Last weekend, we visited Portland, Oregon. Rich attended a fireworks certification class so he can retain his Oregon Pyrotechnician license. He’ll be firing a show for the Portland Rose Festival in late May to fulfill the other requirements of the license.

Meanwhile, I visited my mother in Sherwood, Oregon.. She’d recently hurt her leg and needed help with housecleaning, grocery shopping, laundry, and other tasks. We had an enjoyable lunch at Sushi Land and that evening, Rich joined us at the Sherwood McMenniman’s, a community tavern where Rich and I initially met after corresponding for a few weeks on Matchmaker.com.

Sunday morning, we headed to southeast to Milwaukie (SE Portland) to purchase Dave’s Killer Bread at their bakery/store. After serving 15 years in prison, "Dave," decided to start making outrageously nutritious and tasty breads. Today, he offers over a dozen breads, cookies, and a wickedly delicious cinnamon roll called a Killer Sin Dawg. 

The problem with the breads is that once you’ve eaten them, other breads are… boring. His breads are liberally sprinkled with a variety of seeds and made with whole grains.

At any rate, we planned on purchasing a dozen breads, giving nine to Rich’s son, Chris, and keeping three four ourselves… along with a Killer Sin Dawg, and a Peace Bomb Mini-Baguette.

On the way to the bakery, Rich drove through Milwaukie and areas of southeast Portland where he used to live. He also stopped at the Historical Broetje House, where we got married in September 2002. The house was originally owned by a horticulturist who had lavish plantings, including towering Sequoia Redwoods. Above is the front of the house along with its water tower.

The next photo is part of the garden. Towards the back is a white gazebo where we exchanged vows. I had Rich pose in the gazebo to re-enact the event. He looked much more dashing during our wedding in a black tuxedo with a ivory rose boutonniere.

I’d also decorated the gazebo with ivory and floral patterned ribbons, ivory toile, and ivory and moss green flowers.

The guest sat on white chairs on the lawn. A bagpiper (Rich is half Scotch) played as we walked from the bed and breakfast portion of the Broetje House to the gazebo.

Afterwards, we greeted guests in the reception area before we proceeded to the ornate banquet room.

It was fabulous to once again walk around the Broetje House and remember our special day.

New Year’s Eve
I’m writing on Sputnik, my new Lenovo netbook running Windows 7 and Office 2007, while Rich’s reads the newspaper and perpetually comments on articles. He’s ranting about how terrorists are missing an opportunity to blow themselves up inside airports. Why sew explosive filled maxi-pads in your underwear when you can skip the lines and nail everyone waiting to check in?

We’re both suffering from cabin fever.

It’s New Year’s Eve and we’re in our motor home at Larrabee State Park near Bellingham, more precisely, near Chuckanut Bay. Joining us in our isolation, for there is only one other camper in sight, is Jujube the Brat and Zephyra the Sweetheart.

It hasn’t stopped raining since we’ve arrived. So instead of taking a long walk along the beach and exhausting ourselves, we’ve been cooped up for hours listening to the rain hitting the top of our aluminum penitentiary. It sounds like water popping in a pan of hot fat. Pop. Pop. POP!

We’ve completed several courses… starting with roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s around noon then coffee and German chocolate cake as we waited for the rain to cease. It never did. We then eased into dinner, starting with hunks of multi-grain baguette dipped in chopped garlic, fresh ground pepper, and seasoned olive oil.

Dinner was tikka masala (Indian curry) over rice. Last night, I boiled cubed red potatoes and carrots and placed them in a storage container with slightly cooked fresh string beans. I then poured chunks of chicken that had been cooked in masala sauce (from Costco) over the vegetables. Half an hour ago, I plopped some rice on a Chinete paper plate, plunked the vegetables, chicken and sauce over it and tossed it into the microwave.

We complemented this “elegant” meal, served on “fine china,” with Fetzer Gewurztraminer (vintage $6.99) in crystal wine glasses from our wedding. You occasionally gotta’ splurge!

Dessert, so far, has been Halloween-colored M&Ms along with a Reese’s peanut butter Christmas tree (purchased by Rich, a few days after Halloween and Christmas at 50% off).

Pop. Pop. POP! The rain continues.

At least, the cats are happily sleeping.

Since there are a few hours remaining before the end of this decade, we thought it would be fun to document a few remembrances from the past ten years, actually nine years because Rich and I didn’t meet until February 1, 2001.

• Sold three houses: Sherwood and Tualatin, Oregon and Round Rock, Texas
• Bought three houses and piece of property: Round Rock, Texas, Mount Vernon and Kirkland, Washington, and Anacortes, Washington (property)
• I had four jobs: Bernhardt Agency, Intel (Ace Communications), Dell, and Microsoft
• Rich had two jobs: BIOS Engineer and Linux Advisory Engineer at IBM
• Three of my six cats – Pu’Yi, Goldakevtch and Ariel Anne – moved from Oregon to Texas then back to the Pacific Northwest. Micheko, Calamity Jane, and Mongojerrie moved to Texas, but were put to sleep over the course of four years because of age-related issues. Zephyra and Lunetta were deposited at our house in Texas when they were kittens, and Jujube who was plucked from a box of eight kittens at a block party in Texas. All three moved to Washington. Finally, Scoundrel was a feral tortoiseshell that showed up at our Texas house when she was a kitten and mysteriously disappeared two years later when we were on vacation.
• We’ve had several cars: Gold Plymouth Voyager and red Toyota Corolla (both sold in Oregon), red Honda CRV (still have), red Honda FIT (bought in 2007), red Honda Insight (bought in 2009), teal Dodge Dakota truck (still have), silver KIA Sephia (demolished in a car accident)
• I was in a major car accident and fractured my pelvis in four places and cracked ribs; outside of this challenge, I’ve remained healthy, except for seemingly perpetual dental challenges from cracked teeth to removal of impacted wisdom teeth
• Rich managed to remain healthy except for declining hearing, vision, and receding gums
• My eyesight has barely changed
• Rich now wears bifocals after years of denial… “Is that a stop or yield sign ahead?”
• Rich saw the light and went from being non-political to making CNN Politics his home browser page
• Rich continues to do home improvement projects to justify buying more tools, which now include a spray painter, power washer, table saw, router, tile saw, battery-powered saws, pole saw, nail guns, chipper/shredder, riding lawn mower, utility trailer, and innumerable hand tools
• I’ve bought a sewing machine and taken up beading, which has been an excuse to buy bins of beads and tools

New Year’s Day
Rich and I really whooped it up for the New Years and managed to stay awake until 10 p.m. We fell asleep with the rain noisily falling on the motor home, but were cozy warm with flannel sheets, two blankets, a bedspread, an unzipped 1950’s era sleeping bag, and two cats at our feet. I dreamed that several drunks in a hopped up truck crashed into our motor home, but it was only the wind.

In the wee hours of the morning, Jujube decided to start whining. Rich claimed that he could smell predators outside and was reacting accordingly. Jujube continued to howl and whine throughout the rest of the night and morning! 

Happily, the rain stopped on New Year’s Day and we were able to walk around Larrabee State Park along with hike to Fragrance Lake. The only thing fragrant about the lake was that it was two miles straight up hill (1,000-foot climb) and my pits were odoriferous afterwards! Plus, we started late in the day and made it back to the motor home, half an hour before the sunset and the rain started to fall again.

Continuing our traditional of “fine dining” when camping, we had spaghetti sauce that I’d made earlier in the week over pasta along with the rest of a baguette dipped in olive oil, garlic and fresh ground pepper. We also had salad, the rest of the Gewurztraminer, and some more German chocolate cake. As I finish writing this article, it just occurred to me that we left the German chocolate cake in the motor home. I had put it in the oven so it won’t slide around while we we’re driving. Damn!

The pictures above were taken during our New Year’s trip. I took the one above by holding the camera in front of my face… pretty impressive self-portrait! Yes! It was cold, damp, and drippy! Welcome to Washington in the winter.

The last few months of 2009 have felt like Rupunzel rapidly lowering her hair so 2010 could climb up. Early last week, we decided to slow the decent of her hair by spending a few days in the wilderness, away from television, telephones, newspapers, and other distractions.

On Wednesday afternoon, we cobbled together a menu and sprinted to the grocery store. Having caught Rich’s cold, and in no mood to cook, Rich took over menu planning and settled on making his “famous” macaroni and cheese with eggs, milk, two types of cheese, and elbow macaroni. He also made stewed tomatoes with onions and lots of garlic.

I focused my energies on making popcorn balls for birds (see blog below) and chocolate cupcakes with homemade pink peppermint icing that contained ground up candy canes. For lunches, we opted for wraps with rosemary-flavored tortillas, chicken, tomatoes, spinach, bell peppers, red onions, and chipotle sauce.

Thursday morning, we gathered up our warm clothes, packed enough food for a few days, grabbed a stack of magazines, and loaded two cats into the car. It took less than an hour to load the motor home, which we keep in Mount Vernon, and then drive north to Birch Bay State Park, about fifty miles from the Canadian border. Because it was Christmas eve and very cold outside, we had our pick of spots. During the two days we were there, we saw only four other trailers/RVs and a young, brave couple who were towing their camping gear behind their bikes.

The solitude was welcome.

Normally, Birch Bay is packed with people during the warmer months. Along with receiving 25% less rain than neighboring Bellingham, the large bay buffers the waves from the Puget Sound, making it more like a lake than an inlet with strong currents and breaking waves. The calm waters and extensive shoreline makes it ideal for beachcombing, fishing, kayaking, sailing, and swimming, along with crabbing and clamming.

After picking a spot to camp and plugging in the electric, we made a quick lunch then hit the beach. I felt like Randy in “A Christmas Story” with leather hiking boots, long-sleeve tee-shirt, heavy wool sweater, jacket, scarf, gloves, and a double-layer hat with ear flaps. Rich was dressed similarly.

Even with heavy clothing, I wasn’t particularly warm. It was so cold! Nevertheless, there were quite a few people on the beach, taking group pictures, chatting with relatives that arrived for the holiday, and enjoying the snow-capped mountains and setting sun.

People were also amused by an obstinate blue heron that was ankle deep in a little lagoon that formed when the tide receded. We saw the heron from a distance. As we walked closer, he didn’t move an inch. We then walked past it, dawdled on the beach then turned around and went back. The heron had hardly moved. Rich tried to coax it closer to the shore by tempting him with one of my popcorn balls, but the heron remained indifferent.

Using our binoculars, we could see the cascade of thin, blue gray feathers on his chest and ends of his wings. I suspect he was an older bird who’d seen its share of humans and wasn’t concerned by their presence. Of course, we forgot to bring a camera. The tranquil heron against the orange sunset would have made a spectacular picture.

We walked along the beach, collecting shells and rocks until the light started to fade then scurried back to the motor home to read and make dinner. The cats were happy to see us, elaborating on the hardships of being in the motor home. Both of them had hid under the blankets on the bed during the drive to Birch Bay.

Christmas morning, we once again donned layers of clothes and set out to explore the area. The temperatures had dipped overnight and everything was covered with frost. It felt strange to see the beach covered with frost and feel the ice crunch under our feet. The sun occasionally peaked out from under a layer of gray clouds, but barely melted the frost.

In the morning, we walked towards the town, passed quaint beachfront cottages and multi-story vacation homes and condominiums. I was expecting to see people in their living rooms celebrating Christmas, but we scarcely saw anyone. It reaffirmed my original conclusion that Birch Bay doesn’t energized until the weather turns warm.

After lunch, we walked the opposite direction, ending up in a neighborhood with huge houses – most were locked up with no cars or people in sight.

Having walked around ten miles on Christmas day, we were happy to get back to the motor home for a festive dinner of mixed greens with pear, pomegranate seeds, and black pepper cheese along with macaroni ‘n cheese, stewed tomatoes, and chocolate cupcakes with peppermint icing.

Prior to visiting Los Angeles in last fall, I decided to erase preconceptions I had of Los Angeles and see it with “new” eyes. Even though I had been born in Glendale and raised in Whittier and Tarzana (San Fernando Valley), I’d seen relatively little of Los Angeles. My father was a workaholic. He owned a garment factory in downtown Los Angeles called Dori-Ann. The name was comprised of my mother’s first name, Doris, and my middle name, Ann.

On most Saturday, until I was nine years old, I went to my father’s factory. On Sundays, we did yard work and errands. Occasionally, we went camping, sightseeing or visited California beaches. My father enjoyed driving, camping and outdoor activities, the outcome of having become an Eagle Scout. I remember going to Las Vegas, Yosemite, Big Bear, Palm Springs, and other picturesque spots.

After my father died, my mother preferred to stay at home and avoid crowds and frenetic Southern California highways. The few times we went to the beach were to go deep-sea fishing. My mother’s lover ran a summer camp in Mammoth, a Southern California ski resort. It was our usually summer vacation spot along with Petaluma where one of her friends lived. My father’s sister took us to Knott’s Berry Farm at least once a year. I didn’t go to Disneyland until I was in my teens and it was at night during a Los Angeles Police Department event for which my mother was a volunteer.

When I got my driver’s license, the furthest I drove was down Ventura Boulevard to my part-time job at Pioneer Chicken in Woodland Hills. I was never encouraged to hangout with friends so when most teenagers were cruising with friends, I was either serving chicken, babysitting or doing “stuff” with my mother and grandparents.

The summer before my senior year, my mother, brother and I moved to Oregon. My memories of Los Angeles were limited and for the most part, not positive. I recalled the traffic, persistent smog that gave me a headache, the grimy garment district in downtown Los Angeles, crazy Ventura Boulevard, Mount Sinai Memorial in Burbank where my father is buried, and long, hot summers.

After moving to Oregon, most of my visits to Los Angeles were to Burbank to see my grandparent’s or the “Valley.” When Rich and I started to visit Los Angeles to see his brother in Anaheim and some of my relatives in Northridge, I decided to drop my prejudices and start appreciating my hometown or more appropriately, home metropolis.

Last October, Rich and I drove from one end of Los Angles to the other, from Anaheim to Woodland Hills then San Pedro to Northridge, and finally Buena Park, before heading east to Bullhead City, Arizona. We pass through downtown several times, which were comfortably familiar, yet foreign. Areas had been gentrified, large complexes added, and landmarks turned into tourist spots.

I remembered that my father’s factory was on Santee Street. I typed the street into Bing Maps and zoomed in using the aerial views, but nothing looked familiar. I remembered that his factory was a large building at the end of a dead-end street and fairly close to the freeway. Santee Street, however, stops and starts several times as it slices across the garment district.  

Searching through my papers, I found the actual address – 743 Santee Street – and was shocked to discover that the ratty, un-air-conditioned building (top) along with two other neighboring buildings had been turned into 165 loft apartments, 280 loft condos, and 68,000 square feet of ground-floor retail space called Santee Village (below). The residences range from 700-square-foot studios (priced in the mid $300,00s) to 2,000-square-foot penthouses (priced in the mid $700,000s) with 10-14 foot high ceilings, polished concrete floors, oversized historical industrial windows, and modern amenities like stainless steel Bosch appliances, and Italian-style kitchen and bathroom cabinetry. 

The images to the right and below I found on an apartment rental site. It’s hard to believe that someone’s kitchen or bedroom used to be the break and lunch area in my father’s factory!

The complex also has a rooftop swimming pool and spa, basketball court, landscaped courtyard, fitness center, and controlled access parking. As a child, I remember the only exercise associated with the area was stepping around the bums who had fallen sleep in the doorway or climbing up and down the stairs when the elevators broke.

According to propaganda on the buildings, “The $92 million additional investment in the loft conversions from former sweatshops, oops, we mean garment manufacturing buildings, aims to bring back middle-income families who have been priced out of other LA areas.”

Started in 2007, the redevelopment is the largest adaptive reuse development in L.A. The original buildings were built between 1912 and 1926 and were designated as historical structures. Owners qualify for tax savings of up to 70% through the Mills Act for the preservation of historical properties.

Looking at an aerial view of the area, I can point out the parking lot where we parked on Saturdays. Around the corner was a small deli with sticky booths, white Formica tables, and glaring florescent lights where we occasionally ate breakfast. I would schmear my warm bagel or Kaiser roll with soft butter and several packages of strawberry or grape jelly. Cattycorner to 743 Santee Street was a hole-in-wall snack bar that served the latest junk food and beverages. If we were good, my brother and I were allowed to go downstairs and buy cups of hot chocolate.

The lobby of 743 Santee Street had cracked marble floors and walls with rows of small brass mailboxes for the tenants. A brass button, made shiny by years of use, signaled the two freight-sized elevators that rattled and shock as they went up-and-down. The building always smelled like machine oil and lint. In the summer, the oppressive heat combined with the smells made me woozy.

My father’s factory took up half of the third (I think) floor. It was a rectangular space with my father’s office and the inspection tables towards the front. There were three or four “pressers” who ironed garments using large steam presses that resembled iron boards. They’d place a sleeve or skirt on the bottom “board” then pull down the second board. Bursts of steam would spew from the sides of the boards. It was horrible work in the summer, but the pressers who worked for my father were very loyal and stayed for years.

To the right of the pressers were several buttonhole and “trimming” machines. The buttonhole machine may have also sewn on the buttons. Snaps and hooks were sewn by hand. The trimming machine must have had a gentle vacuum that “sucked” in and cut loose threads.

A large part of the factory floor consisted of rows of industrial sewing machines. The only adjustment on these no-nonsense machines was the thread tension and stitch length. They also stitched two to three times faster than consumer machines. The operators claimed that you’re not a real seamstress until you’ve sewn through your finger. It wasn’t hard to do because the needle moved very rapidly and didn’t immediately stop when you took your foot off the presser pedal.

I found this picture, above, of an old Singer sewing machine online. It resembles the machines in my father’s factory with a holder for large bobbins of thread, plate presser foot, exposed wheel for manually lifting the needle or slowly moving it forward and backwards, and a huge engine under the machine. I learned to sew on one of these machines!

After a garment was sewed, the seams were overlocked to prevent them from raveling. I don’t remember the overlock machines, but am sure that my father had several.

At the back of the factory, by the windows, which are now marketed as “oversized historical industrial windows,” was the break and lunch area. It was my job to wash the large tables and straighten up the condiments. I hated the latter. There were jars of yellow, red and green peppers that smelled of vinegar and in my young mind, too nasty-smelling to eat. Even today, I cringe when I see pickled hot peppers.

Near the break room was racks with large spools of thread and boxes of buttons. The spools were around 3-inches high with an inch or more of thread wrapped around the cardboard spool. My heart pitter-patters when I think of the threads. The colors! The crisscross pattern of the thread when woven on the spool. And the musty smell from the lint in the factory!

Because thread was expensive, the secondary or bobbin thread was usually clear nylon. This threads was on very large spools (much like the picture of the sewing machine above) and prone to unwind or tangle very easily. A woven cloth, similar to a sock, was placed over the spool to keep the nylon from unwinding too quickly.

Along the wall, opposite the sewing machines, was a very, very long wooden table that my father built. To understand the purpose of this table, you need to understand how clothing is cut.

My father was a subcontractor to the clothing designer Fred Rothchild. The process started with the designer who created a sketch or prototype of a dress for a specific season or “line.” Pattern makers would then dissect the dress, creating paper patterns for all of the pieces that comprised the dress. A complicated dress might have dozens of pieces if you factor in interfacing, lining, and plackets. The patterns were then revised to create a range of sizes. The patterns were printed on thin paper, much like gift wrapping paper, not flimsy tissue that’s used in consumer patterns for McCall, Vogue or Butterick. This paper also had little symbols and numbers on it, probably to aid “cutters” in laying out the patterns in relationship to the fabric bias, and selvage. 

Fabrics for garments are purchased from fabric brokers. My mother’s brother is a fabric broker and has represented hundreds of lines from laces to wools, chiffons, prints, and double-knit. For the most part, the fabrics that were sewed in my father’s factory were double-knits, synthetic linings, interfacing, and some satin or silk for bows and ties.

Fabrics would come on spools that were up to 36-inches in length. These spools were placed on a contraption that could roll along the length of a looooooog table. A company that specialized in cutting would “roll out” layers of fabric, interfacing, and lining – one on top of each other with tissue paper separating the varying colors and fabrics.

A cutter would then use a saw-like machine (below) to cut through the layers of fabric and the pattern on the top of the pile. Today, machines are used to cut out the layers of fabric. In addition, computers are used today to determine the optimal way to lay-out patterns to create the least waste of fabric (see the lay-out of the pattern above and to the right).

Several different sizes of a garment can be cut using the same layering of fabrics. After the pieces are cut, they’re placed one on top of each other and loaded into a large canvas cart with wheels. These carts would be pushed through the streets and alleys of the Los Angeles garment district to contract manufacturers like my father who bid on sewing and finishing the garments.

My father or on Saturdays, my mother, would wheel a cart full of cut pieces to the long table that my father built. The bundles of fabric would be laid-out. For instance, there would be a stack of sleeves, a stack of fronts, a stack of collars, a stack of cuffs, etc.

Starting at one end of the table, the pieces for a particular size or color would be taken off each stack – usually separated by a piece of tissue paper – then bundled up and tied with a scrap of fabric. A ticket would be added to the stack with the size and number of garments for each size. The bundle would then be placed in another cart for the operators to sew.

For instance, the cut pieces that my father might receive could consist of:

• 4 size two pink dresses, 8 size two blue dresses, and 2 size two yellow dresses
• 6 size four dresses, 10 size two blue dresses, and 3 size two yellow dresses
• 14 size six dresses, 22 size two blue dresses, and 7 size two yellow dresses
• 26 size eight dresses, 34 size two blue dresses, and 13 size two yellow dresses
• 20 size ten dresses, 26 size two blue dresses, and 10 size two yellow dresses
• 16 size twelve dresses, 24 size two blue dresses, and 8 size two yellow dresses
• 6 size fourteen dresses, 8 size two blue dresses, and 3 size two yellow dresses

Each size and each color would be a separate bundle! In addition, the cutter or manufacturer would provide an inventory sheet that you used to ensure you “picked” up the right number of pieces for each size or color.

My “other” job was to sit on a tall stool at the end of the sorting table and fill in the numbers on the tags: Size = 2, Number = 4. I would then hand the tag to my mother or father who would tie up the bundle and have me carry it to a cart. When I got old and stronger, I would tie up the bundles, which were sometime huge if it contained ten or more sets of pieces for one size.

Stay tuned for more details on my father’s garment factory in downtown Los Angeles!

On Saturday, Rich and I, along with two buses of IBMers and their families, journeyed to the Bavarian-themed town of Leavenworth, Washington. The trip had been arranged by the Washington IBM Club, which coordinates social and cultural activities for employees.

The trip had been very well planned and included several surprises. First, there was a goody bag on every bus seat, filled with cheeses, crackers, granola bar, candy, juice, and an IBM luggage tag and koozy (the foam sleeve you place over cans to keep them cold.

In addition, the host held a raffle during the first leg of the trip. Because Rich and I were on the smaller bus that held just 23 passengers, our odds of winning were substantially greater than if we’d been on the larger coach. 

The first name drawn was mine. I won a large milk chocolate Santa. Rich’s name was drawn a few minutes later and he became the recipient of a See’s Candies gift certificate for one pound of chocolate. Yesterday, he promptly exchanged the certificate for a box of dark chocolates. 

The drive to Leavenworth, which is east of Seattle, was a little over two hours. Enough time to read a People magazine then take a quick snooze.

Leavenworth was originally a timber community with the second largest sawmill in the state. It was also the headquarters of the Great North Railroad in the early 1900’s. When the railroad relocated in the 1920’s, the town’s economy followed.  

In 1962, the townsfolk decide to revitalize the town by turning it into a mock Bavarian village. The setting of Leavenworth, in a mountainous valley with snow-capped mountains, helps perpetrate the Teutonic illusion. Almost all of the buildings, including the turn-of-the-century buildings with Western-style facades, are dripping with frescos of people in Lederhosen and dirndls, chalets, coats-of-arms, and other Germanic images, along with ornate woodwork, shutters, planter boxes, and whimsical railings on the balconies and edges of roofs. Even the motels and apartments were turned into pensions, chalets, and villas.

Leavenworth is almost too perfect in its idealized depiction of a Bavarian village. It borders on Disneyland with most of the shops catering to tourists, offering everything from apple strudel to nutcrackers, beer steins, cuckoo clocks, music boxes, cheeses, cured meats, chocolates, clothing, jewelry. and collectibles from around the world.

Rich and I weren’t ideal tourists, purchasing a calzone, slice of pizza and glass of Hefeweizen for lunch, and two brownies and coffee later in the day. We looked, but didn’t buy another else.

We also visited the Nutcracker Museum, which has over 5,000 nutcrackers. I found the museum, history and variety of nutcrackers to be fascinating. They had a metal nutcracker from ancient Rome, along with thousands of traditional nutcrackers that had been carved to resemble characters from Star Wars and Disney cartoons to American founding fathers, Mormon missionaries, Halloween ghosts and vampires, pilgrims, soldiers, dentists, carpenters… actually any character, profession, or celebrity that you can imagine. There were also nutcrackers from around the world, made from ivory, wood, metal, and even porcelain.

If you find yourself in Leavenworth, definitely visit the Nutcracker Museum!

As the light started to fade, the main street filled with people who, like Rich and I, arrived on buses… dozens and dozens of buses. Rich commented that he’d never been in a place with so many people.

Mingling in the crowds were several Santa’s, a Father Christmas in a long green velvet robe with white fur trim, and people in traditional German costumes. In addition, many people wore silly hats. See if you can spot the Santa in the picture to the right.

By the time the lighting ceremony was ready to begin, the street was shoulder-to-shoulder of people, from one of the street to the other. Thousands of people.

The program began with the requisite speeches by the mayor, event organizer, junior and senior beauty queens, and other local VIPs. A group of local musicians then played a dreary Germanic tune, followed by a women who sang Silent Night in both English and German. And that’s when it hit me…

Did hordes of German’s sing Christmas carols while Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, and other deemed undesirables barely survived in concentration camps? Of course they did. The thought brought me to tears. It didn’t matter that the town was truly lovely as thousands of lights wrapped around trees, buildings, and displays were illuminated. I couldn’t push out of my mind the idea of people celebrating when others were suffering.

It was if we were in a Brave New World feelie. Our senses were delighted with the lights, costumes, music, and exhilaration of the crowd singing and being merry. When we left the "theater" and took our seats on the buses back home, we’d realize that nothing was real. And may be we felt a little guilty over the pleasure.

After visiting Tarzana – during our October whirlwind trip to California, Arizona, and Nevada – we headed to San Pedro, which is kissing cousins to Long Beach. Stacey, Rich’s daughter, was staying on a tall ship affiliated with the Los Angeles Martime Institute (LAMI) in San Pedro (below).

Long before Los Angeles became a mecca of millions, navigating through miles of multi-laned bumper-to-bumper traffic, it was an oasis of adobe bungalows, Spanish-inspired, tiled buildings with narrow roads that wove through the foothills through orange groves, eucalyptus trees, and blossoming bougainvillea. The pace was slower. The west coast was new and clean, a haven from the crowded, grimy, tenement- and sweatshop-filled east coast cities.

Annexed in 1909 by the city of Los Angles, San Pedro was a major seaport. A working class neighborhood dominated by fishing. The hills circling the water are dotted with small homes once owned by fishing families that came from the Mediterranean and Adriatic. They established commercial fishing docks and helped turn San Pedro and Terminal Island into the largest fishing industry in the United States with nearly 500 boats and 15 canneries in the 1930’s.

The depleted ocean coupled with work moving offshore to lower-wage countries like American Samoa, Puerto Rico and the Philippines has reduced the size of the San Pedro fishing feet to a few dozen boats. These photographs by Wayne Oberparleiter capture what is left of the once mighty San Pedro fishery.

Location made San Pedro ideal for Navy ships. In 1934, fourteen battleships, two aircraft carriers, fourteen cruisers, and sixteen support ships were based in San Pedro. The charming downtown with tile-roofed two- and three-story buildings soon sported tattoo parlors and other haunts that buoy mariners.

The town and surrounding area seem to have frozen in time. The marinas, once crowded with fishing vessels, are now filled with pleasure boats, many in disrepair, long forgotten by their owners. Rich’s father once had a 45-foot sailboat, called the Pyewacket, moored in one marina now named the Dill Pickle Yacht club.

A short walk from the marinas is Ports O’Call Village, a tourist destination built in 1963, which I remember visiting as a child. At the time, it had quaint New England style shops and restaurants, cobblestone walkways, along with street performers. I recall being delighted with the plantings and had purchased a bouquet of dried straw flowers.

Many of the shops are now closed or rundown. The Los Angeles Board of Harbor, however, recently approved federal funding for the San Pedro Waterfront Project, which includes a network of public promenade and walkways, renovations to the Ports O’ Call Village, and other amenities to support more year-round tourism.

One facet of the area that is strong is the San Pedro Fish Market. In a warehouse-sized space are a dozen or so fish markets with large refrigerated cases and open tanks of fresh and prepared seafood. The variety of fish is extraordinary as is the selection of fried, steamed, and marinated platters of seafood and bowls of ceviche. For twenty dollars you can get a platter of steamed jumbo shrimp with garlic bread, bag of sliced lemons, and condiments. Seating is outdoors or under large canopies with rough wooden benches and tables, and roving seagulls looking for hand-outs. 

We were at the fish market on a Sunday morning. As the sun burned through the fog, the tables at the Fisherman’s Market filled with Hispanic families who’d spread newspapers on the tables to create a “clean” eating area. Young girls in frilly dresses and long, lustrous ebony braids tied with showy satin ribbons darted between the tables, followed by rosy cheeked boys in pressed jeans and boots. One the tables were platters of seafood and pitchers of beer. The mood was festive with grandparents doting on grandchildren, young parents with babies in their arms, and older people enjoying the food and mariachi music. Stacey, whose boat is docked within eye- and earshot of the market, said that the music plays until the wee hours on Friday and Saturday evenings.

There are also traditional restaurants in the area. We ate on the patio of the Acapulco Mexican Restaurant and Cantina, where were could see the Vincent Thomas Bridge, which connects San Pedro to Terminal Island and directs your eye to the massive container and cruise ship facilities in the area. I took quite a few photographs of Stacey’s ship and the other sites. Here’s an online gallery, which shows the breadth of the San Pedro maritime industry.

The Port of Los Angeles World Cruise Center in San Pedro hosts numerous major cruise lines, including Celebrity, Costa, Crystal, Cunard, Disney, Holland America, Norwegian, Princess, Oceana, Regent Seven Seas, Royal Caribbean, and Catalina Express. Carnival Cruise Lines depart from the neighboring Long Beach.

Just for fun, I looked at the cruise calendar. There are forty-one cruises to Mexico in December, ranging from three to twelve nights. The least expensive is an inside room on a three-day Carnival cruise for $149. The twelve-night Royal Caribbean “Christmas” cruise costs $4,049 per person.

In a sense, the cruise ships, shipping facilities, and traffic that streamed across the Vincent Thomas Bridge seemed like a mirage that clashed with the rest of San Pedro. The town remains picturesque with walkways lined with bottlebrush (left), adobe and brick buildings, tidy bungalows nestled in a bowl around the harbors, ethnic population, and the return of the historical Waterfront Red Car Line. If you squint your eyes, you can see the Los Angeles of yesteryear.

The day after my high school reunion in late October, we zipped to my old digs in Tarzana (San Fernando Valley).

My father had followed his father in business, opening as garment factory in downtown Los Angeles on Santee Street, the heart of the garment district. His factory was called Doriann, a combination of my mother’s first name (Doris) and my middle name (Ann). Five days a week, he left early in the morning to miss the traffic and oversee the operation of his factory, which made dresses for Fred Rothchild, a designer and manufacturer of high-end women’s dresses and suits.

It was the era of polyester. Amazingly, you can occasionally find Fred Rothchild dresses for sale online, such as the dress to the right. My father contracted to make a similar dress. The top half of the sleeveless dress was white with a lime green, orange or pink drop waist skirt. The large sailor collar matched the color of the skirt and was finished with a patterned tie in a range of psychedelic patterns and collars. I still have several dozen scarves and ties from my father’s factory.

When I was eight and my brother ten, my parents purchased a quarter-acre lot in Tarzana on Shenango Drive (four miles south of Venture Boulevard, off Vanalden Drive) with a view of the Braemer golf course (below). At the time, there weren’t many houses in the area and at night you could hear the coyotes howling in the hills. Being Southern California, my neighborhood was also the home of rattle and garter snakes, horny toads, rabbits, gophers, roadrunners, and an occasional deer or bobcat.

My parents built a sprawling four bedroom, four bathroom ranch house (below) with the latest gizmos and amenities, including an indoor char broiler, built in osterizer, huge walk-in closets, wood paneling, and 100% wool, live green shag carpeting.

They hired a Japanese gardener to landscape, using mature bonsai bushes and trees along with attractive foliage that needed little water. My parents were big on conservation and gardening. On both sides of the house were areas to plant vegetables and herbs.

A year after the house was finished, my father died of a heart attack. He was fifty.

Following my father’s death, my mother reached a new level of paranoia and not only put bars on the windows, but installed a home-made burglar alarm that worked sporadically. She also had heavy metal posts cemented into the ground from which were stretched heavy chains to prevent drivers from turning around in our circular driveway. Adding to the glory was my mother’s sharp tongue and intolerance for most people and tasks – from carpooling kids to school once a week to cleaning and cooking.

Nevertheless, the location of our house presented many opportunities to find and sell golf balls to good-natured golfers, race across the golf course on our bikes (infuriating the golfers), buy junk food at the course’s food shacks, and hike in the surrounding hills (and get poison oak).

It also exposed me to people in the movie industry. The Moders lived towards the top of Shenango Drive. Mike Moder was the director or production manager of dozens of movies and TV series, such as Little Big Man, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, Matlock and Perry Mason. He and his wife, Patty, had five kids.

Jane Moder was the same age as me. Her older sister, Debbie, married Steve Stone (or was it Jeff) who lived at the very top of the street. John was a few years younger than Jane. He gashed open his face when he attempted to ride his bicycle down one of the drainage culverts cut in the hill opposite the golf course. Jyl was the youngest girl. Like Jane, she was a bit of a tomboy, slender with light blonde hair and freckles. Danny, who married Julie Roberts, was the youngest. My first recollection of Danny was him running down the street in his diapers.

Next door to us lived DeeDee Copeland who was the sister of actor, Bill Barty. DeeDee was a stewardess (before the advent of “flight attendants”) with two rambunctious Labrador Retrievers who I used to pet-sit. I also helped serve food at several of her parties. At one of these gatherings, a famous astronaut attended. I have his autograph… somewhere.

Across the street (below) were the Rices’ – Joey, Wayne, Darrell, Babe, and Denice. Wayne, who was a year older than me, hung out with several Taft High School football players. Scott Blakeley was one of them; he drove a very cool, custom-painted blue Corvette. I was enthralled with the car and spent many hours staring out it from my barred window. Actually, I was hoping that Vince Pone, another football player, would grace the street.

All of the Rice “boys” were popular, personable, tanned, and primed for success. Joey Rice supposedly grew up to be the agent for Robert Englund (a.k.a. Freddie Krueger). Wayne is the producer of “Dude, Where’s my Car?, Chasing Liberty, and other flicks. Denise writes screenplays. And their father, Alan, is also a producer.

My mother was good friends with the Vlahos who lived a few houses away on Vanalden Drive. Petro and his son, Paul won an Oscar for Blue Screen Compositing Technology. Prior to their invention it was challenging to blend together an image shot on a blue screen with a stationary or moving background, such as people in a moving car or flowing hair.

Down the street from the Vlahos was the Manner family. Several times, Kim Manners, who was in his late teens, early twenties at the time, would drive me to my ballet lessons when my mother was out-of-town. He had a cool Mustang. Kim grew up to produce and direct the X-Files. His father, Sam, was also a director for TV shows like The Wild Wild West and Route 66.

I just read that Kim died in January from lung cancer. Hard to believe. In a sense, my childhood of growing up around movie people is also hard to believe. My “Valley Girl” accent has long faded away. I prefer the cloudy Pacific Northwest to sunny Southern California. Instead of longing for the latest fashion I prefer “gently reused” clothes from the Bellevue Goodwill. As Thomas Wolfe wrote, "you can’t go home again."

A few weeks ago, I attended my high school reunion. No, I’m not going to reveal the year. Many people who attended William Howard Taft High School in Woodland Hills, including myself, also went to Wilbur Avenue Elementary School and Gaspar de Portola Junior High School in Tarzana (named after Edgar Rice Burroughs who lived in the area and introduced the civilized world to Tarzan of the Apes).

The summer before my senior year, however, I moved to Oregon and completed my final year at Beaverton High School in Beaverton, Oregon. As the years passed I longed to know what happened to the people I knew from first through eleventh grade. When the reunion was announced, I wrote to the organizer, asking whether I could attend. His response was “Yes.”

A month or two before the reunion, I pulled my eleventh grade album off the shelf and flipped through the pages; I was surprised at how few faces I recognized. The people who seemed so important to me decades earlier were now simply pictures of strangers. Even though Rich had purchased the tickets for the reunion, I wondered whether we should go.

I was so on the fence that I never bothered to buy a “cocktail” dress for the upscale event that was going to be held at the Woodland Hills Country Club. Instead, I wore an outfit I’d bought in Texas (probably at Ross or Marshalls); black silk pants with a red silk jacket with black and gold oriental symbols, mandarin collar and red frog closures. I added sassy black shoes and chandelier earrings with red rhinestones.

For Rich, I chose black slacks, navy blue checked dress shirt with blue and black patterned tie. He looked very dashing.

Our trip started at 3:30 a.m. on Saturday morning when we caught a 6 a.m. flight to Las Vegas. After loading our luggage in a rented Suzuki Firenza, we grabbed a bag of pretzels and drinks at a 7-Eleven then drove to Anaheim, California to see Rich’s step-brother, Ralph. On the way, we stopped at Carl Jrs for Santa Fe Chicken sandwiches (wickedly good with charbroiled chicken, green chili, cheese, and gooey sauce).

We luckily encountered little traffic and were zipping by Knotts Berry Farm (Anaheim) around 1:30. Rich had plotted out the entire trip, assigning times for when he expected to reach each destination. He was only off by half an hour. After a quick visit with Ralph, we aimed for the freeway and speed to “the Valley.”

By the time we got to our motel, we were both tired from the early flight, long drive, and pelting California sun. I continued to have doubts about the reunion. Nevertheless, once we got into our “dress-up” clothes, we were eager to go and more importantly, quite hungry. We arrived early. Once we had our “memory” pictures taken, we awkwardly stood in the nearly empty banquet room, waiting for others to arrive. Every time someone walked by, Rich asked, “Do you know him or her?”

“No.”

There were an occasional “yes,” but for the most part, the faces I knew from elementary through high school were indistinguishable. It occurred to me that I’d done little with these people outside of attending class. By the time I’d reached high school, my spare time was spent babysitting, working at Pioneer Chicken, cooking, cleaning, gardening, and doing “stuff” with my mother. The latter felt my school work and social life were secondary to her needs. And I was too beaten down to rebel.

I’d missed out on high school, and now, I naively believed I’d be recognized and embraced by my peers. I was an outcast then and remained an outcast that evening. I was determined, however, to delve into these strangers’ lives. I was convinced that they’d been commendably successful in their careers and personal lives. It was shocking to learn that Jay, who graduated with honors, was now selling first aid supplies in Reseda. Marc was a car salesman in San Diego and Karen a receptionist in a law office.

No doubt, the people who came to the reunion were a fraction of the nearly thousand who were in the graduating class. And most of those who came still live in California… and have a southern California attitude and physique. Many of the women were dressed in short, black cocktail dresses with strappy sandals, and long flowing hair – more brunettes than blondes. A surprising number came in groups or by themselves. One woman inquired about Rich thinking her was a friend rather than my husband. I wish I’d responded that he was simply hired for the night. I would have enjoyed seeing her response.

When one woman walked towards the more brightly light bar in the ballroom, there was no mistaking what she was wearing underneath. A while later, Rich turned to me and remarked, “I think I can see that woman’s belly button.” He wasn’t exaggerating. Her black sheath was almost sheer, except for a patterned area across her chest and around her hips.

To their credit, or perhaps self-control, most of the women hadn’t gained a pound since high school. Some may have lost weight! Squinted my eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine that I was at a high school prom. Throughout the evening, people sang bad karaoke while groups of women and a handful of coupled danced. Others bounced from table-to-table, excitedly talking and gesturing.

The mediocre food further reinforced the prom atmosphere. On banquet tables were rows of steamer pans of overcooked broccoli, unseasoned carrots, lumpy mashed potatoes, cold poached salmon that was supposed to be hot, and sinewy slices of nondescript beef. Dessert was a table of cookies, brownies, and other pastries, fresh from the grocery store to the Woodland Hills Country Club.

We didn’t stay more than a few hours. It was apparent that I no longer had anything in common with these people. As we left, we paid $10 for two memory key chains, which contained teeny photographs of us.

I didn’t bother to take other pictures. The memory of the evening will linger in my mind for a year or two then drift away like most of my school years.

Last Tuesday, after spending four whirlwind days visiting family and friends in California (Anaheim, San Pedro, Woodland Hills, and Northridge) and Arizona (Bullhead City), Rich and I zipped to Las Vegas for a day of debauchery. Keep in mind, debauchery can be as innocent as departing from ones usually modis operates. 

Where we stayed –a “resort” room at the Planet Hollywood Resort and Casino – was a huge departure from our usually lumpy mattress and threadbare towels at a Motel 6, Red Roof or EconLodge. Rich had originally reserved a room at New York New York through Priceline. A few days before our trip, however, he realized that he’d booked the room on the wrong date. Fortunately, he was able to cancel the reservation and get a room at Planet Hollywood.

Unfamiliar with the hotel and too cheap to use valet parking, we found a spot in the garage by the Miracle Mile Shops then dragged our bags through the shopping center to the hotel. It was a relief to quickly check-in, take the elevator to the 12th floor then slip the magnetic room key into the lock…

My initial reaction was “there’s no bed.” Of course, there was a bed (above). I simply needed to journey through the outlandishly large hallway, past the bathroom to the bedroom. The king-sized bed was very inviting with four pillows and soft linens.

Each room at Planet Hollywood features props and photographs from a movie. In our room were the trappings from the Medicine Man, starring Sean Connery (right). Ironically, Rich is half Scottish and in my humble opinion, looks like Connery. Check out the photo to below. They could be brothers!

While I wasn’t armored with the room’s color scheme – dark wood, goldenrod and off-white wallpaper, black marble, mirrored tabletops, and purple bath towels – I was thrilled with the funky furniture, red lamps, huge bathroom with two sinks, large shower, and soaking tub, and unblocked view of the strip. I took pictures galore!

Wanting to take advantages of all of the amenities of the hotel, we stripped off our clothes (doesn’t that sound provocative), pulled on our bathing suits and scurried to the swimming pool on the sixth floor. The water was cold. Or maybe we were simply too tired to swim. After a few pathetic laps across the pool, we migrated to the hot tub where a man who lives in Kirkland, Washington gave us the scoop on the Microsoft SharePoint Convention that was taking place that week. He was thrilled with the new features and talked endlessly about the wonders of Microsoft software.

“Gotta’ go and hit the strip,” offered Rich after chatting for a few minutes.

We hustled back to our room and rinsed off in the double-wide shower, using the sample of snazzy shampoo that was on the counter. Refreshed, we headed for the Miracle Mile Shops, which according to Wikipedia has more than 140 stores and 15 restaurants and is 1.5 miles long! Wikipedia also explains why Rich and I found the mall, Planet Hollywood casino, and hotel to be out-of-whack. The hotel used to be the Aladdin and the mile of shops was originally the Desert Passage, complete with an ocean liner called the "Desert Passage" (below). I’d rationalized that the Moroccan motif inside represented a Hollywood set.

When Planet Hollywood took over the Aladdin in 2003, they attempted to incorporate a “Los Angeles” theme. I think they missed the mark. The casino and hotel is a strange mixture of mirrors, crystal-encrusted lights, dull psychedelic patterned wallpaper, and dreadful earth tones. Plus, it’s super noisy and claustrophobic!

They did, however, successfully capture the promiscuity of L.A. In the center of the casino is the Pleasure Pit where scantily clad chicks pole dance on a raised platform and female dealers wear fishnet stockings and corsets. According to the booklet in our room that elaborated on the hotel’s amenities, the Pleasure Pit is supposed to take the inhibitions out of gambling. I suspect its popularity more akin to the elation of visiting a nudie bar.

One of the shows featured at Planet Hollywood is Peepshow, a “full throttle production” that combines “sexy strip tease, playful storytelling and celebrity star power,” along with a “red hot band” and twenty-five “sizzling dancers and performers.” If you want to delve into the action, the hotel offers pole dancing classes.

Even the restaurants and night clubs associated with Planet Hollywood connote sex. The up-scale Strip House has “sultry silks and siren red walls” with photographs of “scantly-dressed women” on the walls. The clubs are named Privé, The Living Room, The Playing Field Lounge, and the Heart Bar. The latter features servers in “black leather go-go attire.”

Ravenous after swimming and walking through the Miracle Mile Shops, Rich and I settled for the Spice Market Buffet, which has been voted the #1 buffet in Las Vegas with Mexican, Italian, Asian, Middle Eastern, and American food. Buffets are always dangerous places for me because I want to try everything. I was determined, however, to exercise constraint, taking small portions from each station. I was feeling good about my selection until I hit the last station… Middle Eastern food.

The gauntlet was dropped. Bowls of baba ghannouj, tabouleh, hummus, dolma, fragrant rice with raisins and almonds, cubes of feta cheese, mounds of couscous, multi-colored olives, and flaky baklawa beaconed me. Even Rich lost his restraint, adding grilled meats and vegetables to his plate. After polishing off one plate, I returned for another. Rich opted to enjoy more shrimp, crab legs, and tender prime rib.

For dessert, I couldn’t resist the chocolate mousse and chocolate cream pie. Rich chose strawberry shortcake and banana cream pie. Burp!

Our bellies bulging, we waddled onto the strip with the intention of spending part of the $17 in change we’d accumulated over the past year. My key interest was walking off my dinner and seeing the bright lights and sights. We reached the Bellegio a few minutes before one of their crowd-pleasing fountain shows. The music and display of water and lights brought me to tears. It was disappointing, however, that the show lasted barely five minutes.

The next day, we want back to the Bellagio to marvel at the botanical garden with giant pumpkins, a talking tree, autumn foliage, and a miniature European town (right). Around the corner was Jean Phillippe Patisserie with heart-stopping pastries (below) and a floor-to-ceiling chocolate fountain that cascaded melted milk, dark, and white chocolate. It’s officially the largest chocolate fountain in the world. 

Our next stop of the evening was Caesars Palace. We walked around the casino until we spotted a Miss Kitty slot machine. Rich deposited a dollar, which provided him with one hundred points (penny slot machine). He played for a while, winning and losing until he luck started to run out. In desperation, I pushed his hand aside and punched two buttons… bing, Bing, BING, we were up 93-cents! I immediately punched the “cash out” button and lovingly cradled the receipt that flowed out of the machine.

The mall associated with Caesar’s Palace is spectacular with painted ceilings, columns, ornate plaster, fountains, huge carved statues, and a two-story Trojan horse by FAO Schwartz, a toy store.

That evening and the next day, we went from casino-to-casino in search of magic Miss Kitty machines. We’d insert a dollar and play until we either doubled our money or reached 50-cents. At which point,oo we’d cash out and apply the 50-cents to another machine (usually not a Miss Kitty machine, which were few and far between). By the time we left Vegas, we’d played at quite a few casinos and lost just 24-cents; although, we would have been up nearly 69-cents if I’d cashed in my initial winnings from Caesar’s Place!

As the night approached morning, the streets became slippery with tits and twats. In between the snazzy casinos were seedy establishments, selling everything from tee-shirts proclaiming “I Ymy penis” to coffee cups, magnets, key chains, and other tourist riffraff imprinted with Las Vegas sights. On the sidewalk, outside these joints, were Hispanics with stacks of baseball card-sized advertisements for buxom “escorts” and “entertainers.” They’d hold a stack of cards in one hand and with the other sharply slap two or three cards against the larger stack, making a snapping sound. As we walked by, they’d thrust a couple of cards at you. 

A large percentage of these cards were instantly dropped by passersby who innocently took them. As the night grew later, the streets and sidewalks became slippery with hundreds of slick cards containing pictures of scantily dressed or naked women.

One time, Rich eagerly grabbed some cards then walked a few paces and handed them to a woman who was also snapping card. Surprised, she backed up and cringed at Rich’s brazen advances then shouted “el stupid!”

I burst into laugher and could hear her also laughing, having realized that Rich meant no harm. He simply wanted to return the favor.

Of course, I grabbed as many cards as necessary for “research.” The price of the girls ranged from “$29 special” to $150 no hidden fees.” Some of the girls had unusual names like Addison, Ajay, Bailey, Berrit, Paris, Honey, Kiko, and Summer. Most were pedestrian like Christy, Sandy, Vicky, Beth, Tina, Heather, Heidi, and Carly. The cards provided the price, phone number and Web address, such as LasVegasXXXcorts, HotVegasStripper, CandyAppleGirls, and EzVegasEscorts.

While I thought it was strange that the porn hawkers were just as likely to hand cards to a woman as a man, going to one of the advertised sites, I learned that the girls offer a range of services from “professional escort services” to “sensuous escort for couple’s entertainment.” Jeepers!

Rich and I settled for hobbling back to our hotel room, taking off our shoes, massaging our tired feet, and crawling into bed. The next morning, we wandered a couple of blocks to a McDonald’s for coffee and Egg McMuffins. We spent the rest of the day visiting other casinos, looking for Miss Kitty machines, and gawking at and take pictures of the lionesses at the MGM Grand. There’s a plexiglass tunnel that you can walk through and look up at the lions and lioness. It’s very cool and I could have probably spent all day looking at them.

The interior of the MGM Grand is reminiscent of early Hollywood with art deco touches. It’s also the second largest hotel complex in the United States with 4,293 rooms, 751 suites, five outdoor pools, rivers and waterfalls, convention center, arena, sixteen restaurants, and largest casino in the area.

Around 3:30 – 24-hour after we’d arrived in Las Vegas – we headed to the airport to turn in our rental car, grab a bite to eat, and jump on a plane back to Seattle.

Below is a "washout" view from our hotel room along with some of my favorite sites on the strip: 

On Saturday, we zipped to the Evergreen State Fair in Monroe, which is about 20 miles from Kirkland. I thought the "State" in the title signified it was the State of Washington fair; however, upon arriving it was obviously a county (Snohomish) fair. Nevertheless, they had a nice assortment of livestock, handicrafts, point-of-interest, events (i.e. rodeo, monster truck races, and singers), and ghastly food.

One of our first stops was a heritage museum, which had a nice  display of vintage farm equipment. I’m intrigued by such equipment because much of mankind has depended on its ability to plant, grow, harvest, and preserve crops. Even ranchers depend on farmers to produce hay, corn, and grains to feed and fatten their steer, swine, and poultry.

Here are some of my favorite pictures of the tractors.  

Next, we tottered to the diary, goat, and sheep barns. We learned that diary cattle are feed a small, but powerful magnet that stays in one of its four stomachs where it attracts bits of metal that could be mixed in with feed or in a pasture. A diary woman explained that they recently slaughtered one of her cows. They found the magnet in the entrails; it was covered with pieces of metal, including a small piece from a barbwire fence.

Understandably, if a piece of metal were to travel through a cows digestive system, it could puncture the cow’s intestine, resulting in an infection, or death.

Diary cows are very skinny with large, protruding hip bones because most of their energy is used to produce milk and calving. Most of these calves end up as veal, separated from their mothers within a day of birth.

Yes, the diary industry isn’t much better than that for beef cattle.

Goats. like cattle, are also raised for meat and milk. Although, I think most goats are allowed to run free rather than be cooped up in feed lots or barns. And some lucky goats, like the Angora goat above are raised for their fur (mohair).

Don’t get me started on pigs. Here’s a picture of a mother pig with her babies. Notice the owner holding a bucket under her butt to catch her poop!

Even though I don’t eat beef, I’m starting to think about phasing other meats out of my diet! 

It was a welcome relief, therefore, to visit the buildings where the only thing slaughtered were fruits, vegetables, flowers, nuts, and grains. I always enjoy seeing the displays by the local granges. The wealth and breadth of food grown in Washington is astonishing when you look at what’s produced in by this grange, which won first place. Along with fruits and vegetables, they displayed dairy products, grains, nuts, seeds, wines, and flower bulbs.

I also liked the display for the third-place grange (below). The produce is displayed in a tree-like shape in the center with jars of grass seeds at the bottom and baskets of eggs, flower bulbs, peppers, and nuts at the top. I can discern some of the labels on the large mason jars: Spinach, secret pizza sauce, dell pickle relish, Hollywood plums, sauerkraut, mince meat, barbeque pork, pears, grape juice, potatoes, dill pickles, corn, spicy dill pickles, tomato beef sauce, spiced tea, peaches, and apricots. 

The amount of work that goes into these displays from canning the goods (time consuming) to finding the perfect produce is mind-boggling It take an entire grange (community) to create a winning display!

Other displays at the fair included textiles (quilts, clothing), baked and canned goods, decorated cakes, cut flowers, flower arrangements, bonsai, photography, crafts (needlepoint, dolls, woodworking, collections, scrap booking, etc.), and place-settings (usually a part of 4H).

There was also a large area where handmade yarns were displayed along with hand-knit sweaters, hats, and other clothing. Quite a few women were sitting in this area, displaying weaving, spinning, knitting, felting, and croqueting. I was intrigued by the variety of yards and the ribbons awarded to them (below).

Our next stop was the industry building, which features booths of hawkers of every ilk from Mary Kay cosmetics to rubber roof shingles, replacement windows, cleaning products, pots and pans (that clean up in the blink of an eye), saunas, hot tubs, chiropractors and massage equipment, car wax, truck bed liners, and this year’s elixir… tubs of ghastly concoctions that remove impurities from your body just by soaking your feet for an hour or so.

Hello? Hello! Soaking your feet in goo can’t cure cancer let alone relief your achy back!

As I write this entry, I’ve been listening to the rain (finally) and realize that not only is the fair season drawing to a close, but so is the warmth and colors of summer. Brrr… I think I’ll grab a sweater!