Voula Saris, April 15, 1926 - July 8, 2013

I visited Voula in the hospital last Saturday.

My mom was sitting in a chair, one of her feet propped up on the end of Voula's bed.  They were both resting, both so very tired.


Hearing me walk in, my mom opened her eyes.  We talked, quietly, while nurses came in and out.  One took Voula's blood pressure - wrapping the sleeve around Voula's arm, pumping that sleeve up, recording the reading in pencil.  Finished up by taking her temperature, all without Voula waking.

All while Voula slept.

Voula?  Officially her name was Paraskevi, but all called her Voula.  Voula was one of my mom's closest friends.  Both of them helping at the church so often.  If I think of Voula I see her in the kitchen, at the Greek Orthodox Church on Tokay, with her hair net on and hands buttering phyllo for baklava or stirring rice as it bubbled in one of the church's huge pots, tossing salad.  Cooking, so often cooking.

Voula was one of the people you could take for granted - like so many of the women and men who donate their time to the church.  So much happens under the guidance of Father Jon, but it wouldn't happen - couldn't happen - without Voula or Paul or Des or Greg.

Working, always working - cooking with my mom, cleaning, boxing pastries.  Ah, Voula.

You and my mom.  Ah, Voula.  Wrapping grape leaves for dolmathes, you and my mom.  Twisting koulourakia, you and my mom.  Frying kalitsounia, you and my mom.

You and my mom.

My earliest memory of Voula is from one of our many visits when I was a kid - she lived in South Modesto, over on Marshall.  Little house on a big plot - big at least to me, then.  On this occasion, Voula greeted us outside her house, now painted bright yellow.  Her smile could've stopped a truck as she pointed to herself and said in Greek:

I did this.

So happy to have accomplished this thing by herself since no one else was going to.  So happy.  Such a bright yellow over the dark, weathered wood.

Voula had a wonderful garden there behind her little yellow house - her grapes?  Her white grapes?  Her tomatoes?  One year she planted pumpkins for me and my brothers.  I don't know if any other kids received this wonderful present from her - probably they did.  When it came to kids, Voula was shameless.  The gleam she'd get in her eye if a kid came into the room? Twinkle twinkle.


But on Saturday Voula slept - tired from life, right?  Looking to rest.  I stood up after the nurse left and leaned over.  I can't say much in Greek, but I can say I love you.  So I told Voula that.  Told her we all loved her.

Voula opened her eyes - and while the twinkle wasn't as bright as it has been, it was still there.  I love you too, Voula said.  All of you.  Especially the children.


This is what I want my daughters to remember about Voula - that the last thing she said to me was how much she loved the children.  Mine, certainly - but their cousins, too.  And all the children lucky enough to have met Voula.

Especially the children, Voula said.


When I left her hospital room after Voula fell back asleep, my mom said Voula woke back up.  Kristina was just here, Voula said - Kristina my daughter - but I think she left because I don't see her.

My mom stood up and walked closer.  What's that, Voula? my mom said.  What are you saying?

The children, Voula said.  The children.  The children.  And then nothing after that.

Voula ate dinner that night - fed to her by Mary Zak, on the Saturday.  Ate with an appetite she hadn't shown in a long time.  Ate everything on her plate and then raised her hand.  Raised her hand firmly, indicating - I'm done.

I'm done.


Voula Saris passed away around the midnight hour on Monday morning.  Passed away in the comfort of the Hospice House in Hughson.  We love you, Voula.  We love you a lot.  And we'll miss you.  My mom especially.  My mom and the kids, especially.  Eternal be your memory, Voula.  Eternal.

Elizabeth and Kristina will remember.  With sadness now - but not later, hopefully.  They didn't take the news well.  What child would?  They were sad, bereft - and mad they hadn't visited more.  But mainly sad and bereft.  And what I want them to know is, what I want them to remember is--

I love you, too, Voula said.  Especially the children.

The children.  The children.  The children.

National Martini Day and the Cali Martini

Today is National Martini Day (I wish I knew who determined these things - certainly, I would buy them a drink), and in its honor, I wanted to whip up something a little regional.  Something good.  I went first to St. George - the bay area spirits producer, not the George of dragon fame.

They've created a trio of gins, and you should try them all.  For tonight's martini, I went with #3, their Dry Rye Gin.  Yes indeed, it's all rye and wickedly good.  Is the juniper still there?  Of course - with hints of pepper.  Deliciously dry.

I don't believe a martini is a martini without vermouth - otherwise, you're drinking gin, neat.  And that's fine, but it ain't a martini.  To continue the California theme, I added my favorite vermouth, Vya - bottled in California's Central Valley.

I then went north but stayed west for the bitters - Scrappy's Aromatic Bitters from Washington state.  Put those together, add your lemon twist, and you've got a martini worthy of the Golden State - bold, crisp, but with the strong charm of a Hollywood character actor.

So celebrate National Martini Day, June 19th, 2013 - and enjoy the...

MARTINI CALI:

2 oz. St. George Dry Rye Gin
.5 oz. Vya Extra Dry Vermouth
1 dash Scrappy's Aromatic Bitters

Stir with ice.  Strain into chilled martini glass.  Add bitters and garnish with a lemon twist. 

Spending Father's Day with a Bad Monkey

I woke up today thinking about my dad - naturally, right?  But I was also thinking about the Bad Monkey.

You know, the Bad Monkey cocktail.  And - if you would - please don't confuse the Bad Monkey cocktail with Bad Monkey, the new book by Carl Hiaasen.  Although, since the Bad Monkey was named for Bad Monkey, I can understand getting them mixed up.

None of this is clear.  I'm sensing that absolutely none of this is clear.

Ok - Carl Hiaasen has a new book out - I said that, right?  Bad Monkey.  If you like your capers fast-paced, if you like your voodoo sorceresses to be sex-crazed, and, of course, if you like your monkeys bad, then get yourself to a bookstore and buy the book.

Are we clear?  Go buy the book.

And - if you live in the bay area, you can see Mr. Hiaasen next Sunday, June 23rd, at the Chapel in San Francisco.  Ye olde bookshoppe is hosting the event and it's going to be a humdinger.  Mr. Hiaasen will be in conversation with Christopher Moore - and since these two are responsible for the funniest novels written in the past twenty years, and since they're going to be under one roof in San Francisco - seriously, just buy the book now and get yourself a ticket for this Sunday.

To commemorate the event, and because the Chapel has a bar - I know, I know, only in San Francisco would a Chapel have an open bar on Sunday - I thought it would be a good idea to offer a special cocktail.  Hence, the Bad Monkey.

And since I get to put on a suit and introduce the authors and pimp the drink, I wanted it to be a tasty one - so I kept it simple and good.  I had to start with rum.  If Florida had a state alcohol, that's what it would be.  And since - if you've read even one of Mr. Hiaasen's novels - you know that Florida is as much a character as the characters, you're with me.

Are you with me?  Florida = rum, so we begin with rum.  And to make it go down as easy as the book, I sweetened it up, just a skosh, with a dram of banana liqueur.

Because it's a Bad Monkey, I threw in some mole bitters because a bad monkey might want his banana dipped in chocolate.

Usually, when I'm mixing drinks at home, I snap a quick pic and throw it online.  And so I did this with the Bad Monkey.

The Bad Monkey

 2 oz. rum

.5 oz banana liqueur

20 drops (1 full dropper) Xocolatl Mole Bitters

Stir with ice.  Strain into ice-filled glass.  Add your monkey.


But then, since it's kind of a big deal, what with these two heavy-hitting authors coming to town, I thought maybe I should stage the picture a little more than I usually do.  And that's why I woke up today thinking about my dad - it being Father's Day and all - and the Bad Monkey.

You thought I forgot about that connection, didn't you? 

Since time's a wastin, I needed to figure out how the staged picture would differ from the snap - and that meant a different glass.  Different because the drink, we decided (we being the crew at the store), needed to be served over, not neat.  Over, because the ice would mellow the cocktail a little.

I thought a heavy rocks glass would do.  Something with a '60's feel because that's what the drink tastes like - a nostalgic Florida with a little Beach Boys thrown in.

But then I thought - Tiki.  Something Tiki would be tailor-made.  And then I thought of my dad.

Specifically, I thought of my dad and my mom and the Tiki bar set he bought for her while they honeymooned in Hawaii in 1962.  It's beautiful and bamboo - highball glasses, shot glasses, an ice bucket, all with that wonderful Tiki vibe.  I've had two of the bamboo glasses on my desk in my bedroom in my parent's house for forever.  I don't remember when I first took them and filled them with pens, not booze, but I did.

My fondness for the drinking culture was obviously instilled early.

So those glasses would be ideal - actually, Collins glasses of bamboo would've been dead-on, but they didn't come with the set, just the highballs.

Still - woulda been perfect.

Except the set is in Modesto, not Alameda (though I really should have it here - it's just I need to convince my mom and my brothers that I deserve it the most), and I didn't have time to drive home to borrow it and did I mention the event is a week from today?


Today was Father's Day.  I mentioned that, I know I did.  And my day began with my daughters making me breakfast.  You might not appreciate peanut-butter toast with a Diet Coke chaser as much as I do, but my girls made it for me without assistance so it tasted better than room service at the St. Francis.

Then?  Then Elizabeth suggested that I should take her and her little sister antique shopping.  Wouldn't that be a great way to spend the morning?  Wouldn't it, Daddy?

If you knew me, you'd know the answer was yes.  Antiquing is something Karen and I used to do all the time, and the bug has infected the girls - so away we went. 

They would be searching for vintage handkerchiefs - their passion - and I would be looking for that old-school rocks glass.

We visited three new-to-us shops in Oakland - and except for one shot glass decorated with cartoon monkeys - I didn't see anything on the money.  The girls?  The girls were also without hankies, so we went back to Alameda and hit two shops that always provided.  Always.

Elizabeth found a boxed '50's dolly at Park Street Antiques - and at Pauline's, Kristina hit handkerchief pay dirt.  Pauline always has hankies - many of her bins overflow with them - and she smiled as she saw Kristina sitting on the carpet carefully looking at each one.

I told the girls to hold down the fort on the ground floor and I'd check out the downstairs, that pastiche of treasures just waiting to be picked over.  Like Abu, Aladdin's monkey in the Cave of Wonders, it's hard not to grab at all the beckoning, shiny objects.

Sure enough, a rocks glass practically leaped into my hands - with exactly the right sixties feel to it, what with its outside pattern of gold leaf squares.

I'd found what I was looking for - I thought - but instead of hurrying upstairs, something held me back and I decided to take one more spin down one more aisle.  That's when I saw, by itself on a small table - and this itself is a miracle because nothing is ever by itself at Pauline's, everything's in a wonderful jumble.  But there - on a small table by itself - was a Tiki bar set.  An exact match to the set my parents bought in Hawaii more than 51 years ago, except instead of highball glasses, the six glasses in this set were taller and skinnier.

Collins glasses, just like the ones I had imagined this morning.

Bamboo Collins glasses, absolute mates of the set that sits tucked away in my parent's garage in Modesto.  The perfect thing.

I grabbed everything:  the six glasses, the ice bucket, the tongs.  And headed upstairs with that set and my rocks glass (why the heck not, it was just a buck) and Kristina's handkerchief.

Pauline gave me a deal - she always does, if I ask, and I asked - and then we set off for home.  Then I headed into work - Father's Day can be busy at the store.  But all day all I could think about was - how the heck did that happen?  What magic occurred in the basement of Pauline's Antiques?

Did I manifest those glasses?  Or had they always been there?  Just waiting for me to see them?

Sometimes it's best not to question things too much - so I won't.  But I will think of my dad today - and I will mix a Bad Monkey and raise it high to him.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.  Can I please have the Tiki set you bought in Hawaii?  It'll match a set I picked up today - perfectly.

Now the rest of you - go buy your Bad Monkey.  It'll go down smooth, I promise.

Dusty Hunting

Sometimes the universe speaks - and when it does, you need to listen.

This wonderful post dropped into my lap two days ago.  It concerns Dusty Hunting - a term unknown to me.  If you Google it, you'll find lots of hits about women who go into nail salons looking for old nail polish.  The little jars no longer glistening because of the dust covering them - but sought after nonetheless by searchers looking for discontinued colors.

Greg, though - and I don't know Greg, not yet, but I revere him all the same - Greg was a Dusty Hunter of another sort.  Greg travels to old-school liquor stores seeking out whiskey - bourbon and rye - that was bottled years ago but that never found a home.

Whiskey, just sitting on a shelf, waiting.

I couldn't quite believe what I was reading.  Greg said that he detoured into Baltimore, hitting a few dozen liquor stores, and there they were:

A bottle of Old Overholt Rye, from 1968.

Bottles of Old Forester from the 1970's, others from the mid sixties.

J.T.S. Brown Kentucky Bourbon from 1969.

These were just a few of the treasures he found that day - and the world of Dusty Hunting suddenly opened up to me.

Could this be true?  It couldn't be true.  I couldn't just walk into a liquor store and find something bottled before I was born (1966), some delicious treat that had been unpacked before we walked on the moon, placed on a shelf, placed on another shelf, the shelves getting lower and dirtier as the years went by?

But here was more proof posted by my new friend Greg.

There's a certain tingling I get when I know something is going to please me - the first time I went to a speech tournament in high school, crutching up to the podium, dragging a shattered leg behind me.  Doing terribly.  The worst speaker to take any stage in 1980.  But even then I knew I was going to like it, later.

Baseball - that first professional game we saw.  The Modesto Reds.  Tingle tingle.

Well, let me tell you, Greg got my spidey-sense tingling.

There's a liquor store - the Pit Stop Market - up the street from the bookstore.  Tracy needed some Everclear because she's trying to concoct some bitters for a Bad Monkey cocktail we're devising (more on that later.)  So I thought I'd kill two boozy birds with one stone and I took a walk.

The Pit Stop must be the kind of place Greg would be drawn to.  Shabby on the outside, most of its windows screened with ads for Newport and Marlboro.  A Bud Light sign in another window, the Silver and Black Raider staring out at you with his one good eye, the words One Nation One Beer underneath.

I'd been inside before, but never on a Dusty Hunt.

What do you look for?  What are the broken twigs, the signs of scat, the trail markings that a Dusty Hunter seeks?

Dusty bottles, number one.  And then tax stamps.  Remember those?  Affixed to the top of the bottle?  Green if it was bonded whiskey, red for other hooch.

Look at how the liquid is measured.  Anything in ounces is good.  4/5 of a quart?  Gold.  There were a few years when bottles had both metric and US Standard measurements - some sources say it was only 1979-80.  Others say mid-70's to early 80's.  Either way, if you've got a dusty bottle with both measures, she's an old one.

So I walk into the Pit Stop.  The woman behind the counter can't be bothered - she's yakking on her phone.  Like many such establishments, the hard stuff is behind the counter.  I scan the shelves and see four bottles of Everclear - 151 proof.  Lots of vodka.  Cheap whiskey.

And there, on the bottom shelf, almost at the end - two old bottles.  Black and White Scotch Whisky.

I catch the woman's eye, the woman behind the counter, get her to stop talking on the phone - and ask if I could take a look behind the counter.

She looks at me like it's a hold-up - and I'm certain the Pit has had its fair share of those.  Why you want do that? she says.  No, she says, I'm busy.  And she goes back to yakking.

I ask if I can buy two bottles of her Everclear and she perks up.  Sure, sure, she says.  Why you no say?  And she smiles.  So then I ask if I can take that peak around the counter.  Quick quick, she says.  I'm busy.  But she's still smiling.

The first thing that started the tingle was the tax stamp.

Tax stamps - those wonderful relics that progress and bar codes made obsolete.  So first, that - and now, with the smaller of the two bottles in hand, I see how the scotch is measured:  500 ml (16.9 FL. OZ.)

Is my first Dusty Hunt a success?  It has to be.  The bottle and the scotch are old.  It's not whiskey, it's not Old Fitzgerald Bottled in Bond, but it's pretty.  There's that.  And I remember seeing those two scotties from when I was a kid - I don't think my dad ever touched the stuff, so maybe it's just the memory a little boy filed away, maybe from Modesto Liquors - a little boy drawn to the cute little doggies on the label.

I buy it, of course.  Just the small bottle, though, not the bigger.  If it was bourbon, yes.  If rye, yes.  But I'll call off the dogs from the dogs.  One bottle is enough.

I hand the woman the bottle of Black & White.  Ooh, look at that, she says.  That old label, very old.  And she happily adds $13.98 to my purchase.

Back at the store, I give Tracy her Everclear.  The two bottles should be enough.  Then I show her the trophy from my hunt, tell her how I bagged those two doggies.

There's another mini mart that I pass on my way home.  Bonfare Market - Fine Foods Fast.  Should I push my luck?

Of course I should.

I walk past the blaring orange lights trumpeting how many millions are available to the California Lottery's next lucky winner.

Inside, more shelves, more booze.

Down low, right?  It's gotta be down low again - and sure enough, on that bottom shelf, there's a dusty bottle being used to prop up an empty frame.  The bottle has the red tax stamp I'm looking for.

And in my hands, with both measures of volume on the label, I hold a bottle of DeKuyper Creme de Cacao.

Like a hunter looking through his scope, taking the measure of the buck that he's tracked, there comes that moment when you have to decide whether or not to pull the trigger.

She's an old animal, this Cacao.  For sure.  But I'm not pulling the trigger.  I put her back where I found her.  Clap my hands loud - to scare her off, to let her know that I could have had her if I wanted, but she's not for me.

Maybe some other Dusty Hunter with a thirst for something chocolaty will find this treasure.

I'll leave it at that.

I'll leave it at that because I know I've got some dusty bottles at home - bottles from my dad's stash that my mom distributed after he died.  I know more than a couple have red stamps.

I know that there's at least that bottle of Jack.  Unopened.  That my dad must have gotten around the time I was crutching up to that first podium, around the time Queen was singing about Another One Biting the Dust.

So I'm headed home, successful from my first forays into Dusty Hunting.  Eager to see what my own stashes hold - and what the Bay Area has to offer. 

Greg?  Thanks.  Wherever you are.

My Dad - Three Years Later

After my dad died on March 1st, 2010, one of the things that haunted me was the fact that we called Hospice too late.  The point of Hospice, the purpose of Hospice, is that they develop a plan of care for the terminally ill.

I don't know when the perfect time is to initiate contact, but certainly it shouldn't be just a few days before death.

We didn't know.

It was the first instance any of us had spent time - intimate time - with Death.

So we didn't know.

Thursday afternoon, a social worker came to the house to begin the process.  He let us know that he'd coordinate all the efforts of Hospice - he'd make sure that any volunteers, health aides or nurses that my dad needed would be provided.

Again, this was all too late for Dad.  He'd be dead in days.  Our only concern at that point was effectively managing his pain - there was so much pain.  Too much.




My father - in the middle - with his brothers, Pete and Dean, on the porch of House #402, in Greek Town, Hiawatha, Utah

The Hospice worker explained that he'd begin by collecting information about my dad:

Full name:  Anthony George Petrulakis

Place of birth:  Hiawatha, Utah.

Date of birth:  June 24th, 1932.

Did  he go to college?  Yes, at the University of Utah.

His occupation?  He was a pharmacist.  He received his license to practice pharmacy in 1955.  The California Board of Pharmacy recognized his 50 years in the profession at their Board Meeting on July 27, 2006.



Dinner, 1960, Sinaloa Cantina, San Francisco.  Tony far left.

My dad was still going strong then, still working then.


What was Anthony's wife's maiden name? Anna Montzourani.

When did they get married?  March 10th, 1962.

Did they have any children?  Yes, George Anthony Petrulakis, Nicholas Anthony Petrulakis, and Dean Peter Petrulakis.

Religious affiliation?  Greek Orthodox.


The questions went like that for a while.  My mom sat across from the Hospice representative, I sat at the table with them, my brothers were in the living room.  All of us there, worried about my dad, Dad lying down in the back bedroom.

So much pain.

At some point, the recitation of questions and answers ended.  The Hospice worker leaned back in the dining room chair.  His hands came together on top of the table.  I remember that distinctly, his hands, fingers lacing, resting on polished dark wood.

I thought he was through.  That his hands on the table signalled that he was through.

He wasn't through.

Anna, he said, looking at my mom.  I just have one more question.

Mom's eyes were wet - they'd been wet all morning.  She of course more than any of us had borne the brunt of this struggle with Death.  My mom who was so very used to helping everyone else, so very unused to asking for help herself.  Death can be brutal on the dying - she's an absolute bitch to the caregivers.

Yes?  My mom said, wiping her eyes.

Anna, he said.  Does Tony have any regrets?


Are you with me?  Because if you're with me you'll realize that this question was an aberration, was so different than the others that it seemed to have been spoken in Greek, not English.  Greek, though, is my mom's first language so she understood.  Easily.  Was able to answer.

She took a deep breath, looked over at my brothers in the other room, across the table at me.

No, my mom said.  No regrets.


Thanksgiving 1997


And the amazing thing?  My mom was absolutely right.  My father lived for his family, his church,  his friends and his work.  He'd worked hard - too hard - for too many years.  But work was what my dad did.  To provide for his family.

Dad's family began with my mom.  He loved her more than anyone - more than any of us boys, certainly.  And this is said with no offense, no resentment.  He loved his boys, yes, but he adored my mom.

Adored her.

Maybe his granddaughters were moving up in the pecking order.  Possibly he loved those three girls more than his three boys - no, not possibly but probably - because they were so small and he was so big and he could just enjoy them.  Enjoy them with a wonderment that wasn't available to fathers in the sixties.

Regrets?  My dad?  In all honesty, no.

No regrets.

The question knocked me back on my heels, though.  Regrets?  I've had a few.

What was I doing wrong, then?  If Elizabeth and Kristina had to overhear this conversation in the future, if someone rested his hands on our dining room table and asked my wife-

Karen?  Does Nick have any regrets?


I regret not being a better husband, a better father.  I regret not being a better son, a better friend.

I regret the the books not written.

Regret not being better.

Regret.


So the question was an uncomfortable reminder that this is it - and if you're not enjoying it, this full catastrophe of life, if you're not doing your best, right now, at whatever it is that's in front of you--

Then why not? 

Why not?

Pluto - 29 Years Later

We had a bit of a rough start when we headed to Disneyland on Valentine's Day.  About twenty miles into our journey we realized we had left our tickets for the Magic Kingdom at the house.

So around we turned and headed back.  As I exited 880 onto the frontage road that wends along the freeway, I could see Kristina in the backseat getting her bearings.  I looked down and saw that we had traveled 43.5 miles only to be back where we started.

Kristina, still looking around, said, Hey, shouldn't we be further along than this?

I really love that kid.

Grabbed the tickets from beside the clock, found the guide book we'd also left behind, and resumed our trek.


After midnight, I decided to plug in my iPod and play only the longest songs I could find.  Alice's Restaurant ate up more than 10 miles of our dark route, and the Day the Music Died was good for another 10.  But In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?  Thank you, Iron Butterfly - 45 years after you released that song, you carried me well through the Grapevine.  25 miles at least.

Lotta drums and keyboard in that song.  Lots.

On that end of our journey, as we neared our destination, Iron Butterfly now a memory, Caltrans decided to close the 405 - without providing any detour signs, God bless 'em.  I don't drive much in SoCal, so this put another wrench in our works.

But finally, around 3 a.m., we arrived in Newport.  I hope the poor woman who lives above the garage was out frolicking, because I opened and closed the garage door four different times.

I apologize.

Disneyland?  Disneyland is amazing.  I know, you knew that.  But we didn't know what to expect.  The crowds! we'd been warned.  On President's Day Weekend?  The crowds!

Do you have a plan of attack?  Who'll get the Fast Passes?  Are you packing lunch?

And you know what?  It was still amazing.  We had a great time - the girls had a great time.  The Haunted Mansion is phenomenal.  As is Pirates.  I had a mission, though.  To find Pluto.  I explained that the last time we were in Disneyland, Karen and I were enjoying Grad Night 1984.  One keepsake from that night was a picture with the dog himself, happy Pluto.  So we we're going to recreate that, if we could - with our two additions.

Karen wanted to know if there was an app that let you track the whereabouts of the costumed characters - but I was pretty certain we'd find him.  I mean, right?  We couldn't not find him - that just wouldn't be right.

So of course, we did.  And if I do say so myself, I think the almost 30 years have been kind to that doggy.

What do you think?

For Valentine's Day - The Happiest Place on Earth

The last time Karen and I went to Disneyland was Grad Night.  On May 25th, 1984, the Senior Class of Modesto's Grace M. Davis High School - go Spartans! - took an overnight bus trip to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Bands.  Remember the bands?  We missed hearing Cheap Trick by a few days - they performed the week before.  I think we got - Con Funk Shun?  Was that a group?

Instead of I Want You to Want Me, we got Ffun.

Two f's.

But what a night.

For how much fun we'd have - the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Haunted Mansion, getting our picture taken with Pluto - the trip began ignominiously.  My fault, that.  All mine.

I knew about these electrical wires that crossed the 5 over the Grapevine in the Tehachapi Mountains.  To share this fact, because share I must, I commandeered the driver's public address system and told my classmates that when we got there - to where those wires crossed overhead in the Tehachapis - they'd get a shock because we were so high up and the wires were so low down that you could feel the electricity conducted through the windows.  Careful, though, because sometimes the effect was uncomfortable.

I told everyone this as we rolled out of Modesto.

Reminded them in Merced.

And Fresno.

Then Bakersfield.

Squawking on the mic made me feel like those truckers on their CB's in C. W. McCall's Convoy.  10-4, indeed, good buddy.

We're now hours into the trip as we begin our ascent through the mountains, but because of all the reminders, I didn't have to ask my fellow students to keep an eye out.  When the towers appeared alongside the freeway, the towers linked by those coursing wires, it wasn't just me who got electrified.

Then, there - ahead - the wires crossed the 5.

I got back on the mic and told everyone to get ready, to touch the windows.

If you're with me, right there beside me, I'll hand over the mic so you can also remind these soon-to-be graduates of the drill.  And as you tell them to reach out, you'll look down the length of the bus and see dozens of students - the boys in coats and ties, the girls in skirts and blouses, good ol' Walt maintained his dress code down in Anaheim - you'll see those natty kids reaching over themselves and others to touch the glass.  Waking up their snoozing seatmates so they don't miss out.

As we approach the wires overhead I'll take the mic back just as the bus passes underneath - as the driver himself reaches for his side window because he's never experienced this phenomenon.  I'll look out at all those Spartans and tell them, as their fingertips graze glass, to be careful.  To be careful because on a clear day like that one in May - in 1984 - the effect I described could be magnified.

Then I ask them if they feel it.

Feel what? some grumble, because we're under the wires now and the high I've promised hasn't hit.

Feel what? I ask right back.  The pane.  Don't you feel the pane?


As understanding nears, as the grumbles increase, as these students who've spent four years with me - and now a long four hours on this bus - see the dawning of what's just happened, that I've teased them through the length of California's great valley just to jolt them with a bad pun, the grumbles become threats.

Matt Petersen yells out that I better stick close to Mickey and all the other rats in Disneyland.  I'm not about to correct him - Mickey's a mouse and would take offense at the comparison.  I just hand the mic back to the driver who hangs it from its mic doohickey as he keeps his eye on the freeway sliding under his bus.

Stupid kid, I'm sure he thought. 

It was a long walk back to my seat - deflecting the slings and arrows being tossed my way.  And Karen?  Karen looking at me, shaking her head like - oh dear.  Oh dear.  Really?  I'm going on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with this guy?

Really?

I do not know why she put up with me - or continues to do so 30 years later.

But Disneyland?  We're going back.  For the first time.  Not with fellow students but with two kids in tow.  We'll track down Pluto, make him take another picture.  This time with four, not just us two.

I wonder how much Pluto has changed in 30 years?  More than us, or less?