AS MAY FLIES...

Last week Brett and I took the kiddie-winkies exploring along the Cascade Lakes Scenic Byway which begins just 10 minutes from our place. This highway cuts a path through the mountains, lakes, and forests of central Oregon where volcanism (not even close to what Mr. Spock had) and glaciation formed 150+ lakes for which this region is really well known. In the 30 minutes that we drove, we saw breathtaking examples of lava flows, alpine lakes, and soft grassy meadows.


But for the thin strip of asphalt threading through it, you could imagine and almost smell dinner cooking at the campfire of such mountain men as Kit Carson and John C. Fremont. All your wildest pristine wilderness dreams come true on this part of the planet, my friend!

On the backside of Elk Lake Loop we discovered a lilypad lake called Hosmer. The beauty and serenity were both stunning and unforgettable. We launched our kayaks into complete evening stillness, accept for the passing honk of a pair of Canadian Geese overhead.

After paddling around the lake exploring the lily lined inlets for an hour or so, the snacks were all gone. So we began to head back. Only now the sun had dropped at an angle across the lake that illuminated the 3 feet just above the water like a massive, well lit stage. And here a grand finale was taking place. Thousands of tiny mayflies were performing their great dance of life and one by one dropping into the water, motionless.


I learned in high school Zoology (go Bulldogs!), that these memorable insects spend a year as a naiad (a little like a mermaid), to be born into their adult form for a single day (think of Ariel, ‘with’ legs, but only a fraction of time to get the guy).

Just imagine it! Embryonic Mayflies watch and wait, day after day for an entire year, their big naiadish eyes pearing up through the watery surface to see thousands of upper classmen have their day in the sun and then pass on…fantisizing how earth altering their own big day will be, perhaps stepping off a few counts of 8, just a little choreography they put together while they’re waiting…for life…TO BEGIN!

It's true. Mayflies come from the Order, Ephemeroptera, meaning "short-lived" (literally "lasting a day" or "day-long.")

Right on their birthday, they're born, (I know, right?) with tiny fluttery wings and two pointy cerci for a tail. They learn to fly, find a mate, plan a wedding, get married and have babies all in one day before dancing over the water, bustin' every move they know and collapsing, motionless... not even a twitch. I mean, how did you feel the last time you completed any ONE of those tasks?


And then their tiny spirit floats off to the happy hunting ground of all creation, knowing the consecration to their purpose was complete. Talk about commitment… These ephemeral creatures don't dilly nor dally…No sir!


And I thought to myself…and then sang softly .. “Oh, that I were a mayfly.” And then more loudly, “Oh-oh, that I were a mayfly”...    "Okay, Cut!" (It was Isaac, at the back of my kayak.)

We paddled on, in smiling silence.  But still…my heart wondered.

PUMP IT UP

Early one morning I stopped for gas at a Sinclair on the North end of town. As I opened my door to get it done, I was startled by the sudden appearance of a raggedy, bearded man at my window asking for my credit card. He wore a crumpled gas station shirt over his street clothes which were also heavily soiled by dust and oil. He reminded me of Robyn Williams without any teeth.

I looked around the station for any indication this was normal and saw another homeless looking person in a different style crumply uniform, reaching in a driver's window for her credit card too.

"Gainst da law da pump yer gas, mame," he warned. Only it came out more like 'Gindalo da-bump ya-gath  mame' ...on account of the teeth. So I slowly handed him my card, wide awake for the moment he and his partner bolted from the station with two loaded credit cards. "What's that all about?" I asked. He leaned his face right down into the window and shrugged. "Hafta head over da borda if ya wanna pump yer gath." His blue eyes delighted at his own humor.  "Just somethin' people up at the capital thought of." He started the gas pump and began washing my front window. 

Suddenly I was in a time warp. How long had it been since I'd visited a full service gas station? Back in the days before seatbelts... I remember pulling up to the service station curled up in the back window, kids lying on the floor or sliding across the slick vinyl benchseat as the family car spun into position at a free pump. 

Remember a little later in the 70's when you got the choice to pay a few cents less per gallon at the "self service" pumps out by the street? And now it's all expressionless, "pump it yourself". This was cool!


"Whoa," I said, making light conversation with the man. "Do you remember the days when you'd pull up to a gas station and hear your Mom or Dad say, "Filler Up with Ethel, Lloyd." Somehow the parentals always knew the name of the guy at the station. And I don't know what else was on the menu, but Mom always ordered up the '"Ethel." 

In 3 minutes I liked this guy and wanted to take him home with me. Was it his Robyn Williamness that intrigued me so, or the neatnik in me that wanted to help clean him up? Here's a snapshot I snagged. Can you believe the likeness?

Ask around the State and you'll find, "strue!"  Since 1951 it's been against state law to pump your own gas in Oregon,  ...every inch of it. The statute gives 17 justifications for the self-serve ban. They run the gamut from protecting small children left in cars, preventing spills, or people blowing up the gas station, to keeping older drivers from "unreasonable discomfort."

But the justification that's cited most often is that the law creates jobs...jobs for people like Lloyd here. With state unemployment at 10% right now, it's a good thing. Or Lloyd may be driven to work as a stunt double for the silverscreen. 

So when you come up to visit us and need a fillup with petrol, just sit back and relax. You gotta relax when you pull up to a gas station. And let full service begin! 

OVERLAND ANGELS

A wise and experienced writer once told me that the emotion of an experience begins to dissipate within 3 minutes from point of impact. So, writing in the moment is key to capturing the essence of the experience.


"Just jump" I said to myself this morning. "In fact, I forbid you to shower ever again until you do it." So I'm here, in my jammies, at 4pm, starting the family blog... now, without rehearsal, no requisite props. "Out, out" with perfection as the aesthetic me cringes, "and jump."


Throw out the 3 minute model...it's been 3 weeks since the kiddies and I loaded the family wagon and headed for the plains of Oregon...without our Pa. And like our pioneer ancestors of old, we had to leave some belongings behind. Tuba paraphernalia, the lever harp...and almost Alex who was still in the bathroom at Omi's.


Lynnie said a prayer for us as we rolled away from the riverbottoms of Provo. The weight of the overstuffed trailer pulled mercilessly at our midsized SUV with the stop and go of Saturday morning traffic. Yoked up for the long haul, it was the transmission I was most mindful of. No, I don't pretend to speak transmission, I just knew we'd replaced it once a year and that was all before we had the hitch installed.


I thanked Lyn for her prayer for safety but felt a little sheepish at no mention of angelic help. I know too much to deny the part they play in God fulfilling his promises to the children of men. So I said a silent prayer of thanks.

As we dropped downhill toward I15, I asked God for overland angels to attend us, if it was all the same to Him. And here was the beginning of something very cool. I felt airspace fill up at my right shoulder and my left. It was very subtle. I smiled and maybe I cried. And the fear went right out of me--fear of mechanical problems all the way to Oregon...even when we clipped over a swell in the freeway that sent everyone's head roofward and our backs against the seats on the afterpull. Yep, we had trailer...and boy did we travel.


Which is why the explosive "boom" from the rear of the trailer 12 hrs later caught me by surprise. Wide awake, I checked my mirrors in time to see tire tread flipping a few feet up in the air behind the trailer. "Hold it, Tom and Dickey Smothers."  Had I just run over a tread on the road...one that escaped my catlike vision? Both trailer tires looked fine and pulled the same as before. No harm, no foul. We were on an incline just 3 miles from Bend city limits with steep sides and nowhere to pull over. So...we kept on going. And so did Smother's Brothers.


Well, it was a pretty happy reunion we had with Pa. For the last 12 months he'd lived away. And now we were a whole family again. Not half family. Whole family. Yo haw buck and Jerry boy...is what I say. And until the trailer was completely unloaded, no one even noticed the back wheel. Floating up that last rise into Bend, a bent fender caught and delaminated the tire down to the metal mesh. Overland angels took one for the team my friends. And thanking heaven with deepest gratitude... is always the best policy.