Over the river and through the woods

While the cockpit in a Miata is fairly roomy, and certainly comfortable for longer rides, the hold is another story. The square footage of the aft cargo bay is hardly what one would call capacious; Mr. Hall twice had to arrange and rearrange the valises to fit. But Mrs. Hall is used to traveling light, and after waving goodbye to Colleen and leaving her with specific instructions regarding the care of their aged and ailing cat, Pepper, the Halls once again took to the road.
With passports in hand, they plotted a trip through Canada, and into The Great Lakes State. First stop: Owosso, Michigan. Owosso has no real claim to celebrity; while possessing more than its share of intriguing sites for a small community, the primary reason the Halls overnight there is because its location is central to most of their Michigan shenanigans. After a quick breather at the Korner Pub and a night at the Comstock Inn, they awoke fresh and ready to take on a stroll back in time.
Rolling into Rockford MI, Mr. Hall's old stomping grounds, they paused for the obligatory hotdog at the Corner Bar. Nothing takes away the cares of the day for Mr. H. like a double dose of their world famous chili-dogs and a chance to watch his beloved Tigers on the tube. A walk around the town was enough to satisfy them that the old haunts were thriving, even in this ragged economy. Since the reunion was still a day away, they pointed Winston in the direction of Sand Lake and the Paradise Cove resort. Childhood friend and campground host extraordinaire, Paul Arntz and his lovely wife Jan, welcomed them with open arms. The Arntz's were harboring some charming youngsters for the weekend as well as a small dog, so the party moved outdoors to enjoy the seasonably cool weather. The sunset glinted across the lake and with the addition of their neighbors Del and Ruth, it felt like time for a little something. Rumblings of a pizza were starting to stir when word came down that the kids had requested a local specialty known as "Hobo pies." The Halls watched in fascination as the irons needed for this comestible were produced; the picnic table was covered in an instant with all manner of fillings and the next thing they knew, Mr. and Mrs. Hall were being coached in the proper form. The spirit of American ingenuity has never been in short supply in this region; over a firepit formed from a reclaimed truck wheel and the liner of an old washing machine, a dozen or so of the tastiest, meltiest cheese and meat pockets toasted to dinnertime perfection, and so completely was their hunger sated, no dessert (though readily offered!) was required.
Barely able to slide into the cockpit, they hugged their hosts and made their way to the hotel room for the night. The next morning, it was back to Rockford's Community Cabin for the reunion. "The Rockford Rams Class of '66 gets together more than any class I know", remarked Mrs. H. and Mr. Hall had to admit, it was true. Blessed with a core group of individuals dedicated to maintaining close ties (via the internet, gossip, the pony express or whatever means possible) with everyone from their little band still sitting up and taking nourishment, they managed to round up quite a few of the old graduates for the bash. The weather gods weren't quite as congenial as the warmth inside the cabin; almost as soon as the barbecue pig came off the grill, it began to rain cats and dogs outside. But to the fifty or so alumni gathered, it was a wonderful day. Every one present got a chance to get up and speak; and in doing so, it became apparent that the passing of time seemed not to have diminished the memories of old flames and childhood rivalries. Even their old principal, Mr. Cornelius Huizenga, showed up and addressed the crowd. Jay Grams and Neil Blakeslee, co-chairs of the production, took a well-deserved bow for their tireless efforts, and with all the hugging and backslapping going on, no one really noticed the rain at all. As endearing a town as Rockford is, however, the Halls knew they had miles to go. Pulling themselves together, they waved goodbye to the shrubbery and headed on east. Next episode; Brighton or bust! Stay tuned.

Hall's not well

The atmosphere about the Hall has been rather gloomy this week. Fluffy companion and resident rescue, Wookitter T. Pooch, affectionately known as "Wookie", passed away on Thursday. Listless and quiet, she had been spending more time than usual sleeping in Colleen's room. The Halls had noticed she was a bit off her feed earlier in the week, but things began to take a turn for the worse Wednesday evening. She was rushed in to the vet's office Thursday morning, but unfortunately, nothing could be done to save her.
Wookie came to Penguin Hall unexpectedly the summer of 2000, when Colleen and a friend of hers, Amy Foster, came running up to Mrs. Hall during a local festival, carrying what looked like a small brown ball made of fur. Weeping and crying, they had just come from a fellow in a pickup with a boxload of similar furry lumps which he intended to put down if homes could not be found for them that day. The lump's little head flopped over in a very unhealthy fashion; it was clear that the furball was really too young to be taken from its mother's side. "Well, let's see if we can nurse it back to health- then we can find it a good home," consoled Mrs. H. The good home it found, of course, turned out to be their own.
Through many a good day and even more bad ones, Wookie was faithful sidekick and silent confidant to all the kids at the Hall. Fluffy enough to be a pillow as well as a pet, she always listened patiently to whatever their fears or concerns might be, and her only advice was always the same; that of unconditional love.
Goodbye to you dear Wookie. The Hall won't be the same without you.

If a home sells in Henderson, does anyone notice it?

Mrs. Hall furrowed her brow and studied the listings for Henderson, NV. "The prices are still unbelievable in this area. It's not as close as I would have liked, but the neighborhood is clean and neat. Are you game?" Mr. Hall finished tying his new two-toned oxfords and stood up. "Let's fire up the engines."
The poor little rental had but a measly 2000 miles on it when the Halls picked it up in Seattle, WA; it could be reasonably argued that the engine was scarcely broken in. Such was not the case by now- the odometer was still smoking from the previous day's run when Mr. Hall pulled it under the hotel canopy. Mrs. Hall emerged, ipad, map and charging cables in hand, ready to navigate.
"Apparently Del Webb owns the entire southwest side of Henderson," muttered Mrs. H. The area was as scrubbed clean as Disneyland- there wasn't a flower or a stone fence out of place. The streets were eerily quiet. Though there were a number of gated communities, several were not, affording the Halls an opportunity to view several listings up close. "I like it," started Mr. Hall. "Looks safe and neat." "I think it looks like something out of 'The Stepford Wives.' " confided Mrs. Hall. "Besides, I'd really like to be closer to town. A little edginess sort of appeals to me." It was clear they were separated by some difference of opinion. "Wait a minute- what's that?" he said. Pulled up in front of one of the sale properties was a silver pickup towing a trailer. On the trailer was a massive bright gold figure of Buddha. "Wow. Is that moving in or out?" wondered Mr. Hall aloud. "If it's moving in, there may be some hope for this place yet!" laughed Mrs. H.
Stopping at a local shopping center, they checked out the nearby services, broke for lunch and reevaluated their choices. "What do you want to do?" asked Mrs. Hall. "I want to ride the monorails and hit the slots. What do you want to do?" sighed Mr. Hall "I want to shop for that white dress I need for the big meeting in Oriskany. Wanna forget houses for now and just play?" He nodded gleefully and radioed in a request for flight deviation. A short hour later, they were boarding the monorail.
Walking through the shops, they encountered several wedding parties. Mrs. Hall recalled reading that approximately 315 weddings a day take place in Las Vegas. While some of the wedding parties were clearly less formal than others, there was no doubt, a wedding in Vegas would be a memorable one.
Clinking their glasses together at the cafe overlooking the garden at the Bellagio, they considered how much had changed in the two years since their last visit. Vegas was jammed, even in the off-season, but apparently still not immune to the effects of the recent Great Recession. On the face of things, the Bellagio looked the same, but looking closely one could see that the old casino was somewhat toned down; the little extras that one came to expect were more pedestrian compared to before. The waitstaff there seemed almost petulant.
The only exception was the Wynn, which seemed even more luxurious than ever. Mrs. Hall wiled away the time betting the ponies at Arlington Park in the sport book arena. (Betting hunch bets is always a risky business, and even though she would have dearly loved to win with $2 down on Homeboykris to Show, the horse sat down and took a nap somewhere around the first turn.) Mr. Hall made a killing on the slots in the afternoon and he sprang for her white dress at the fashion mall across the street.
The Halls could feel themselves falling under the spell of the town. "I love it out here," sighed Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall had to agree. The weather was gorgeous, the shopping phenomenal and the atmosphere electric. They watched the dancing fountains from the rental as they sat caught in traffic one evening. They leaned over the railing at the Palazzo to watch the boiling volcanoes spewing "lava" in front of the Mirage while strolling the strip.
On their last evening in Vegas, Mrs. Hall confessed that it had been nearly 20 years since she'd had a lobster dinner. Mr. Hall vowed to remedy that immediately. They chose a quiet little steakhouse in the Forum Shops (to accommodate Mr. Hall's palate as well) and for a few very enjoyable hours savored their last meal in town.
Early the next morning, they returned the little rental- fairly dusty and 2500 miles older- to the airport and flew off. Mrs. Hall fell asleep smiling, lost in a reflective fog, as they flew over the jewel of the desert. Mr. Hall leaned back as far as was possible in the crowded quarters of the airplane, and managed to develop a cramp. "I hate flying commercial," he grumbled. Past pilots can be a trial to fly with on a good day, and corporate ones can be the worst.
The airline was late getting into O'Hare and the Halls missed their connecting flight. The editors of the Monitor, being cognizant of the sensibilities of the Gentle Reader, have opted not to repeat Mr. Hall's commentary on the state of the airline industry at this time, but it's safe to say he offered not only a toasty editorial, but some fairly ripe suggestions for the CEOs as well.

Viva Las Vegas

Crossing over the mountains at the south end of Death Valley, Mrs. Hall expected the temps to be somewhat higher. When they had crossed it two years ago, the Giant Thermometer in Baker CA was reading just under 108 degrees. However, the heat wave in the Midwest seemed to be draining their steam from the west coast; the temp gauge on the dashboard of the little rental recorded a measly 85 degrees (at altitude 3912 ft). Locals could be seen pulling their sweaters out of mothballs, preparing to bear up.
The Gentle Reader will remember their middle school teachers telling them that no matter how colorfully the states are designated in their primers, real geography does not provide such visual cues. That lesson does not apply coming in on Route 15. Visible from nearly ten miles away, the legal line between the Golden State and the Silver State is an easily discernible division; a solid wall of gambling establishments defines the difference between a CA zip code and one in NV.
Pulling into the Las Vegas city limits, Mrs. Hall could see Mr. Hall's resolve wavering between duty and diversion. She quickly gathered a list of addresses and real estate listings, so to better utilize their time searching for a home, and promised that if they looked at just the western portion of town today, they could go out playing tonight. It is common knowledge that out off the five or six major frustrations in life, househunting ranks pretty high up on the list. Weaving through one disappointing neighborhood after another can tend to take a toll, so leaving off the last remaining homes on the list, Mrs. Hall suggested they take a break. "We're up on the north side anyway; why not slide by Gold and Silver Pawn Shop and see what we can see?" Mr. Hall was already pulling in the parking lot by the time she had finished her sentence. One of Mr. Hall's favorite shows on the History Channel is "Pawn Stars", so she knew it was a cinch he'd be bucked up by the prospect of perusing their showcases and checking out items from the show.
"You've never seen Fremont Street, have you?" asked Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall had only been on the big main strip in Vegas and was unfamiliar with the casinos of older days. "Com'n- let's mush on down and mingle with the seamier side of the strip." Much had been done to try to revitalize an area that was on the verge of descending into the urban decay endemic in North Las Vegas. An overhead canopy was the most obvious upgrade, used for nightly lazer shows and much too much loud advertising. But the city was determined to hang on to this little slice of history; and while it may cater to a somewhat less well-heeled crowd than is generally seen outside the Bellagio, the street cleaners everywhere and the family safe street entertainers made it clear the Las Vegas Jaycees were doing their level best to make the old girl as appealing as possible.
The public appeared to be responsive. A woman forsook her walker to cling to a reincarnated Elvis; twentysomethings drank mystery drinks from oversized footballs. Strollers were everywhere, and the Golden Nugget had what Mrs. Hall considered the most enticing outdoor pool on the strip; guests staying at that old standby were treated to a three story high water tube that curled around and actually went through a tank filled with sharks. "A coy metaphor or perhaps a summary of the whole Vegas experience?" asked Mrs. Hall, as she stood fascinated, watching the children slide through the saltwater aquarium.
As they wandered out back onto the street, there was one attraction Mrs. Hall could not take her eyes off of. High above the crowds, a continuous stream of screaming tourists whizzed by on a zipline overhead. "That's for me!" she said, and Mr. Hall shook his head. Before he could even begin to go into an argument, she was in line and strapping on the five point harness. "Here's the camera- I'll wave to you from the top!" The following video is below, for the Gentle Reader's enjoyment.

"That was amazing!!" gasped Mrs. Hall, as she extricated herself from the ropes. Dashing past the hucksters trying to sell her expensive photographic evidence of her adventure, she rejoined Mr. Hall on the street.
"I think that's enough excitement for one day." Mr. Hall was tiring and it was time to look around for dinner. "We'll hit the main drag tomorrow." But he could barely catch her attention, she was so busy showing off the wristband proof of her flying abilities to other passerbys.
Next episode: Wynn-ing ways. Stay tuned!

Getting our just deserts

"Yes, but it's a dry heat!" assured Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall had heard this reply so many times her head was starting to hurt. Having enjoyed the trip down the west coast so far, they slingshotted around San Diego and were now heading back up north and east to the high desert. Somewhere in the not-so-distant future Mr. Hall was thinking about retirement, and it was time to do some scouting for a new locale. Palm Springs and Las Vegas had come up on the short list, so Mr. Hall had filed his flight plan and was making the necessary adjustments.
The Halls had come in late to that desert mecca. A few suggestions from the GPS and some calculated guesswork dropped them in the vicinity of Palm Desert and some delightful restaurants. Closing their eyes and choosing one (always a risky venture while driving...) they pulled into "Shame on the Moon" to sup and reevaluate the situation. There was a 35 minute wait but since the bar was open, they opted to dine there. The bartender appeared out of nowhere and effortlessly brought them some wonderful light fare. Pausing a bit, as she blotted her face with the napkin, Mrs. Hall surveyed the room. "Did you notice something?" she asked Mr. Hall. He was deeply engrossed in the meal and did not reply. "I mean, did you notice that we are by far, wait staff excepted, the youngest patrons of this establishment by at least 25 years?" Mr. Hall looked up, around and nodded an assent. She called over the vapor of a bartender. "Am I mistaken, or is Palm Springs the Elephants' Graveyard? Is everyone here about this age?" He smiled and continued to wipe out glasses. "And can I ask you something else?" she continued. "I'm ashamed to say I don't recognize that bottle. Can you tell me what it is?" He pulled it out. "It's ginger-flavored cognac" he replied and Mrs. Hall pulled a face. A drink like that can pretty much sum up a crowd, she thought. She leaned over and confided to the barkeep, "I keep Hennessey in my hip flask 'cause it's hard to get cognac at the ballpark." He smiled and said, "You're a girl after my own heart."
The next morning they set themselves to their task. Armed with several real estate listings and a neighborhood map, they wound around the parks and side streets, rubbernecking and snooping and generally causing concern in the senior community. A lot of the areas were gated, and while Mrs. Hall's charms were considerable, she was only able to convince about half of the guards to let them roam about unescorted. Frustrated with what was rapidly becoming a futile search, Mr. Hall called off the plan and suggested they just check out what he knew would appeal to Mrs. Hall; the vintage/retro resale shops in the trendy oh-so-midcentury modern part of old Palm Springs.
It turned out to be a enjoyable respite. A quick lunch at the local coffee emporium, lots of envious drooling over Eames era furnishings and Mrs. Hall was remarkably docile. "Well, I may not have found the perfect home for you, but I did find the perfect accessory. Check this out!" There in the window was a huge, whited over, 737 model aircraft, probably rescued from some old travel agency long ago. Mr. Hall inspected it closely for any remaining signs of livery, but all that was left were a few chip marks revealing some cerulean blue and orange. "Probably an old Southwest jet-" he guessed. The owner was willing to haggle and Mrs. Hall equally willing to waver, but it Mr. H. remained steadfast in his belief that the treasure would not fit in the overhead compartment on the ride home and that they would have to pass.
Waving goodbye to the old movie stars homes and the stunning architecture, they continued on up to Barstow. A short detour took them past the former home of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Mr. Hall stopped shortly to revisit Sunset Chapel in Apple Valley to pay his respects. The Halls would have dearly loved to re-indulge in one of Emma Jean's Hollandburger delights, brimming over with greasy ortega chili laden goodness, but unfortunately, the old Route 66 treasure had already closed for the day. They ended up dining in Barstow instead, at a singularly forgettable restaurant. Mr. Hall paused to attempt digestion and pout, when Mrs. H. reminded him about the train yard. "That's right- I almost forgot!" For about the next hour or so, Mr. Hall stood in the shadow of the old Harvey Hotel over looking twenty or more rail lines; the trains whizzed by, to and fro in the rising moonlight. Mr. Hall was serenely happy, while Mrs. Hall reclined as much as the rental's carseat would allow, trying to survive the effects of their recent repast. The hotel was close at hand, and the next day came mercifully fast. Next episode: High desert, but low temps. Stay tuned!