BON VOYAGE!

An alien place without hearth-gods, the lares fled – or were they imprisoned in the moving pod sitting under my computer studio window? Bare, dusty, tatty, the former den of an untidy bear.

No, I decided where my particular lares reside: in my Weems & Plath Admiral's ships clock, which chimes the half-hour watch bells. Clever lad, I boxed the clock and it rides behind my seat in the car. I can hear it faintly keeping faith with the time and my household gods, which will inhabit the Taj Garage with me and my boyos soon.

Tears, of course, hugging Laura who has been a strong, warm, loving friend. My advocate and spur. A daughter or a sister, but I often sat in the role of child. Of course, tears.

I 580 through Oakland could be Anyplace, USA. That ugly. No concept of architectural dignity, merely commercial ballyhoo wherever possible.

Once on I 5, however, my little cavalcade – Adkins, Subaru and boat trailing behind – rode south through an inimitable place: the vast, fertile plain of the San Joaquin Valley. Dry, dusty, with wind devils and tumbleweeds, but lavishly irrigated to grow marvels – garlic, artichokes, almonds, plums, pistachios, and wine grapes. Distant mountain ranges watercolored in light, cool shades that emphasize the mighty size of the Valley.

The boat trailers well. I'm happy for the money I spent getting new tires and lights and a bearing lube-job for the trailer. Cruise control is ducky on that long, long road, 60 to 64 mph all the way.

A surprisingly political journey through the Valley. An Adkins rule: ken the quality of the signage to judge the message. These were frequent, expensively painted, well-mounted, all-weather signs that blamed the Democrats for curtailing water, jobs, progress and human rights in the Valley.

"No Water = No Jobs"
"Democrats Kill Jobs and Plants"
"Dust Bowl Courtesy of Democratic Administration"
"Get Rid of Barbara Boxer and Get People Back to Work"
"Water Crisis! We All Need Water!"

Apparently some rich planters didn't get their water allotment and they're using their famously discretionary income to shout about it – without a word of argument or logic – to the passing motorist.

Impressive money. More impressive: a simple prestressed concrete overpass bridge patterned with hundreds and hundreds of perfect, tiny swallows' nests, natural architecture gracing industrial architecture.

And at dusk, passing from I-5 on CA 138 in a smaller valley, the purple somber shape of the hills against darkening indigo skies, with tiny red blinking lights of a high tension line defining the desert floor plane.

Even though I started crying, and continued by driving off with my local gas station's pump handle still stuck in my gas tank (a $173 tank of gas, all told), it was a lucky day full of sighs and long looks across.

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself did well on the trip. Very little narcolepsy, a short nap in the shade of a building, walking around at rest stops. His right leg is cramping and the knee is bothering him but he's remarkably sane for a prime neurotic going through a massive change. He bears watching.