Pleasanton Paradise
The Trip
Speeding down the interstate at 75 miles an hour, the wind rushing through the open window. It feels cool and refreshing as the night rushes past in a blur of lights and motion. It is 3:15 A.M. and as the poet penned; “I have miles to go before I sleep”.
It was one of those mornings. I planned to leave on time but the evil bed monster would not relinquish its crushing grip. I found the battle for freedom from the Bed Bear consuming the last few minutes I had before it was go time. Now, as I raced down the barren interstate, unbidden thoughts flooded my consciousness. I saw the whole band lined up along the curb, arms folded with terrible scowls on their faces.
“He’s late, that rotten new guy! He’s late and now he’s making the rest of us late. What will it be, Boiling? Hanging? Mere child’s play. No, we need something truly painful, but what? That’s it! We’ll detune his pipes and force him to play “Amazing grace” in the Men’s room of the Marriot in Pleasanton!”
A slight shudder ran down my spine as I visualized the awful scene now being paraded before my helpless imagination. My foot involuntarily plunged the accelerator to the floor and the aging Bronco surged forward into the cold darkness. Soon, I found myself nearing the exit that would lead to my waiting friends. As I turned onto the small street, I breathed a sudden sigh of relief. I wasn’t late at all. There, like a trusted traffic cop, stood Kylene motioning me into a waiting parking space in Todd’s driveway. Ah, all was right with the world. I would not have to face the horrors of the porcelain torture chamber after all.
The bags, pillows, suitcases, pipes and various other sundries were hastily thrown into the back of the waiting vans. After a small amount of force and a few choice expletives, the back hatch was successfully closed and we boarded the vans that would be our home for the next fourteen hours, give or take an hour or two. My first sign that we were in trouble came about an hour into the journey. I heard a strange sound from the rear; it was a labored rendition of some Disney theme song. It started low and quiet but soon reverberated around the inside of the van like a steel ball bouncing from one pinball cushion to another. Quickly, with the adept agility of a trained swordsman, I reached for my trusted earplugs.
Must plug ears… must plug…
I labored with every muscle in me to insert the life saving sponge noise barriers. It wasn’t working! I could still hear it. Like a deadly mist, it began to permeate and then bypass the soft barriers in my ears. Soon, I found myself humming the tune as well. Oh no! What was next? Might I actually join in and then… NOOOOOO!
Mercifully, the sandman came to my rescue. Like a soft snow falling, so it was in our rolling home. One by one the merry minstrels began to nod and then to drift off to sleep. The tumultuous tones began to die and then there was nothing but the silence, the sweet silence of our cruising abode.
As we flew down the two-lane highway, I settled into my marginally comfortable captain’s chair, setting the controls and guidance systems for our destination, far off Tone City, California. My co-pilot, and long time (almost fifteen minutes) friend, was none other than the renowned William Scott George. After insuring the correct coordinates were entered into the guidance computer, Bill and I settled in for a long journey.
Our craft was the wonderful new Dodge @#@$%@ minivan. It had the virtue of being new and that was its only redeeming quality. Our small convoy of four vans and one Dodge Ram pulling a huge trailer, snaked its way along the winding interstate in an unending procession to our final goal. It was a wonderful journey. We saw such wonderful things, such as: the vast deserts of Nevada… yawn… The mountainous heights of Reno… groan… and finally we came to a truly welcome sight. There in the distance was the towering peaks of the California Agricultural Checkpoint.
“Hello, do you ‘ave any fruits or vegetables in your car?”
“No, unless you count the six sitting here in the van with me.”
“Ok, thank you, have a nice day, come again, thank you, thank you.”
I pressed the accelerator and we were off! Free at last, free at last, thank the Lord we are free at last! Our white Dodge minivan accelerated at a blistering pace of 0 to 60 in almost 4 to 5 minutes. That’s when our worst fears were realized. The sleeping beauties in the back suddenly received a kiss from some imaginary prince. They were wide-awake and we began to hear stories such as the following:
How to bake a cake
When baking a cake it is essential to include Porcupines and plenty of dirt and oreos. Be sure to combine all the ingredients Springingly and beat them for years…
That’s right; they were playing a game called Mad Libs. It is actually my favorite. What fun! The games and frivolity continued for the rest of the trip. Looking back, I am so happy I was selected to be in this van. The youthful exuberance and vitality of our Tenor Drummers and pipers truly made the trip a delight and I would not have changed a thing.
We arrived at the Pleasanton Marriot at around 4:00 P.M. that evening and began preparation for the following day’s activities.
