I Am a Lotto Loser

While driving home from our rural land and listening to NPR on the radio, I heard that there was a new lotto in town with a pay-out of 1.4 billion dollars. Well, I hadn't tried my luck for a few years, so I decided that it was time to once again splurge and dream the impossible dream. After all, the radio told me that the odds were only somewhere over one trillion to one!

Arriving home, I mentioned that I was feeling lotto-lucky to my wife, and she said that she'd been talking to her daughter about buying some tickets also. We decided that Hy-Vee was an auspicious location to pull God's finger, so I bellied up to the counter and said, "We want to win the 1.4 billion lotto ticket! How do we do this?" I know that sounds like I had no clue, but I lowered my voice when saying it so that I'd sound like Orson Wells or Morgan Freeman. We bought ten Mega Millions tickets for a total of twenty dollars. "Now, I don't buy these things to lose," I told the cashier, "so these had better be lucky!" She just chuckled to herself, amused by my comment--at least, I think it was a happy chuckle and not an evil cackle. . . .

For the next thirty-six hours my wife and I engaged in scintillating conversation, planning how we'd spend our seven hundred million in cash after taxes. We'd live off the fat o' the land. We'd give money to our children so that we'd never have to worry again about their cars needing tires or about leaky water heaters or the dog that chewed a hole in the sofa. Trust funds for the grandkids were a given; a charity to help single mothers was a heartwarming idea, and a gift to the local university would be a great way to share the love. 

We had asked when we purchased our ten "Megaplier" numbers what was the procedure for verifying our win. The online dot com was the answer. Therefore, the morning after the ten o'clock PM drawing, I fired up my computer, typed in the ialottery.com URL, and checked for my winnings. Of course, the title of this article does spoil the climax for any lotto optimists out there. We hadn't won. Sad emoji :(.

I wonder, though, if perhaps even though I hadn't won big . . . perhaps I had lost big! I mean, if winning big is a rarity, then isn't it possible to lose big, too? What prompts me to say this is my experience playing solitaire on my phone app. Sometimes I lose in such a spectacular fashion that I ask myself, "What are the chances of that happening?" It goes like this: The solitaire app loads up my game. The face-up cards have no moves. I flip through the stack, and not a single move is available, not a one. I have lost the game without being able to move a single card. Now, that has to be unusual, at least it is from my experience! I didn't just lose the game; I epically lost the game!

The lotto ticket looks like a receipt from a cash register, about three inches wide, printed black on white paper with a side strip in red declaring "IOWA LOTTERY." We bought ten number sequences, labeled A-J, five numbers and then the Mega Ball number. I'm not sure if numbers range from 00 to 99 or from 01-99. I checked the winning number posted online with our ten series of numbers and discovered . . . of the sixty numbers (10 sequences) not a single winning number was on our stub. To win, I would have had to have six winning numbers sequenced in the winning order. I didn't have a single winning number on the stub, much less in the proper sequence! It's like I go catfishing with a friend and use axle grease for bait. No bites.

Have I learned my lesson? Of course not! Am I going to buy another ticket soon? Of course not! And if you're interested, I searched my articles and found this title from 2013: "I Take a Gamble . . . and Lose." What I've discovered about myself is this: I rarely lose when I gamble . . . because I rarely gamble. However, sometime in the distant future when I try my lotto luck again, I really would like to win. Will it happen? Well, I'm not going to bet the farm on it, that's for sure!

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Upping My Travel Writing Game

Guyana Highlands of South America

"Tom, why don't you plan out a route to California?" My wife Sandy asked me this question after lunch last week--when we had been planning a camping trip that same morning to an Iowa state park a half hour's drive away. That required a shift in mental gears, I can tell you--not a bad shift but certainly a significant change of perspective!

By happenstance, my step-daughter had recently given me the new issue of National Geographic magazine, the April issue, and I was reading the article "Up the Mountain, to a World Apart," about a "venture into a remote part of Guyana with no roads and no guarantee of getting out" to a region of "sheer-sided, flat-topped mountains known locally as tepui." A scientific expedition would climb these unpopulated, untrammeled environmental time capsules to learn more about the process of evolution.

Reading the article was an eye-opener for me, a reminder of just how powerful and immediate travel writing can be. The opening paragraphs place the reader right next to conservation biologist Bruce Means. 

"Grasping a sapling in one hand for balance, Bruce took a shaky step forward. His legs quivered as they sank into the boggy leaf litter, and he cursed his 79-year-old body. At the beginning of this expedition, Bruce had told me that he planned to start slowly but would grow stronger each day as he acclimated to life in the bush."

Later in the article, writer Mark Synnott places us deeper in the bush, describing the conditions that the explorers were facing. 

"For days we'd been trudging across a swampy floodplain through ankle-deep mud that almost sucked our boots right off our feet. It rained incessantly, and even when the sun poked through the low clouds, it never penetrated the dense canopy overhead. Down in the steamy understory, mosquitoes and biting flies reigned, and our sweat-soaked clothes, slick with mud and ripped by thorns, stuck to our rashy skin. Every day we crossed countless tea-colored rivers and creeks via precarious log bridges. The slow-moving water, which was also our drinking source, was stained from decaying vegetation--something that no amount of purifying could remove."

Ah, what lovely, descriptive prose! The writer follows the most basic and important descriptive writing axiom: show, don't tell. He uses "sense words," words which connect the reader's experience to the description, not ideas but physical sensory input. Look at the touch words: grasping, shaky, and quivered, to name a few. The sentence that begins with "Down in the steamy understory" is rich with sense words: "steamy understory" with touch and vision; "mosquitoes and biting flies reigned" evokes sight, sound, and touch; "sweat-soaked clothes" evokes, of course, smell. Taste? With every breath filtered by steamy jungle air, with sweat on the lips and mud everywhere, how could one not be tasting the jungle? The sentences weave together our life experiences and imagination to place us in that jungle--all while we sit comfortably in our chair at home, perhaps a cup of tea (with sugar and milk) beside us. Travel writing at its best!

Canary-yellow writing pads and Ticonderoga #2 pencils, and I'm ready to begin the planning!

Now as I sit at the kitchen table planning my route, my old habit of planning with tablets and pencil to make my lists prevails: a list for food, a list for last-minute preparations, lists for our children as they keep an eye on the house for the month we'll be gone. We're packing for our five-nights out, knowing that we'll have food stores available at our destination. We'll be driveway-mooching at Sandy's parents, hooking up to 120v electric power to run our 12v refrigerator and lights.

The pencil scratches its way across the page, either adding an item or crossing one out. I'm glad I had the wheel-bearings packed last month at a local RV dealership. I've listened to the pounding of my little air compressor as I've topped of the trailer's tire pressure, and I've leaned on the torque wrench as I've checked that the wheel lugnuts are tight. I'll be de-winterizing the trailer next week. I was on my hands and knees yesterday, scrubbing the interior and removing my gear from this winter's 1-3 night local camping outings. 

 

I've spent the time in front of the computer screen, studying Google Maps and locating possible campgrounds and RV parks for overnight stays on our trip. Since Sandy will need a strong phone signal for her online work, I've called the overnight sites to inquire about connectivity. Of course, I'm not naive enough to think all the information I receive will completely match our needs, but it's a beginning. After that, it's just take it one day at a time. Our longest mileage planned is a little over four hundred miles, with most days ranging between 250 miles and 325. We hope to leave early enough so that Sandy will have some time to work in the late afternoons if necessary. 

I may very well be writing by hand in my daybook as we journey, skipping the computer and just taking notes and writing down impressions, details that I can include when I finally do post about our journey on my travel blog, Green Goddess Glamping. A few notes, a few photos, pleasant conversation with Sandy while on the road. Audiobooks have been strongly recommended for us while traveling, but Sandy and I are looking forward to just looking out the window and chatting. I've traveled before by myself on a trip off to the Carolinas, chronicled on my traveling blog under the label Green Goddess Expeditions. 

I've researched and written before about writing and travelogues, so long ago, in fact, that the original blogs I read for inspiration and direction are now defunct, the links no longer active. Mine are still available, though, the most recent being "Travelogues and Tiny Trailer Travel." I'm excited to travel with my wife Sandy. The last time we traveled the Iowa-California route was from west to east when we drove a much loved yet worn 1975 Ford F-150 from my parents' home in California back to Iowa, a gift from my parents to my son. That was quite an adventure, considering the worn steering linkage and the lack of heater or windshield defroster. I remember how the engine would cut out and stall at stoplights on the continental divide because the old carburetor wasn't fuel injection, and the high-altitude air was too thin for the carburetor adjustments. I just feathered the accelerator, though, and once on the road we were okay, especially when we dropped out of the mountains. We made it, finding peace of mind on the trip by deciding that if the old orange "Pumpkin Wagon" broke down, we'd just have it towed to the nearest gas station, hand the owner registration title to someone willing to take it, and then take a bus home. 

On an early winter overnighter with our Airstream Basecamp

This trip should be more pleasant with our 2021 Airstream Basecamp and our 2018 Nissan Pathfinder (with only just under 18,000 miles on it). I'm looking forward to sharing our time together. Sandy even wants to learn how to drive while pulling the trailer, and I'm sure there are some not-so-busy stretches of highway on the trip that will provide her with some low-stress experience. Travelogue writing is a skill that I'm continually developing, and I plan to focus this trip on sharing those travel moments the best I can, those moments of flicking the turn signal and then pulling off the interstate freeway, heading for the night's campsite, having rolled down that long, lonesome highway, a song in my heart and my wife by my side. 

Follow by email my travel blog, Green Goddess Glamping, if you'd like to read about my travel adventures. Follow this blog by signing up below if you'd like to learn more about my life of writing. 

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Today My Mother Is 90 Years Old

Mom December 1927, 3 years old

"My doctor tells me that when you turn ninety, you might say or do anything, so watch out!"

That's what my mom says. She's kidding, of course. And maybe a little serious and a little nervous. Our family's experience with Dad's dementia/Alzheimer's was enough to have us tossing salt over our shoulder.

What I admire most about my mom is her quiet courage. Born in an era when it wasn't unusual for a woman to just follow her husband's orders, Mom quietly lived her independent life of traditional boundaries. She never drove a car because her eyesight was too poor. She didn't work once she started having babies. She was a stay-at-home mom, but that form only contained her independence. It did not quell it.

Today Mom is heading for a new year--as she put it, a "not so happy year." Dad is gone, but Mom still has her two boys. I'll be out to see her in a month. My brother is her live-in caregiver.

My new year's resolution is a paraphrase of a favorite expression of Mom's, to just keep moving, that when you sit down, that's when you get into trouble. I don't think of that as wearing yourself out with activity; rather, I think it means to remain vital and in accord with nature.

Sometimes when we follow our path, we have to shout the warning, "Clear the path! I'm coming through!" A variant is "Follow me or get out of the way!" My dad phrased this more bluntly: "Help or get the hell out of the way!"

When I hear my mother--five feet tall and ninety years old, blind and deaf--say such things, I hear the implacable power of nature grinding down mountains, that power that pounds seashores to sand and lifts into the air ten billion birds. I am lifted myself to keep moving, to keep to my path, to enjoy my life.

God bless you, Mom, and happy birthday.

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

Remembering Dad by Writing About the Things He Said

Sometimes the best way to express my feelings is to quote my father.

"I'm in pretty good shape, considering the shape I'm in."

"If you're going to do it, do it right."

"Always leave a campsite in better shape than it was when you arrived."

I'd start out with, "Well, like my daddy says . . . " or "My dad says it this way . . . "

Now that Dad has passed away, those moments when I remember how he phrased his thoughts have an extra dimension. I'm not only expressing an idea in a manner that reflects my past; I'm also celebrating and honoring that past. It's a good feeling, an expression of continuity and also of evolution.

I am not my father, nor was my father his, yet there is a connection. Depending on the clarity of our thinking and the purity of our lives, we have the option to take from our family heritage, to nurture the growth of our family tree, to prune, to feed and water, to bring light to our daily living.

Quoting my dad or my mom is a way of honoring that past from which I have come. It's a way of reminding myself of who my dad was and of who I am.

It's like my dad would say, "Where you are is just one step away from where you've been."

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

My Dad Never Forgot Mom, Even with Alzheimer's

In the time before my dad passed away, he said he was "tired and going home." Often he wouldn't remember where home was and asked where Mom was living, to reassure himself that he had it right in his head.

When Dad said he was going home, did he mean home where Mom lives, or did he mean Home, going through the pearly gates? You know, I don't think it really matters or makes any difference.

My wife has been traveling for a week, visiting family, and I have been doing a good job of being efficient at work, of eating well and keeping the house clean, of generally keeping it together. Yet behind that checklist efficiency is a sense of just waiting, of biding time until we are together again. Then I'll really start living again.

I guess that's what marriage means, a unity. True, physical proximity shouldn't be absolutely necessary, but the whole idea of marriage, it seems to be, has something to do with physical proximity. Not being together makes this more clear to me. We learn this as kids. As we grow older, we don't buy a winter coat and then leave it on the hanger when we go outside in January. There's a certain congruity.

The importance of establishing a sense of unity is central to us all. I think it's why so many snapshots are taken--a desire to establish some enduring connection with geography, people, and experience. It's why Dorothy clicked her red shoes together and said, "There's no place like home." It's why Vladimir and Estragon wait and wait for a guy named Godot. It's why when my dad was in the nursing home, his most frequent question was "when am I going home?"

We want to be in that place where we belong, where we are "in the know" and accepted. We don't want to be a stranger . . . especially in a strange land. We want unity. We are conscious atoms with atavistic memories of the Unified Field. My parents were married and together sixty-eight years. That definitely created a gravity well in the fabric of time and space, an attraction, an aching in the bones.

I'm heading to the airport now to bring my wife home. It is altogether fitting and proper that I do this. But, in a larger sense (and thank you, Abe), we will be recollecting our unity, reaffirming our unity, and maybe just enjoying the pedestrian pleasure of being together. Our small universe is expanding, and the infinite universe is collapsing upon itself. If it's not one thing, it's the other, or more likely it's only one thing, individual and cosmic, husband married to wife, duality become One, and pretty darn happy about the whole situation.

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler

Another Day Out with Mom #4: Mom and Dad Dancing

A few times when I was young, I remember Mom and Dad dancing, the big band music swinging and Mom and Dad at one with the beat.

I remember how, hold hands, they would swing back with the beat, away from one another, and then pull and come close again with the beat. A little to the side, a spin, they were elegant while we kids watched, somewhat aghast and somewhat amazed. It was obvious that they had danced together many times and that their bodies were remembering the old times, the old dances, the old sounds. They were smiling slightly, competent and confident in their dance skills.

Dad, I remember, had this look on his face--satisfaction at a job done well, pleasure at how well things were going. In this case, the dancing. He had worn that expression before and would again in the future. It was how his face would settle around the pleasure of listening to a car engine purr its idle after he'd tuned it and adjusted the carburetor. It was the expression he'd assume while before a Little League game he'd do infield warm-up and the team was looking good, scooping up the grounders and firing them to first base. It was Dad's small smile of success.

Mom told me about World War II and how everyone worked together, sharing rides to save gas, helping with the rationing of food and cloth, having a garden in the back yard. Sure, there were conscientious objectors, but even they found ways to help if they could and still honor their principles. There was this sense of unity, Mom said, a willingness to give something up for the greater good that crossed many American boundaries, especially generations--grandparents, parents, and children agreeing on an idea and acting together. It was like a nation dancing to the same tune; toes were sometimes stepped on and some weren't with the beat, but it would be inaccurate to say everyone wasn't in some way caught up by the music.

Out of that war experience came the "modern" era--fragmentation, isolation, cynicism. We stopped dancing together or danced as my generation did, facing one another but not touching. That was the great gift to my parents, that expression on their faces as they danced, that remembrance of the moves they made together, that tactile reassurance that they could swing away and would come back together, on the beat.

I want to say I envy my parents, but that would be too bathetic, proving the idea beyond redemption. My generation--our generation--has to find its own unity, its own common ground, our own music. Then we can dance to the tune we know and remember, our hearts one, that look on our face, a small satisfaction at having done something well.

We are our parents' children, mother and father of our children. Long live the Dance and its swinging beat, a rhythm much like the beating of our hearts.

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

Another Day Out with Mom #3: Dependable Underwear

"Tom, that train ride to Iowa is a long one, isn't it?"

"About two days."

"Maybe you should take some of your Dad's absorbant underwear with you. He's in the rest home now, and these are just sitting here not being used."

"Mom! They've got bathrooms on the train. I don't need a diaper."

"It's a long ride. Maybe you won't make it to the restroom or will have to wait too long in line."

"They've got restrooms for each car, about six, in fact."

"Maybe for while you're sleeping. It can sneak up on you!"

"I'll be OK."

". . . You know, sometimes at your age you can leak."

"I know, and it's nobody's fault, but I'm really OK, Mom."

"They're nice and padded, too. You said it's a long trip."

"The seats aren't that bad."

"We've got several boxes, so there's no need not to take some in your bag, just in case."

"Honest, Mom, I'll be fine. Maybe next time, OK?"

Meanwhile, my brother is silently laughing his head off. Laughing so hard, I hope he pees his pants.

If you found this entry fun, you might want to read my first book,  A Day Out with Mom, to find out what I've discovered about my parents so far. The chapters are short, just perfect for the "reading room."

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved

Another Day Out with Mom #2: Mom and Dad's Honeymoon

"We traveled around in Lake County on our honeymoon, and my dad stayed at our place to make sure nothing was stolen," Mom says. Before age set in, before the Alzheimer's/dementia, before the stroke, Dad drove some sweet rigs down the highway, Mom sitting beside him. Some of those rides we kids also rode along on trips to the ocean or trips to the Sierra Nevadas.

The photo above was the rig Dad pulled on Mom and Dad's honeymoon. Looks like a great set-up! I believe Mom said there was a cooking station in the back and a bed before it, but it took some arranging to get it all set.

Mom had lived some in Lake County as a little girl. I later lived in the area at Cobb Mountain in my early 20's. Mom and Dad were married in August, so it must have been hot for camping, but the mountains must have provided some coolness from the elevation.

I love the convertible Dad was driving. Anybody know the make and model? Remember that Mom never drove because of her poor eyesight.

This was in 1946. I have this picture in my mind: Mom and Dad newly married, their family waving them off from their new home, the top down, the sun bright and hopeful. 

I'll ask Mom about it, though. It's a wonderful story--not much money, so that's why they camped. The whole world ahead of them.

We shouldn't just count our blessings; we should savor them, savor our moments of glory. 

It's like the words of the Navaho Night Chant:

May it be beautiful before me.
May it be beautiful behind me.
May it be beautiful below me.
May it be beautiful above me.
May it be beautiful all around me.
In beauty it is finished.
In beauty it is finished.

May every day of our life be a beautiful honeymoon, the highway open before us and calling.

This blog post was inspired by Mom's narration from A Day Out with Mom, from the chapter entitled "Engagement and Marriage."

Copyright 2014 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved