(no subject)
I've been out of town for the last few days, far far away. It was a primitive country in many ways, a land that pre-dates the internet. A strange area known by the name of "My Grandma's House in Eastern Oregon." She lives in Pilot Rock. Yes, the famous Pilot Rock, known by everyone who lives within . . . oh at least ten or twenty miles of it. Why, that could be as many as one or even two hundred people!
It was good to see Grandma again. When I entered I was awash in a flood of memories and then a flood of poisonous chemicals. My Grandma has lived in her house for about 35 years. And every day of those 35 years she has smoked a pack of cigarettes in that house. 35 x 365 x 20 = a quarter of a million cigarettes. And I could feel every one of those on my skin. It just penetrated the walls. Gave me these headaches to tell the truth. Ick. I'm not a fan of smoking in case you haven't guessed. I don't have a problem with other people doing it; I just hate the way it makes me feel and can't stand to be around it.
But sometimes you have to go through hazardous duty to visit family, so after my attempt to hold my breath for the visit failed, I sucked it up, grinned, and tried to visit with my Grandma. I hadn't seen her in two years, so I was kind of expecting a big tadoo, but I should have remembered what my Grandma was like. A brief hug, a "Why Hello There!" and that was pretty much it. Truth to tell, it's rather hard for me to relate to Grandma, we are just so different. I just got through living two years in a foreign country and I don't think she lives anyplace other than two small towns in Eastern Oregon. We're family, and I care and love her, but the distance between us is just so wide that it's hard to bridge.
I also noticed how the small town atmosphere presented in an idealized version is really different from reality. Many people talk about the heartland, and good old fashion small town values and what not, but for me the reality was a bunch of dirty houses with broken appliances in front of them, and people shouting, "Shut up Dog! Shut UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" And it just seemed so boring to me. Sure there was plenty of nature to look at, but after you do that for five minutes, what else do you do?
But I didn't spend the whole time visiting Grandma. After all, it was Rodeo time! Yee . hew? haw?. . how? or something like that?
When I was young Rodeo always used to excite me. I have all these great memories, everything seemed so wonderful and big. And then I came back and looked at it as an adult and . . . nothing special. Not my type of thing at all. The parade was boring, the events looked hokey, and the amusement parked lacked that central ingredient of . . . amusement. There was one bright spot though. I was walking down the street when I saw this girl riding a mechanical bull. It didn't look very hard, just a few ups and down. No problem. I swagger over, having always wanted to try a mechanical bull and get in line. The girl gets off, I get on. And that's when my world become pain. See the operator was obviously taking it easy on the girl. The settings had a 1 to 10 range and the girl was set on a four. When I got on the operator set it to eleven. I was slapping around, squeezing my thighs, and clinging on to this bucking monstrosity of modern mechanical engineering. I was holding on, but in doing so I was squeezing my upper thigh against a jaunting ball. I could feel the bruise getting bigger and bigger, and finally it stopped being fun and got just painful, so I picked my moment and allowed myself to be thrown in as painless a way as possible. Still, at least I can check off mechanical bull from my list of crazy things to do.
I also got in line to try a Buffalo burger. It took a while as they had to wait for a buffalo to be born, and then grow to middle age, and then hunt him through the grasslands. Or at least that's how long it felt like it took them. And then I tried it, and it tasted like regular hamburger. Hardly any difference at all. Ah well. Again, I have this thing for trying new things so at least I did that.
It was good to see Grandma again. When I entered I was awash in a flood of memories and then a flood of poisonous chemicals. My Grandma has lived in her house for about 35 years. And every day of those 35 years she has smoked a pack of cigarettes in that house. 35 x 365 x 20 = a quarter of a million cigarettes. And I could feel every one of those on my skin. It just penetrated the walls. Gave me these headaches to tell the truth. Ick. I'm not a fan of smoking in case you haven't guessed. I don't have a problem with other people doing it; I just hate the way it makes me feel and can't stand to be around it.
But sometimes you have to go through hazardous duty to visit family, so after my attempt to hold my breath for the visit failed, I sucked it up, grinned, and tried to visit with my Grandma. I hadn't seen her in two years, so I was kind of expecting a big tadoo, but I should have remembered what my Grandma was like. A brief hug, a "Why Hello There!" and that was pretty much it. Truth to tell, it's rather hard for me to relate to Grandma, we are just so different. I just got through living two years in a foreign country and I don't think she lives anyplace other than two small towns in Eastern Oregon. We're family, and I care and love her, but the distance between us is just so wide that it's hard to bridge.
I also noticed how the small town atmosphere presented in an idealized version is really different from reality. Many people talk about the heartland, and good old fashion small town values and what not, but for me the reality was a bunch of dirty houses with broken appliances in front of them, and people shouting, "Shut up Dog! Shut UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" And it just seemed so boring to me. Sure there was plenty of nature to look at, but after you do that for five minutes, what else do you do?
But I didn't spend the whole time visiting Grandma. After all, it was Rodeo time! Yee . hew? haw?. . how? or something like that?
When I was young Rodeo always used to excite me. I have all these great memories, everything seemed so wonderful and big. And then I came back and looked at it as an adult and . . . nothing special. Not my type of thing at all. The parade was boring, the events looked hokey, and the amusement parked lacked that central ingredient of . . . amusement. There was one bright spot though. I was walking down the street when I saw this girl riding a mechanical bull. It didn't look very hard, just a few ups and down. No problem. I swagger over, having always wanted to try a mechanical bull and get in line. The girl gets off, I get on. And that's when my world become pain. See the operator was obviously taking it easy on the girl. The settings had a 1 to 10 range and the girl was set on a four. When I got on the operator set it to eleven. I was slapping around, squeezing my thighs, and clinging on to this bucking monstrosity of modern mechanical engineering. I was holding on, but in doing so I was squeezing my upper thigh against a jaunting ball. I could feel the bruise getting bigger and bigger, and finally it stopped being fun and got just painful, so I picked my moment and allowed myself to be thrown in as painless a way as possible. Still, at least I can check off mechanical bull from my list of crazy things to do.
I also got in line to try a Buffalo burger. It took a while as they had to wait for a buffalo to be born, and then grow to middle age, and then hunt him through the grasslands. Or at least that's how long it felt like it took them. And then I tried it, and it tasted like regular hamburger. Hardly any difference at all. Ah well. Again, I have this thing for trying new things so at least I did that.