blog. Never mind the fact I don't have a readership that demands it. I mean, let's face it, four followers aren't a lot. I'm working on improving that. Well, I did have one reader who asked me why I wasn't doing it, and I need to start again. She likes it, she likes it. Ironically, it came the day after I had been on the blog thinking about starting to write it again. And, using that sign from the heavens as encouragement, (asking me why I wasn't doing it - right after I was thinking about it - is a sign, isn't it?), I've decided to write a least once a week, perhaps more. There are a few things that need setting straight and I hardly know where to begin. 

    First let me talk about my grandson, Joshua, the one who used his newly found money (from under the self check out registers at the grocery store - he always finds some) to buy a poppy last Memorial day. That grandson. He and I were in a grocery store recently (he's 9 years old) and we were checking out the snack aisle. Grandma wanted us to get some snacks for a day trip to Death Valley. We always take some snacks on any kind of road trip. It sure beats paying the high prices in the convenience stores that are on the way, they are called convenience stores, not inexpensive stores, for a reason. Having snacks is a good distraction from "are we there yet?" to just say, "here, eat a peanut butter cookie", or whatever you have. I digress - by now you are aware I'm good at that - anyway, there we were in the snack aisle and I suggest we get some Doritos. Doritos, which, along with bacon, I consider a food group, are Mother Nature's gift to me for being a good steward of the land. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

      I said, "let's get some Doritos".

     Joshua, said "Okay, but let's get Cool Ranch flavor."

     Me, being a nachos cheese and original flavor kind of guy, said, "Why? Do they taste better?"

     "No", he said, "but you won't get the orange stuff on your fingers and Mom won't know when you've been in 'em."

     There we were, eating our Cool Ranch Doritos, when we went right through Beatty, Nevada, Gateway to Death Valley, without stopping to gas up. I knew there weren't a lot of opportunities to get gas in Death Valley, and a few miles out of town considered turning around to go back, but we were running late. There were a few stops we wanted to make and time was getting short. I figured it would be more expensive, hence my reason for wanting to fill up in Beatty, but reasoned how bad could it be? 

     So, we pressed on to Rhyolite, an absolutely great ghost town while my kids were growing up, but now a mere shell of itself. All the buildings are roped off for the most part, especially the interesting ones, like the train station with forbidding signs that say things like, 'danger' and 'contaminated'. There were massive fences all locked up, around those buildings, and I guess it's just another example of the Nanny State protecting themselves or us, although, I can never figure out who they are trying to protect. 

     We tooled around to different places, (wonderful places, I might add) and finally got to Furnace Creek. It was a pretty hot day (February and it was already 90 degrees) so we decided to stop and get gas before we went on to check out the 20 Mule Team Borax wagon, which has wooden wheels, wrapped in iron, that are taller than I am.  Which is almost as good as stopping in Iowa where they have the world's largest ball of string. Maybe better. 

     As I pulled into the station I was hit with the biggest case of sticker shock since the gas crisis of 1973. Gas in Las Vegas before I left was $3.56 a gallon. Gas in Furnace Creek? $5.78 per gallon for Regular; the high test stuff was $6.08. It was outrageous. 

     I said, "I won't pay it. That's GOUGING. That's HIGHWAY ROBBERY". I used capital letters when I said it, too, if you get my drift, plus probably a few words my grandson had not heard before - then again, he is in third grade and I heard some pretty salty language last time I was with him on the school playground. 

     Then my lovely wife, Kathy, and much more calm in these types of situations, although she has her own moments too, simply said, "Roy, they call it Death Valley for a reason. And it's about two hundred miles before we get gas again, unless we go to Beatty now and then come back. But, by then, we'd miss Scotty's Castle, so we may as well leave now." 

     I looked in the mirror, into the eyes of my grandson sitting in the back seat, who said nothing, but his eyes said it all. He knew I was going to buy the gas, Kathy knew I was going to buy the gas, and at that moment so did I. But I did it reluctantly, understand? All the while mumbling about being gouged, and them having a captive audience. The signs all over saying last gas for 110 miles didn't help my mood either. All because I missed topping off the tank in Beatty. 

     I guess in thinking back over everything, I knew the circumstances when we left, and I have no one to blame but me. Even though I do harbor black thoughts about the ownership of the gas station who use their situation to take advantage of people. And that's something that needs set straight.