HOME

PHOTOS &
CURRENT COLUMNS

FANS' FAVORITE FIVE

COLUMNS BY
SUBJECT

www.livingthelifeofholly.com
Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
Foggy. Then Sunny. Lots of Bathrooms. Oh. And. I Almost Got Arrested

When is daylight?

The fog banged on my windshield blocking any semblance of visibility. No problem. I was driving on a mostly straight highway at four o’clock in the morning and there was a lot of road and only a few cars competing for driving space. A little fog wouldn’t dampen my mood. I could do this. The tractor trailers slowed. Great. Their tail lights would guide me. Cars sped past me. How on earth could they see? Was the highway department giving away super-hydraulic-fog-lifting goggles? Where were mine?

Two hours.

The turtle trucks bored me as they tiptoed through the fogged morning and the zippy cars induced fear as they zoomed by and disappeared into the nothingness. Beads of self-loathing and envy gathered on my forehead and laughed at me. Why wasn’t I woman enough to drive eighty miles an hour in zero visibility? I was alone on the road where the sliver of the moon hid; and I vied to view any tail lights for proof that I did exist, and that I was on a road and not driving across some field with double yellow lines.

What time is daylight, anyway?

I was heading to Arizona to visit Linda and her family for no particular reason other than to escape into another reality, and eat elk. It had been eleven months since my last elk fix and her children had been secretly e-mailing me, begging for a Holly-visit, knowing that I would eat more than their game meat rations, thus giving them a mac and cheese break. It seems that I’m the only one in the continental United States who eats elk because I like it and not to clear room in the freezer.

Two hours and thirty minutes.

The sky showed a thick line of red. Oh. Good. There was a sky in the sky. The red grew into a tight lipped expression of ‘maybe.’ Oh. Cool. The possibility of day. The sun appeared and slowly ate the fog in a slow predator/prey dance where the fog didn’t stand a chance. It was no secret that my vote was for the sun. The fog lost and pouted its way up into the sky in a hopeless retreat vowing to return the next morning. I victoriously set the cruise control.

Three hours.

Bored. Alone. On the road. Watching the odometer gobble up miles, ever greedy for one more….just one more mile to prove the car’s sustainability. Daylight wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, taking away the guess work as to what lay beyond the glow of the headlights. Sure. My mind was activated by the book on tape, but my body wanted to do something less ambiguous. More extravagant. You know. Go for a walk on the beach while I was driving, or climb Mt. Everest or shake hands with the Dali Lama. I surveyed the car for a worthwhile activity I could do while driving. Hmmm. Very limited choices.

There was a great view out the windshield. An astounding view.

I grabbed the camera, turned it on and held it to my face while I carefully peered at the road. Not so easy. Hold the car steady. Don’t swerve. Hard. Hold the steering wheel hard. The camera had a different depth perception than my eyes which made everything appear to be closer than it was. I took a photo of the plains with a plateau in the background out my dirty, cracked windshield which is way more difficult to do while driving eighty miles an hour than you might think. I was exhilarated at the challenge.

The other car on the road was not impressed with my considering the world through a different lens and started driving three hundred miles an hour to be rid of me. (I’ll bet they don’t go to art museums.)

Five hours.

Stopped to use the restroom at a gas station. I ran in as fast as I could and stood in front of the proper door banging on it while I shifted from one foot to the other while pretending to shop for postcards. It didn’t help. The woman who had barricaded herself inside didn’t seem to care about the intensity of my situation. I could imagine her inside applying moisturizer to fight that dry travel air in her Mercedes. Groan. This could be bad…

Though I considered waiting so I could elbow her in the ribs as she exited, I couldn’t risk it. I delved into the men’s room. Oh. Big mistake. Dirty. Messy. Bad. Really, smelly-bad. There was no complimentary gas mask, which was my own fault. In the future I’ll carry my own.

I had to do a bit of cleaning before I could approach the toilet. And. May I say that I have traveled to third world countries and seen restrooms that were better? Hello. Health department, are you listening? If simple mold could be turned into penicillin, I’m certain that the biology of this bathroom could cure Aides. Yeah. That bad.

When I exited, I held my head high fully expecting many words of thanks from the men in line. You know. For cleaning. Um. No. They seemed to be muttering something about trespassing which made me want to rush back in there and slam the door make them wait and wait and wait while I re-dirtied the bathroom for them. Make THEM suffer. Yeah. I know. Who would that hurt the most? Um. me.

Five hours thirty minutes. Las Vegas, New Mexico.

Stopped for gas. Decided to drive to the center of (the other) Las Vegas to take a photograph of the historic old square. Found the square easily and snapped off a few pics. Made a plan. I’d stop in Santa Fe and Albuquerque to get photos of those old squares as well. It’d be great to add photos to all different parts of my column this week. Why not? I approved of my plan. Yes. It was unanimous.

Six hours thirty minutes. Santa Fe, New Mexico.

San Fernando Boulevard promised that it led to the historic district of Santa Fe so I veered my car that way, knowing I’d be to the old square and have my prized photo in no time. See. Setting little goals is a way to make a long car trip way more interesting. I was quite pleased with myself. I didn’t mind the traffic or the many lights. I was happy to slow down for a bit.

Hmm. I studied each intersection carefully for a possible missing clue, but couldn’t find any mention of the historic district or the old square. Being a trusting soul, I stuck to San Fernando Boulevard like a piece of chewing gum in a child’s hair.

To say I was surprised when I found myself heading out the other side of town would be a gross understatement. It wasn’t possible. I had checked each intersection. I couldn’t have missed it. I exited San Fernando Boulevard so I could turn around and head back towards the city, but the exit I chose wasn’t a turn around exit, rather it was an entrance onto another highway. Oh brother. Ok. Now I would have to exit this highway, turn around, then enter San Fernando Boulevard going the other way.

Um. Lost. Really lost. And the mountains surrounding Santa Fe are littered with long, winding driveways that appear to be roads. I cursed my way from highway to driveway but it was one of those hopeless cases of “Tourist Shouldn’t Have.” where I was guilty. I continued to point my car downhill on any bit of pavement that resembled a highway and tried to remember how valuable it was to keep a sense of humor. Um. No.

Seven hours.

The historic district of Santa Fe was findable after all. Drove around searching for the old town square which appeared to be more hidden than the last time I had visited. I winded through the streets, too lazy to park and walk my way to the square. One foul turn put me back on San Fernando Drive heading towards the mountains with those killer exits. My sense of adventure had run out. No. No. How the @#@#? I gave up. Refused to take any photos of the blasted city. Forget it. Forget my plan. The town wasn’t deserving of my digital camera space.

Seven hours twenty minutes. Santo Domingo Pueblo

Drove by the Santo Domingo Pueblo going ninety miles an hour. No way I was slowing for that place since I was almost arrested there years ago after I backed into a pavement colored truck that sneakily parked behind my car. Yeah. They called the FBI to survey the damages. Seems when a white girl does any misdeed on a reservation, the FBI gets involved. No. I’m not harboring bitterness about waiting two hours for the FBI to saunter by and laugh at me for applying to work in their Headstart program, which the reservation thought was a godsend till I backed into the truck, which made them rescind the offer figuring I was a bad omen.

You see. I don’t see the use in revisiting the place that has my photo hanging on their “Baddest Omens” wall.

Seven hours thirty minutes. San Felipe Pueblo

Instead I stopped at the NEXT pueblo, the San Felipe Pueblo. I wanted a quick photo for the little photo essay I had decided to write about my drive out West. Darn. There was a sign that said, “No photos of houses, or people or any structures.”

Yeah. But. I only wanted something for the website. I took a photo of a dog standing next to a tree. Really. No Hogan. No cute little Indian children on tricycles. No church. Just a dog.

A Native American man with short hair saw me and started waving his arms around. He shook his head back and forth, holding up a pretend camera. Oh. He was miming “No photos.”

I mimed back. “Ok. Thanks.” And put away my camera.

Yeah. I felt innocent. Well. The tribal police who pulled me over with flashing lights didn’t think so. I’m guessing Short-hair didn’t like my mime routine. Maybe I said something vulgar.

Tribal-police-man stalked up to my car and leaned in the window. “There’s been a report you’ve been taking photos.” He sneered.

I smiled. “I did take one photo.” I said, matter of factly. “Of a dog.”

He looked unsure. “Ok. We’ll have to confiscate your film.” He looked into my car. “All your film.”

I tried not to laugh. How would they confiscate digital film? “I have a digital camera.” I said evenly.”

He looked back towards the Tribal Police Station. I know. Probably getting some kind of telepathic message. “Ok. Digital camera.” He said, slowly. “Then I’ll have to take your camera.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I said trying to think of a better idea. I didn’t want to give up my three hundred dollar camera.

“Then.” He said loudly. “I’ll have to take you over to the police station. We’ll let them decide.”

Yeah. No. Does that sound a bit like an arrest to you? “Can I erase that photo right in front of you?” I asked, quickly turning the camera on and flipping through screens as fast as I could. I showed him the photo of trees I had taken outside the reservation. “This one is ok, right?”

He shrunk down in his uniform as he looked at the photo of trees that could have been taken anywhere at all. No tribal secrets lost here. “Yes. You can keep that.” He said, slowly.

I showed him the photo of the dog. “Look. See. It says, erase?” I clicked on yes. “Ok. It’s gone.” I flipped back and forth around the missing dog picture.

He stood staring at my camera while he slunk down further in his uniform. It was an embarrassingly bad photo of a dog standing by a tree. He turned away from the car, then turned back. “Next time if you want to take pictures of scenery, just stop off and ask. If you take a little more time, you might get something better.”

How sweet of him to be encouraging of my photo skills… if only I took a little more time…But. No. Don’t think I’d be rushing back to this pueblo for a visit. I have an adverse reaction to police attention of any kind. I apologized for inconveniencing him as I drove off.

Short-hair followed me off the reservation in his little yellow car as he swerved and zig-zagged, trying to creep up next to me. Um. Why?

I smiled and waved, which encouraged him to drive two inches from the bumper of my car. Where was that nice tribal-police-man? I liked him better. Guess Short-hair was hoping for some kind of public hanging. He followed me to the edge of the reservation which was good. He might have been helpful if I had gotten a flat tire or something. You know. Taken pictures or something.

I’ll consider the whole incident as an omen to stay away from the pueblo reservations, wouldn’t you?

Nine hours.

Um. I’m ready to be done with my journey. Now. Right now. Are we there yet? I’ve changed my mind. Is there any way I could park and fly the rest of the way?

There isn’t enough time for me to wander into Albuquerque to record the old town square for my planned photo essay. Truth is I’m not really in the mood for more cute, little police-patrolled tourist attractions. That officer was going to drag me into the police station so the tribe could send up smoke signals and deliberate over my far away dog-standing-next-to-tree photograph? Talk about a juried art exhibit.

No. No way. For the rest of the trip I’ll do my sight seeing from the car as it zooms along the highway.

I called Linda’s house and let them know I would arrive around the fourteenth hour.

10 hours thirty two minutes. Gallop New Mexico

Restroom Graffiti: Marsha is a shank. She uses Kevin to get stuff she needs. So that makes Kevin a bigger shank. Call 555-3210.

Yeah. I wanted to call. I honestly considered it. I sort of wanted someone to talk to. But. Was the number Kevin’s or Marsha’s? Or was it the author’s so you could discuss the shankiness of the shankers? I HAD my cell phone. It WOULD be a free call… No. I let it go. Some things are better contemplated and left undone.

Eleven hours. Arizona Border

I was at the border of Arizona and found myself bored again and couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what over board meant. When a sailor got really bored from looking at water all day, and he got OVER bored, did he jump over the edge, you know… over board… to have a little excitement? Hey. It could be. Remind me to ask my father. He was a sailor in World War Two.

I turned on my camera and took a photo of a teepee tourist trap that was conveniently next to the highway. Really. It isn’t the taking of the photo that is the most dangerous part of this sport. It’s the temporary blindness that sets in between taking the photo and having your eyes readjust to seeing distance again where you have to trust that the road is right where you left it. Lots of swerving potential there. (Don’t try this at home. Don’t try this in your car. I’ve tried it. It’s dangerous. Now YOU don’t have to. K?)

Thirteen hours. Snowflake Arizona

You know that old saying that ‘No snowflake falls in an inappropriate place?’ The old monk who made that up likely had Snowflake, Arizona on his mind. Cause Snowflake, Arizona is an inappropriate place and snowflakes don’t tend to show their little pointy faces there. I think that’s why it was named Snowflake, because snow doesn’t fall there. I always stop to gas up in that town to support the patient, mixed-up mentalities that brew from waiting for one’s namesake to fall from the sky.

I am not aware of any families living there who have the last name of Snow or Flake or Slush or Blizzard. (I knew you were going to ask.)

Thirteen hours, forty five minutes. ShowLow, AZ

I walked slowly into Linda’s house. It’s amazing how tired I get from a day of doing relatively nothing. Sometimes I think it would be easier to fly my way to friend’s houses rather than drive. Should I trade in the dirty bathrooms, police attention and getting lost for a one hour flight to Arizona?

Um. No. Let’s get real. My journey to Arizona IS the destination, and what on earth would I have to talk about if I streamlined my life into one quick destination after another?

I mechanically walked into Linda’s kitchen wondering if I needed oil for my joints or a stiff drink. Twelve-year-old Oolie was playing in the fish tank. “NO FISHING IN THE TANK.” I bellowed with a quick smile.

She jumped at my voice and almost dropped the net. “You scared me.” She laughed.

“You’re scared? How ‘bout those poor fish?”

“It’d be pretty hard to scare Spot. He’s dead.”

“Oh. Some welcome I get. I drive fourteen hours to see a dead fish?”

She glanced at the clock. “I can’t help it. You’re fifteen minutes early. Mom’s not home yet. How was your drive?”

“Foggy. Then sunny. Lots of bathrooms. Got lost on driveways. Oh. And. I almost got arrested.”

Spot slid out of the net and floated down to the bottom of the tank for one last swim. “YOU almost got arrested?” She started laughing. “Why?”

“I took a really bad picture of a dog. That’s illegal in New Mexico. Luckily I talked my way out of it.”

She let out a girl-giggle. “How can you talk your way out of a bad photograph?”

“Well. Easy. I promised the tribal-police-officer-man that when I returned I would gift him with one dead, spotted fish wrapped in tin foil. Know where I might get one?”

“Holly.” She said, quietly as she reached her whole arm into the tank to grab at the net. “You scare me.”

I sighed. “Oolie. Who’s the one teaching the dead fish how to swim?”

Wanna try another column? How about #150 Ready, Set, Light Click here to view.

or Click here to go to Current Columns to choose another column. Or perhaps you would like to go to Column Finder by Subject to choose your next column about dating, or epilepsy or friends... you choose!

Don't miss out! Sign up to receive a free copy of Holly's column via e-mail each week. (All e-mail addresses are private... NEVER, EVER shared.)

Or send a blank e-mail to Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com Subject: Subscribe Me.

Comment on this column in The Forum

Or

Send Holly your comments. Tell her what you really think! Your comments might be published on her website, or in her weekly Yahoo Group e-mail. Send Comments

Wanna vote for your favorite column? Fan's favorite column picks will be added to the Fan's Favorite Five page. Send your pick for your favorite here. Fan's Favorite Column Pick

Copyright © 2003 by Holly Winter
www.livingthelifeofholly.com
All Rights Reserved