Jaci Dawn

But I sure looked when we crossed over the Cascades south of Mt. Shasta! Trivia: most California sightings of Bigfoot take place in the northern counties around Yreka, Weed, Alturas, Mt. Shasta and the coast range.

I did see a zombie in Medford.

She was hitch-hiking and I gave her a ride. True story.

It was an adventure for the pair of us. The whole whirl-wind trip to take care of the legal end of my dad’s estate operated under a phenomenon I like to think of as “Nevada Time”. Nevada Time is a slowed-down version of life. Tasks that normally take ten minutes to complete take thirty minutes to complete on Nevada Time.

The up-side of Nevada Time is that 90% of the people are nice. They’re nice because they are operating on Nevada Time and they have all the time in the world to be nice. You might as well be nice when you’re stuck in a time warp because you aren’t going to get out of it any sooner by being nasty.

Nasty was the bank in Reno. My brother had already been dealing with them. “Bring this, this, and this and that’s all you need.” So he brought everything and they said, “Oh, your sister has to be here in person.” “She lives in Portland.” “Sorry, she has to be here in person.”

At some point, banks forget what it is to be bereaved. I’ll let you guess which debit-card-charging bank we were dealing with.

Anyway, I showed up and we sat down with Richard at the bank. And he can’t connect the dots between Jack and John. My dad went by Jack. He signed everything John. His legal name was John. No one called him John. Our lawyer filled out the Trust paperwork using the names interchangeably, but she didn’t specify it was John “Jack”. Richard, the man at the bank, didn’t even know that Jack is a common moniker for John. He wanted two pieces of ID from both of us, too, and then he refused to complete the trust paperwork.

We drove to Ely.

That’s a five-hour drive from Reno.

If you ever make the drive on US Hwy 50, stop at the Toiyabe (TOY-yah-bee) Cafe in Austin and have an ice cream cone. Austin is a pretty cool little tourist stop.

Somewhere out of Eureka, there’s a Major Deer Crossing. I have never seen the Major Deer but he must be a pretty commanding buck because there are several signs warning drivers to watch for him. There are probably some Private Deers, too, but the signs don’t say that. Just Major Deer.

We stayed at the Jailhouse and had dinner at the Hotel Nevada. No photos, sorry. I think this is a case of familiarity: these places are so familiar to me that I forget to take photos. When I was a teenager, we would sneak into the Hotel and ride the elevator. It was the only elevator in town in the early 1970’s and it had an escape hatch on the top. If you pushed the hatch out, you could set off the alarm. The elevator would stop on the third floor, we’d dash out and calmly sneak down the stairs while security tried to figure out why the alarm went off in the elevator.

Ely is a real small town.

Friday we met with the lawyer and straightened out the John/Jack business. Then we went to the small bank branch inside the main grocery story and took care of setting up the Trust Account. They didn’t ask us for two pieces of ID: we were Jack’s kids and that was all they needed to know. The gal at the bank did say, “But of course he was Jack! We all knew him!”

Gotta love small towns.

We had to go to the DMV office to take care of a vehicle title. It took us 2.5 hours to find out we couldn’t take care of the title right then, but the Ely DMV Office got my signature on all the paperwork so I do not have to return to Nevada to sign anything.

While we were there, I noticed that the stream of people lining up behind us had to take numbers. I didn’t notice that we were supposed to take a number because 1) no one was in line ahead of us when we came in and 2) there was no ticket dispenser. The numbers were written in black marker on 5×7″ pieces of cardboard: 1, 2, 3, 4 – through 30. They recycle the numbers every day. Nobody got their nose out of joint when someone mixed up the numbers: Number 7 became Number 9 and everyone knew what order they came in the door without the numbers anyway.

They were very nice at Ely Nevada DMV.

My only question is: can we transport that office to Portland? They were so NICE.

The only problem was that they operate on Nevada Time and it took all of Friday just to set up the trust account and to get turned down at the DMV office. Actually, it took 2.5 hours for DMV to tell us we couldn’t straighten out the title issue.

I could have rounded up ten Bigfoots in that amount of time.

Tomorrow: more observations on small towns and Nevada Institutions.

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I am about to go on a marathon drive to Nevada and home. It isn’t a pleasure trip (when is a trip to Nevada a pleasure trip for me?) but it is a necessary trip.

My brother and I are co-executors of our father’s estate and now that we are through probate court, we have to finalize some things. Don’t ask me about probate court, just never assume that because you have a trust and a will that your heirs get to sidestep probate. But we’re through and we’re legal and we’re about to wrap this up.

I am leaving Harvey this time. My husband can dog-sit.

So why am I writing about this? Because part of my drive takes me through the heart of Bigfoot country. Sometime tomorrow afternoon, I will be driving the lonely stretches of highway between Weed and Susanville, California around Mt. Shasta. And maybe – just maybe – we will get to see Bigfoot.

If we don’t see one on our way down, no worries: we’ll backtrack through the same country on our way home over the weekend.

I’ll have my camera handy just in case.

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I should have waited until today to post my blog about Harvey’s Great Escape. There were so many images and emotions passing through my mind as it unfolded and I posted without taking time to truly think about every thing. In retrospect (which is always 20/20 vision), I could have written a much better narrative. The sad thing is: I knew I needed to wait 24 hours before posting, but I was caught up in the adrenalin of the escapade.

Today I have given a lot of though to it.

First, there was Harvey. As soon as he was out the gate, he was on an adventure. In all the times that Murphy has escaped, he has only been playing a game. Murphy has crossed streets, robbed cat food from porches and danced just beyond our reach, teasing us – but he has never taken off on a dead run away from home. It has always been a game of “catch-me-if-you-can.”

I was floored when he came right to me and didn’t try to nip at my hand when I reached for his collar. Murphy was the best dog ever yesterday. He went up one hundred notches in my estimation: a suddenly mature dog with no desire to play “tag” in stranger’s yards.

I was extremely thankful to Murphy.

Selma was in her front yard, watering. I rarely see Selma these days. I think she hides from us. Maybe our dogs bark too much at her when she is in her backyard? Although Virginia on the other side of us doesn’t seem to think our dogs are a bother at all… And Selma was smiling as I nabbed Murphy and hauled him back to the yard. And Selma was smiling when I spoke to her on my way to find Harvey. She’s 83. She reminds me of my dad.

The people who tried to stop Harvey on his mad dash touched my heart. Every one of them was concerned that my big white dog would run out into traffic but every one of them was involved in their own life – just like I am – and did not have the time to offer to help me catch an errant dog.

Except Brittany, who reminded me so much of my 30-something-niece in Oakland. Brittany, who had followed Harvey up the road and then turned around to see if someone was following him with a leash in hand. Brittany, who opened her car door to a stranger and said, “Get in.”

There was Harvey, too. I got close enough to him once to see the look in his eyes. He was wild. He was somewhere between terrified of being captured and terrified of his new-found freedom. He wasn’t happy being loose: he was scared. He knew who I was, but he was scared of me capturing him. Even when I did finally corner him, he looked terrified.

This baffles me. I’ve never hit him or kicked him. When I call him to me, I have always rewarded him with lots of loving.

But I have only had a little over a year to make an impression on Harvey and someone else had two years to impress him. Someone did something to him to make him think running fast and hard is the better alternative to coming to his name.

He knows his name. He knows his commands.

He’s a good dog. He’s a sweet dog. And once he is on a leash, he is completely under control.

Murphy is not under control on a leash: he controls you. All 85# of Murphy control you. I was so blessed to have Murphy decide he wanted to go home when I snapped the leash onto his collar, because he dragged me home. He weighs 2/3’s of what I do and he has more muscle tone.

Harvey, on the other hand, is like a horse on a lead when that leash snaps into position. A horse weighs between 800 and 1100 pounds, but with a lead in hand is a pussycat. Harvey is completely under control with a leash snapped onto his collar. He heels and the leash is not taut.

So why did he run like he did? Why did he look so crazed and wild? What goes through his doggie head?

Where is Cesar Milan when I need him?

I sure would like to know Harvey’s story.

Who did he belong to the first two years of his life and what did they do to him that he still thinks he has to run at a dead sprint away when he is “free”? What is Harvey’s story?

Hint: Chrystal thinks he’s been hit by a car. He certainly has a funny way of walking and he won’t cross the busy street to the east of me, but he did run south in the bike lane on it.

By the way… I thought I did pretty well for a slightly overweight 50+ year old woman jogging after Harvey. Until today when all my muscles suddenly hurt. Just kidding – I don’t hurt nearly as much as I thought I would.

And there was Brittany. Whatever possessed her to decide to track the big white dog like she did? Why did she decide to pull over and open her car for me? I will never know but I do know this: I love that woman. I really do. I think you can love someone you hardly know. I really do. And I love Brittany. I wish her the very best life has to offer her: Karma, Heaven, blessings, love, happiness, joy. You name it: if it is good, I wish it on Brittany.

And the people with the big back yard.

I’m still reeling from the kindness of strangers.

You’d have a hard time convincing me people are not inherently good. I’ve discovered otherwise.

And here’s my vow: to be that kind of good person in return. Always.

By the way: Harvey is an English Setter. Everyone asks me that. He’s a purebred dog that someone just let run away. I will never just let Harvey run away.

Murphy, my former nemesis, is a purebred Wirehaired Pointing Griffon. And I will never just let Murphy run away.

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I was sorting through all my old sketches when I uncovered a hidden trove of my children’s artwork from elementary school days. Why I had it mixed in with my stuff is beyond me (except that a lot of mine dates back to school days so maybe I just combined it all one day when we were boxing and moving?).

Blast from the past. Now I love my kids equally (despite what the girls think: they think I favor Levi), but this is going to be mostly about… Levi. It isn’t that I favor him over the girls, but that his drawings are just so darn funny!

This one doesn’t really fit under “my kid’s art’ but it was mixed in the box with everything else. A girl named Debbie drew this portrait of my sister in 1973 or 1974. It’s too large to scan & the camera does it no justice. I should have given it to my sister ages ago but *I* kept it selfishly. I am glad I did because I no longer have my sister to give it to me and I think Chrystal should inherit this.

I do not have any art work of Chrystal’s to post because she wasn’t around when the older kids were in elementary school and her memorabilia got packed into a box appropriately labeled “Chrystal’s Stuff” as opposed to a box of my sketches and junk.

(How’s that for a run-on sentence?)

This isn’t artwork by one of my children, either. The little neighbor girl, KayLynn, drew it. She loved my little Appaloosa mare, Whisper. When KayLynn moved away, she gave me this drawing and a ceramic horse she loved as a token of her appreciation for allowing her to pet Whisper once in awhile. I think we maybe even let her ride bareback a little.

A little sentimental value.

Levi, 2nd Grade. Part of the PTA series “Dare to Discover”, this is titled “Dare to Discover the Yukon”. He drew his inspiration from my long-running correspondence with a pen-pal who has lived in the Yukon for a number of decades.

Arwen’s entry was “Dare to Discover Kiger Gorge” no doubt inspired by our many, many camping trips into the Steens Mountain Country. She always was a meticulous artist.

Another serious piece from Arwen: “Dogwoods at Sunset”. I’m guessing 6th grade?

Levi, 2nd Grade: “My grandpa is special because he takes me squirrel shooting.”

Oy vey. Not even politically correct! That’s a rifle in the foreground and a couple hapless squirrels out in the sagebrush. At least he spared us the blood and death.

I attribute this to Levi but it could have been an Arwen doodle on the computer. But I think it was a Levi work of art:

‘Starter Castle for ambitious princely couple. 10′ deep moat surrounding 6’ thick fortress. Small house w/garden and stable w/three stalls. Private garden with rare rose bushes from England. Small tower on each corner. two large towers in center of the grounds. Working drawbridge-type door. bridge over moat. Asking price $2,500,000. Located between large public forest and lake in northern Germany. Beautiful view. Contact King Ferdinando Chavez of Armorica at (11)034-784×7849

Castles of the World Realty

87207 S Houcester Ln

Leicester, Leicestershire County

England, United Kingdom UK-16402″

(I’m glad there’s a bridge over the moat, I was worried about that detail)

Last, there was this:

Levi, First Grade: an innocent- looking coloring book page with a story. I’m sure the assignment was *not* what Levi wrote about.

“The Penguins worst day ever.

On day three penguins were out sleding when an anvil fell right on top of them (next page) then another penguin came sleding and he fell in the hole and when he gout out. He pulled the anvil out of the hole and pulled out three flat penguins then slowley they became there  normal size again. Later on when they were sleding down the mountain they ran into a stump and flew one mile away. Then when they were sleding in town they ran into on hundred houses in a row. Later on they ran into a bank then the bank thought they were steling so they whent to jail. Later on they let them out and they sleded into a sewer hole. then on chrismas they got one billion presents that pushed them out of the house. The end.”

Those poor penguins!

I miss my kids. 🙂

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The past two weeks of glorious sunshine were good for my spirit and soul as well as my body. Face it, I’m a reptile and I need heat to come alive. More than that, I need sunshine to activate the serotonin levels in my body (or whatever chemical imbalance I have).

But we went from 98 degrees (high) to 70-something. Today, we didn’t even reach 70 degrees. We went from blue skies and unchallenged Vitamin D & K and far-reaching solar flares to overcast and grey all miserable day long. My general attitude soared with the sunshine and plummeted with the grey.

It took me a couple days to figure out why my mood shifted so suddenly. No sun. DUH! I need more than two weeks of summer sun to recharge my emotional batteries before the onset of our annual nine months of rain and clouds.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to put some things away in my new-to-me dresser. You know, things like old sketches & drawings that I’ve had in cardboard boxes where silverfish and spiders are the only visitors. (Sort of a silverfish art museum, I suppose. Sorry silverfish: museum moved!)

Unfortunately, that only spawned some nostalgic sighing. I have all my kids’ PTA drawings (the ones with blue and purple ribbons on them because ALL children win ribbons at a PTA art show) and some of Levi’s funnier ones boxed in with my old sketches. I’ll have to do a blog post on Levi’s funnier art work tomorrow (only because I didn’t think of it tonight).

But MY artwork. I have sketches from 7th grade in my boxes.

I remember this assignment. Mr. Little, 7th & 8th Grade art teacher, wanted us to just put color down on paper to see how it flowed. *I* had to make a drawing out of it and a statement. Black dog kills brown dog. Mr. Little actually liked it. That’s the only reason I think I’ve kept it all these years.

This was hanging inside my locker in high school. Four years it hung inside whichever locker I had. I didn’t even draw it: CW Anderson did. I merely copied it out of a Billy & Blaze story book and altered it to suit my taste. I loved Billy & Blaze, by the way. Blaze was every bit as smart as that dog, Lassie. Or that other horse, Fury.

And I loved CW Anderson’s artwork.

High school, still. But this is original. In high school, I liked the fanciful Arabian horse heads and often carried them to an extreme when I was drawing. So much for being influenced by CW Anderson who leaned heavily toward Quarterhorses.

I had two babies when I did this colored pencil drawing of a bridge. I was in my late twenties.

Much more recent: an oil sketch of the old mill at Austin, Oregon.

ball point ink on a scrap of typing paper. My little Appy mare curled up in the sun, with a little artistic license (she didn’t have a black mane or tail and she did have spots on her rump). But only I know that. Whisper shows the influence artists like CW Anderson had on my pen.  I actually really like this sketch which is why I’ve kept it all these years (I haven’t owned Whisper since 2001).

Just looking at those sketches is melancholy but looking at the one of Whisper…

Darn. I think I need sunshine.

Or I need to blog about Levi’s childhood memorabilia. Wait until you see some of his artwork. You’ll forgive me for the Black dog kills brown dog piece of artwork.

I promise.

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