Java jive

“Given that there is a coffee shop around every corner out here and that everyone seems hell-bent on imbibing as much caffeine as the body can humanly handle in a 24 hour period, how come they to be so calm?” inquired Mrs. Hall. They watched the other commuters perform a leisurely pas de deux as they drove across town to the Boeing factory. “The drivers are actually driving below the posted speed limit!" Mrs. Hall blinked twice and wondered what sort of parallel universe she had entered. "Pedestrians are crossing blithely at the official crosswalks, oblivious to drivers and trusting they will make it safely to their caffeine-centric destinations.” “It’s true,” Mr. Hall agreed. “They do seem fairly laid back.” She continued, “I watched a group of grey-haired sandal-sporting matrons stride defiantly into the fray, and expected a disaster of unimaginable proportions. Yet, instead of carnage, the cars simultaneously slowed and even waved them on, with nary a trace of malice nor vulgar hand gestures.”
“Perhaps it’s a form of mass pharmacologic treatment; like treating ADHD with the stimulant Ritalin; they use coffee in order to have an opposite sedating effect.” posed Mr. Hall. Mrs. H. just shook her head in amazement and watched in disbelief.
Erick had procured reservations on a tour of the Boeing assembly plant for them. When he informed Mrs. H. that while she was welcome to take (mental) notes along the way, cameras and purses were forbidden, she was a little downcast at the prospect of not being able to document her event. But the tour was so enlightening and impressive, she barely had time to worry about it. Watching the crews assemble the 747-8, the 777's and the 787's in the world's largest factory was a show not to be missed.
After the tour, they walked around the museum alittle. PERC (Passenger Experience Research Center) was conducting trials with new interiors for their jets, and the Halls gleefully participated in one of the trials. The business class jet interiors were everyone's favorites, and one with which Mr. Hall was truly familiar. Though it took a little while to rouse Mr. Hall after he had settled down and was re-acquainting himself with the cockpit of a 727 again, the little band was finally able to move on.
A quick trip back to the apartment to provide a pitstop for Shakespeare, Erick's golden retriever, and they were back on the road again. Passing those downtown classics, the rotating Pink Elephant Super Car Wash neon sign and the neverending stream of tourist filled Duck buses, they finally arrived at the destination Mrs. Hall had been pining for the most: the Space Needle!

Built for the 1962 World's Fair, the Space Needle hovers over Seattle's city center like a fantastic spaceship. The weather could not have been more perfect; the water in the bay sparkled and Mt. Rainer glowed pink as the sun set in the distance. Despite the holiday weekend, the lines were small and for quite some time they endured the gusty breezes at the top of the needle. It would have been fun to stay longer, but after pointing out several wonderful eateries visible from above, it occurred to all that perhaps the bracing air was making them more hungry than they realized. It was the general concensus of all parties concerned that, despite the local coffee's stellar appeal and ability to warm, what was really called for in this situation was a spicy Mexican menu. A half an hour later, they were toasting their good weather fortune (and taking some of the chill off, too!) with some especially tasty margaritas and chips with salsa, at Pesos restaurant. After scarfing down way too many chips and watching the Mariners beat the Padres on the Jumbotron in the bar, the little band wondered home, happy, warmed and sated. Next episode: Wandering the streets. Stay tuned!

See you in Seattle

It seemed to Mrs. Hall that she had just touched her head to the pillow when the alarm went off to get up. “Rise and shine!” said Mr. Hall in an inhumanly perky voice. “We’ve a plane to catch!” The tickets to JFK and beyond were waiting (albeit electronically) for them at Hancock Airport, and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste. A quick hop to the Big Apple ensued and they plotted their upcoming travels while enjoying a petit dejeuner in the terminal before their flight.
The blue sky whizzed by their cabin windows as Mr. Hall fiddled with the onboard satellite television. “Six hours? Six hours in this seat?” squirmed Mrs. H. Mr. Hall recognized in that tone of voice the lack of sleep Mrs. Hall was so bravely handling, and attempted to soothe her. “Just think- we’ll be flying from one ocean to another in just six hours. 'Tis the stuff of 'The Jetsons’!”
“Baloney” snuffed Mrs. Hall. “Flying cars are the stuff of the Jetsons; but where are those? When are we going to have them? We are sorely lacking when it comes to that glorious vision promised us just fifty short years ago by those visionaries at Hanna-Barbara. And don’t try to placate me; the Roomba© is a poor excuse for Rosie the robot maid.”
“Flying cars? A sky full of amateurs? The cockpit is only for trained professionals; the layman has no business there. Flying cars would be a disaster of unbelievable proportions if the average man tried to fly.” While ignoring his strictly masculine vision of the cockpit, it was clear Mrs. H. was very close to touching a nerve.
“Spoken like the true luddite that you are,” she snorted. “That’s the same malarkey they were spewing 100 years ago at the advent of the horseless carriage. When technology reaches the point where flying cars are as ubiquitous a component of the suburban milieu as the Dodge Caravan is now, that’s when we’ll have what the Jetsons had!” Just as he could see her catching her breath and preparing another rant, he managed to flag a hostess and ordered a drink. “Look darling- a little bento box full of munchies just for you!” The bright colors seemed to distract her enough and the rest of the flight went along seamlessly.
Waiting for them at the airport was Mr. Hall's son Erick and he whisked them away to the city. "I'll bet you're hungry. How 'bout a short trip down to Pike Place Fish Market for some of the city's finest fish? I made reservations for us at Matt's in the Market." The idea proved to be inspired. After a brief but thoroughly entertaining stroll through the famous fish market on the bay (where the Halls watched the amusing fish throwing frequently documented on the Food Channel) Erick helped them navigate the winding tunnels and walkways to their destination. Joined by fellow dining adventurer Drew Kearl, they (well, Mrs. Hall that is) gleefully ordered some of the most exotic dishes on the menu. The meal was spectacular, but Mr. Hall barely saw it go by. What he and Erick were mostly focused on was the air traffic. Modern commercial, light personal and even bush planes of every size continued to zip across the bay the entire evening, and for several minutes at a stretch it was difficult to tease their attention away from the airshow. As far as Mrs. Hall was concerned, the Graf Zeppelin could have moored at the table next to her and she wouldn't have blinked; her dungeness crab salad and smoky grilled octopus were all she needed to be entertained.
The business of dining being happily dispatched, the Halls et al continued on. They stopped only briefly at the very first Starbucks store for a bag of coffee beans, before heading back to Erick's apartment for the evening.
"Well, dear-" said Mr. Hall as he unpacked his bag, "flying cars aside, I think your mid century modern æsthetic will be thoroughly pleased tomorrow, when we take in the heart of the city." But Mrs. Hall was already asleep, braced by the brisk walk back to the car, her delicious repast, and a hearty side of jetlag. Next stop: Relics from the future- the Space Needle. Stay tuned!

Around the State in Eighty Days

Winston pulled into the hanger around 9:45 pm.
After the purr of the engine ceased and the luggage was all brought in, Mr. Hall slumped into his leather armchair and remained motionless for a solid five minutes. When he at last roused himself to speech, it was to order up a very dry martini and his bedroom slippers.
"We are finally done with the official visits- huzzah!" They clinked glasses. "Thirty-four different state meetings, several district ones and all of our own chapter meetings- all in the span of three months. Our weekends (barring any of our usual work, of course) are our own again!" Mrs. Hall had nothing but praise for the fortitude of her fellow traveler. "We've certainly covered the state, that's for sure."
"Did you see you made the front page of 'the word'* newspaper this month?" asked Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall glanced at the sight of her weary self in navy blue chiffon and sequins and shuddered. "What an endurance contest. And I'm lucky I can still fit into those dresses. Eating on the road is not exactly the safest diet in the world. How about the footlong hotdogs at the Chuck Wagon? The smoked salmon from the Roscoe Diner? And do you remember those wonderful pies we had at the Blue Dolphin?"
Mr. Hall's eyes took on a faraway gaze and he could feel himself salivating unconsciously. "Mmmm.... banana creme..." he murmured. "Yes- banana creme pie and strawberry cheesecake. Both pieces as big as our heads"
"And us in formal wear, to boot." Mrs. Hall continued. "You know, we had to grab a bite where ever we could get it. And thank heavens for the GPS- if if wasn't for that we would never have been able to find the meeting halls, much less somewhere to eat. At least I got to march off some of those calories bringing in the flag. You had to sit through all those sessions; it's a wonder you didn't fall asleep during any of them." She unfolded her skirt from the garment bag and turned to hand him the television remote. Mr. Hall was nodding off dreamily, lost in a happy reverie of banana cream and crust.
"I'll hang up our clothes," she smiled, and covering him with a blanket, left him to his dreams.


*the word is a monthly publication put out by the Masonic Service Bureau of Central New York.

The Sporting Life

Mr. Hall poured a cup of black adrenalin and wandered over to Mrs. Hall as she read in front of the fireplace. "What have you got there?"
"It's a biography of Winston Churchill. Ever since our little Miata revealed to me that his name was 'Winston', I've had an insatiable desire to know more about the man. A cursory glance in the Hall library divulged this tidy little specimen and I've been hacking my way through it over the morning brew for some time now."
"Bored with the financial section, ay?" He lifted the squat volume and heaved it back and forth a few times. "Not exactly a light-hearted romp."
"It does seem to be of the cinder block family, doesn't it? You'd think the man was clearly getting paid by the word, and yet, unbelievably enough, Pelling turns out to be a master of understatement. How can a man compose a tome of this weight, coming in at 800 plus pages of 12 point type and still leave out so many juicy details? In his foreword, his thanks are so comprehensive, he even includes a few bystanders that were on the pavement in front of his publishers; yet when it comes to his secretarial staff, he expresses his gratitude with a line that amounts to 'No thanks necessary here- you know who you are.' He slyly implies that the main subject's mum brought him into the world seven months into the marriage and that his father died of syphillis, but without any further revelation or source. Oh, Dr. Pelling, despite the fact that your book was published in 1974, you have deftly managed to remain the stalwart Victorian prude that you are, well into the latter half of the 20th century."
"That's it. I'm cutting off your coffee," said Mr. Hall. He gathered up her cup. "Reading makes you moody. Let's go into work and get you away from all that nasty thinking." He handed her her coat.
While Mrs. Hall's appointment had been taking up most of their weekends, work had been moving steadily along. One particular errand had taken them out to Auburn, and Mr. Hall had suggested they stop in at the Bass Pro Shop and see what was new in the sporting world. Realizing that Mrs. Hall's idea of sport was trying to decide which of the longshots she was going to bet, Mr. Hall bribed her with the promise of some good ole' cowboy barbecue. It was sufficient lure; Mrs. Hall took the bait and they went in. "Think fast!!" piped up Mr. H., and before she could blink, Mrs. Hall found herself the recipient of a six foot novelty pillow. "Now you can genuinely say you caught a big one!" he laughed.
Hijinks were all well and good, but unless Mrs. H. could talk him into purchasing one of those wall mounted rubber fish that wiggle on their own and unexpectedly burst into song, she was ready to head back home.
Wiping the remains of the campfire beans off their hands (and being careful not to get any on the car!) they dropped the top on Winston and started back through town. They hadn't gotten very far when the traffic slowed to a crawl and the police funnelled the crowd down to one lane. "What's going on?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Just one of the more pleasant American pastimes! Com'n, let's pull over and watch." And he pulled over the little green car onto a side road and parked.
Coming down the hill in front of them, at a breakneck speed of 5mph, were two homemade racers, their drivers huddled low in the frames, hellbent for glory and a standing on the handwritten leader board posted in the park. Having apparently wandered into the Soapbox derby finals taking place right in the heart of town, the Halls took up viewing from the coveted finish line seats. As Mr. Hall noticed Mrs. H. getting out her purse, he gently reminded her that despite what she might have heard or seen, betting on the pint size drivers was widely frowned upon by local law enforcement. She pouted briefly, but continued to cheer for the underdogs.
After a fashion, the traffic cleared and the Halls were able to move on. Later on that evening, over an aperitif before dinner, Mr. Hall asked her how the book turned out. "Well, it was pretty slow going there for a while, but I think now I can honestly say I found it most useful and enlightening." Mr. Hall nodded with approval. And later on that evening, when Mr. H. went upstairs to bed, he was hardly surprised when he found it propping open the bathroom door, enlightening most of the upstairs hallway as well.

If this is Saturday, then it must be Olean

For the last two months, the Halls had been New York nomads. Weekends were no longer marked by numbers, but by district names. The endless merry-go-round that is the official visit season for the Grand Matron carries on until the middle of June, and the Halls were only slightly past the half way point.
"I don't think I can face another dinner with the only choices being 'chicken marsala' or 'yankee pot roast'. Let's find some place in town to eat." said Mrs. Hall. Mr. Hall looked down at the small dot in a vast field of nothingness that represented their destination on the GPS, and doubted the likelihood of finding a decent meal or even a nearby town. Long since used to being seen around town in a tuxedo and formal attire, they ventured into a pleasant burg and found a charming restaurant that time had apparently passed by. Big band music played in the background. The waitstaff was nimble and unobtrusive. "I fully expect that we will try to come back here next month and find that this place closed fifty years ago and all we will be left with is the haunting vision of shuttered windows, a lingering taste of this delicious entree and those creepy strains of the 'Twilight Zone' running through our heads" remarked Mr. Hall between bites of his shrimp. Though they were loathe to leave, they thanked their hosts and wandered on back to yet another meeting.

Occasionally the monotony was broken; one Sunday, a youth group held a pancake breakfast in the fire station. The Grand Patron John, and his lovely wife Gail, invited the Halls to join them at their table and regaled them with tales of their farm. John had turned out to be probably the biggest and most pleasant surprize of the whole long journey- he seemed to be, if not an actual distant relative of Will Rogers, then most certainly cut from the same cloth. His provincial tales of life in the country had left the Halls reduced to tears of laughter more times than they could count.
Saturday there was a walkathon in a recession oppressed mall in Olean. Mrs. Hall surveyed the situation; it was very likely the pledged-to-walk little group of 50 or so ladies and gentlemen that had shown up that morning were the most traffic that place had seen since the previous year's walkathon. "You cut a very handsome figure, my dear- I noticed you're the only one walking in a sport coat and oxford shirt." "Standards, my love-" he said, "You have to maintain standards." They walked the requisite 12 laps, equalling approximately four miles and on the last lap, Mr. Hall twirled Mrs. Hall around twice and they tango-ed across the finish line. The press was on hand to take pictures of the Grand Matron with her entourage and Mayor Linda Witte presented the GM and GP with keys to the city of Olean.
"Only 15 or so more visits to go!" sighed Mrs. H. as they packed up another hotel room and prepared to hit the road. "We seen iron dinosaurs selling used cars and recovered helicopters adorning rooftops. There was a rather dandy-fied squirrel in front of a leading local business last night. I'd like to say I think I've seen it all, but I have a feeling that would just put the 'whammy' on us- who knows what we'd run into then?"
"As long as you pack up the travel bar, my dear, I'm sure we'll be able to handle it" soothed Mr. Hall, and he handed her a brace of freshly washed martini glasses to pack.