Wayward Cannonball and Mythbusting

                On December 7^th, I hung my U.S. flag out front to commemorate the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  That afternoon a cannonball flew through the northern California city of Dublin, bounced on a driveway before bursting through the wall of an upstairs bedroom, barely missing a mother and her two-year-old child as they napped, then exited through the opposite wall and flew across a six-lane road, bouncing off the roof of another home before landing on the floorboard of an unoccupied minivan. 

                I feel for the people who were traumatized by the close calls.  The thought of how close they came to death must be difficult to shake.  However, I also feel for the three young Mythbusters staff who have to live with the knowledge that they almost caused injury or death.  It is obvious from watching the show that safety is of utmost importance to them and their insurance company.  This horrible mistake has to be very disturbing to them.

                I have always enjoyed watching the show.  The crew has been in our town several times.  I happened to meet Adam and some of the crew on a couple of occasions, and except for one rude comment from one of the peons, they were enjoyable encounters.  I am drawn to the program because I also enjoy uncovering the truth about beliefs others take for granted.  The general population seems all too willing to accept traditions, “old wives tales,” and intriguing stories as truth without verification.  I happen to believe truth is always better than fiction, and that, though it may hurt for awhile, people will survive the busting of the myths they have held so dear for so long and actually be better off in the long run.

                I also believe my faith is only made stronger when its veracity is tested.  I see no need to attempt to make it more acceptable to a skeptical world by holding on to or inventing myths about it. For instance, I don’t need to cling to emotional, but inaccurate, accounts of the birth of Jesus.  In fact, I believe the myths created to give this event a more emotional impact are a disservice to the Christian faith.  Christmas myths, like every other variation of scripture, must be tested against the standard of truth.

                So, to that end, I now present ten of the most common Christmas myths and the truth about them:

1. Jesus was born on December 25^th.  The Bible gives no definitive indication of the day of the birth of Jesus.  Church history is not much help, either.  December 25^th wasn’t officially recognized by church leaders until 336 A.D.  Trying to determine the actual nativity of Jesus through references to secular events has likewise proven inadequate.  What should we make of all this?  Apparently, it is not important that we know the exact date, or God would have made it plain from the beginning.  Perhaps he didn’t want us to know, so we wouldn’t turn it into a commercial enterprise that celebrates everything except the birth of Jesus.

2. The Magi arrived on Christmas morning.  This does not seem at all likely.  Matthew 2:1 indicates it was only “after Jesus was born” that the Magi arrived in Jerusalem.  They had seen “his star in the east” and, for reasons not explained in scripture, came to Jerusalem to worship the “king of the Jews.”  In verse 11, the Magi, “on coming to the house…saw the child.”  It was a house, not a barn or manger.  He was a “child,” not an infant (different Greek words).  In verse 7, Herod asked them when they had first seen the star.  They tell him, but there response is not recorded by Matthew.  However, after they leave the area, Herod has all the male children “two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi,” to be slaughtered.  If the star first appeared on the night of Jesus’ birth, the Magi would need at least months to travel from Persia, or that general area in the east, to Israel.  It is simply convenient to include them in the nativity scenes on our mantles.

3. Related to #2: The star shone over the manger scene.  Luke writes about the inn, the manger, the shepherds, and the angels, but makes no mention of a star.  Since we don’t know exactly what this “star” was, it may not have been noticed by those in the Bethlehem region, while being an object of great concern to the Magi in the east.  If it was an unusually bright star located right over the manger, it seems like Luke would have acknowledged its presence.

4. The angels sang to the shepherds.  First, it was a solitary angel that first appeared.  Only after he told them about the birth of Jesus, did the great number of other angels appear.  And then, they said, or proclaimed, “Glory to God in the highest…”  Nowhere is it recorded that they sang.

5. The weather was cold and snowy.  Really?  Then why were the shepherds still in the fields watching their sheep?  When the weather is bad, they came down out of the hills and kept the sheep near their homes.  Scripture says nothing about the weather.  But a little snow fits nicely with the type of weather expected in the areas of Europe and the northeastern United States where the authors of most of the traditional Christmas carols and stories lived.

6. There were angels at the manger scene.  If there were, scripture doesn’t record their presence.

7. Mary rode into Bethlehem on a donkey.  Maybe she did, but maybe she didn’t.  Scripture is silent on this one.

8. A little drummer boy serenaded the baby Jesus.  Can anyone think of even one mother of a newborn who would allow anyone to bang on a drum next to her newborn?

 

9. The Christmas tree is symbolic of the cross, also sometimes referred to as a tree, upon which Jesus would hang at his death.  I think it is amazing that Christians can invent explanations for cultural deviations from the truth in order to maintain the traditions they have grown to love.  I have no problem with anyone viewing the tree as a symbol of the cross, or the yule log as a symbol of the true light, or the mistletoe as a symbol of our love for God.  But, please, let’s not pretend that Christians invented these symbols.  They were all symbols used in various pagan forms of worship, then adopted (reinvented, stolen, modified) to fit the Christian celebration.  I believe it’s wonderful that the early pagan origins of these symbols are almost completely forgotten, and that many have attached Christian meaning to them.  They are symbols only; reminders for people.  There is nothing inherently wrong with them.  But neither is there any scriptural significance attached to them.

10.  Santa is a big, fat guy who couldn’t possibly fit down any chimney ever invented.  Get real, people.  He is an elf.  Elves are little tiny beings.  As such, he can easily fit down just about any chimney in the world.

Photo above taken from http://www.wired.com/underwire/2011/12/mythbusters-cannonball/

I Am Thankful for My Big Brother

                It was a typical funeral home chapel with fixed, padded pews arranged with a wide center aisle.  It was wider than it was deep; bringing the grieving people up closer to the focus of attention than other chapels I have been in.  Directly in line with and at the end of the aisle was the mahogany coffin, lying atop a similar dark-stained stand with unobtrusive wheels, raising the casket to a height clearly visible to all.  The left side of it was open, revealing a white, satiny lining surrounding a recessed square of material pleated to form a sunburst with the rays converging above and pointing to the chest of the man below.

                He was in his U.S. Army Class A green jacket.  The nameplate was perfectly aligned over the right breast pocket; REED.  Everything about the uniform bespoke Army precision and dedication.  However, a very unmilitary golf club handle was situated between the man’s folded hands.  The kind of iron it was could not be determined, as the lower portion of the club disappeared beneath the closed right-hand portion of the casket.  A blue U.S. Army baseball-type cap lay next to the far side of his head and next to a small, stuffed dog with a puffy heart hanging from its mouth.

                People entered sporadically, some walking forward to view the man before sitting alone or in small groups around the chapel.  Some talked quietly, while others appeared to be praying.  Others simply sat and stared at the soldier-golfer.  Annie, his wife, now his widow, in the front row alternated between greeting people and sobbing.

                I walked around the room, introducing myself and asking people how they knew Jim Reed.  “I served in with him in the Army and we have been friends ever since.”  “I knew him from Kiwanis.  He was a real go-getter.  Really kept the rest of us moving in the right direction.”  “  He helped me with our Books for Kids program.”  A woman sitting with three adolescent boys told me, “He was a great influence on the kids at the First Tee program.”  That explained the pictures displayed on the front table showing a couple of dozen young people behind a sign mad e of golf balls, “Thank You, Coach Jim.”  A couple of woman told me they had met him at a garage sale he had one Saturday.  He struck up a conversation with them, talked about their mutual love for dogs, and became good friends. 

                An hour passed and the funeral home employee walked to the front and asked everyone to make sure their cell phones were turned off.  The music faded slowly away.  I rose and walked to the podium on the left side of the chapel.  A few people had walked in at the same time and were standing at the coffin.  I waited until they had paid their respects and seated themselves in the right side pews before I began.

                As the oldest of the Reed siblings, Jim bore more responsibility and carried more of the burden of the difficulties our family faced as we were growing up in New York.  He was always a sensitive person, a trait admired by most, but which also leaves a person open to being hurt.  Jim suffered as a result of his sensitivity and sense of responsibility, but as is true with all of us, those hard times and his determination to take control of his destiny also shaped him into the man he became. 

                My brother lived an interesting life.  After dropping out of high school, he boldly hitchhiked around the Southwest working as a short-order cook in various places, including some national parks.  After he was drafted, he got his GED and negotiated his way into a tour in Germany.  This resulted in him meeting a young German woman with whom he fell in love and who he married.  Annie remained the love of his life until the day he died.  We saw evidence of this constantly. 

                While in the army, Jim had to endure some “difficult” assignments, like being the cook at the golf course in Berlin.  When it came time to rotate back to the States, he finagled a way to get to El Paso.  He liked it here so much, he made it his request for each rotation, though I believe there was one stint he had to do in Austin.  Upon retiring from the service, he and Annie settled here.

Interestingly enough, after spending his Army career as a cook, and developing some sought-after baking skills, Jim wanted nothing to do with that line of work.  So, he worked in real estate for a while.  He started a lawn care business.  He built beautiful wood items in the garage.  He bought, repaired and sold golf clubs.  He oversaw the maintenance of several bank buildings.  He got involved with a service club, the animal shelter, supplying books for children and with First Tee.

Jim was a self-educated man.  He learned from life because he observed its passing.  He learned the craft of writing and occasionally had some of his thoughts and observations published in the local newspaper and on various online sites.  Had he been just a few years younger he would have had a blog.  Instead, he printed poems, stories and reflections, bound them in notebooks and gave them to family and friends.  He would include works from famous figures like Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson, and from not-so-well-known authors like Arthur Wallace Peach and Susan Mallot.  He interspersed these favorites with some of his own…

If I may be so candid, I have never understood Jim’s desire to stay in El Paso.  More accurately, I have understood; I just have never shared his passion for the desert.  He was able to see beauty where I saw barren waste.  Though, I must admit, over the years of reading his words and listening to him expound, he has opened my eyes to some of that hidden beauty I had missed before…Jim loved exploring the desert and the old towns that formerly thrived in places most have known existed…

Jim became known around El Paso as a generous, caring man who wanted to ease the burdens of others.  Whether he and Annie were having soldiers over for a holiday meal, collecting books for the benefit of children, placing American flags on roads for Memorial Day, or helping little ones learn about developing character on a golf course, he was always giving of himself.  He and Annie took on the job of caring for our mother, moving her here from Southern California.  That was not an easy task, but they persevered, because that was what family did.  Once, he even saved the life of an internet acquaintance, alerting people to the probability that the person was about to commit suicide. 

                I know I didn’t fully appreciate the benefit of having Jim as an older brother while I was growing up.  It was only as an adult, as I began to reflect on my childhood, that I slowly began to realize how much he cared for his siblings and how much he sacrificed for us.  This concern for us continued throughout the years.  He wanted us all to have the close-knit family we had missed out on in our youth.  He was the one who worked the hardest to suggest reunions, keep up the phone and email contacts, and encourage visits.  When the possibility of a sibling reunion in Flagstaff came up this last September, he was excited and determined to attend, even though that meant having to arrange for and drag oxygen bottles around with him. 

                The friends and family of Tio Oso will miss his sense of humor, his insightful writing, his love for what is right, and his thoughtful gifts of time, energy and skillful craft.  Though we are not a family that learned to say it well, we loved him.

El Paso Times obituary: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/elpasotimes/obituary.aspx?n=james-reed&pid=154706960

Occupy Oakland, and Other Random Thoughts

                Occupy Oakland?  Why would anyone want to occupy Oakland?  If these folks want to get more people involved with their cause, they need to choose their cities more carefully.  They need to invite people to occupy Monterrey, California, Vail, Colorado, or Grafton, Vermont, not Oakland, California.

                Why are the French so disliked by so many?  I had a couple of brief encounters with the French recently, the first time since 1978, and I was reminded why I had such a low opinion of them.  They are rude.  A line means nothing to them.  If they want something, they just squeeze in and take it.  No apology.  No, “Excuse me.”  Even the flight attendants on the Air France plane were cold, though not quite rude.  While watching British television recently, I noted that several comedians made fun of the French.  American comedians used to make jokes about the French, but seem to have lost interest in the past few years.  But making fun of the “frogs” is still fun for the British.  I asked a British tour guide if the general British dislike of the French was why they had fish and chips instead of fish and french fries.  She just smiled.

                Why do I find listening to little children speak with an accent different from mine cute or funny?  I was in London watching the one event all tourists are required to watch, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, when I heard a little English boy behind me ask his father, “Does this belong to the queen?”  He was referring to a statue on which he was sitting.  If an American child had asked that same question, I might not have even taken notice.  But, because it was said with a British accent, I can’t get it out of my mind.  Now that I think of it, I have never heard anyone remark about how my accent is cute, funny or even interesting.  How does an American accent (not southern, Brooklyn, New Jersery, or any of those other extreme ones) sound to people from other countries?  It is a strange question to ponder.

                Ever notice how people will overuse or misuse a particular event when trying to make a comparison to a current incident?  For instance, people will often compare something to what they imagine a war zone looks like, or what they think an atom bomb may have done when dropped on Japan.  Or, we will hear Hitler compared to just about any politician people don’t like.  When I hear these comparisons, I immediately dismiss the person and the severity of the incident they are concerned about, because I know it must be an overstatement.  I also get a little offended because I know that comparison is trivializing the actual event.  For example, people who were directly affected by Adolf Hitler’s actions by being confined to a concentration camp, are being compared to, for instance, affluent American people who are being slightly inconvenienced by some piece of legislation.  Well, I heard another one this morning that riled me.  I heard Jack Hanna, the well-known animal expert, compare the recent killing of 49 exotic animals in Ohio to the attacks on 9-11-01.  “To me, this is the 9/11 of the animal world.”  Really?  He’s comparing the killing of 49 animals by police, an action he believes was necessary, to the killing of 2,977 human beings in a cowardly act of terrorism?  What is the point of his comparison?  The number of dead?  The killers’ profiles?  The mechanism of death?  I don’t get it, and I’m offended by his use of this comparison.

           While traveling recently, I took some pictures of signs I thought were interesting, thought provoking or funny.   

England: International sign "No strange men with black hands"?

Brighton, England: We're supposed to meet at that little dot 12' up?

Penrith, England: Motorcycles may only jump over cars Mon-Sat.

Bath, England: "The Old Post Office" etched in stone.  How did they know it would be the "old" one when they built it?

London, England: I've always known Texans think they're special.  

 

But their own embassy in London?

Korca, Albania: Albanians get to decide if they want to yield or stop?  Now that I think about it, they pretty much do.

              

People Protest Wall Street Greed

    Greed.  Now, there’s a word that’s been getting a great deal of attention these past few weeks.  People in the U.S., Great Britain and other countries are demonstrating (or protesting) corporate greed on Wall Street and large financial institutions around the world.  I saw a Facebook post, “Listen, I am not against capitalism, I am against corporate greed.  There is a difference.”  I am not sure the folks protesting in cities across the United States and the rest of the world see the difference.  In fact, I am not sure the people involved in these protests know why they are protesting.

    I recently combed through the Occupy Wall Street web site trying to find out exactly what they are trying to accomplish.  I found that one goal was to “gather 20,000 people to Wall street, in New York, NY on September 17, 2011, beginning a popular occupation of that space for two months and more.”  I guess they reached that goal.  The rest of my search turned up nothing that even came close to a clear, attainable goal.  These people are against “greed” on Wall Street.  They believe this greed has caused the economic crises in the U.S., Greece and around the world.  They apparently want the greed to stop, though this is not articulated in any succinct statement.

   I am opposed to greed as well.  But what, exactly, is greed?  “A selfish and excessive desire for more of something than is needed,” according to Merriam-Webster.  That is a good discussion starter, but it does raise some other questions:  What constitutes excessive?  Who determines what is needed?  On what is this definition based?

    The Bible has a few things to say about greed, all bad.  The concept seems to be tied to the concept of contentment rather than a specific definition.  A one-size-fits-all definition of greed is probably not possible because greed is an individual, emotional, spiritual problem.  If we accept the Webster Dictionary definition of greed, a desire to have more than we need, then everyone I know is a greedy person.  I do not know a single person who doesn’t have more than is absolutely necessary for survival.  The most destitute people I have come in contact with have much more than some people I have seen surviving in other countries where there are no guarantees concerning even the most basic life necessities.  The people camped out on Wall Street have very nice tents and other camping equipment that would be extreme luxuries for many people in third world countries.  Dressed in their North Face down jackets and Nike shoes, they stop off at Starbuck’s to get their lattes before heading off to protest the greed of the corporate executives who make the existence of those products possible.  They have been joined by union members who live lives of comparative luxury while constantly negotiating for higher wages.  A recent survey of the Wall Street demonstrators found that most of them also support universal health care coverage.  Wouldn’t the children living off the dump piles outside of Manila love that! 

    Greed is not a problem of corporate executives alone.  If we would all take a step back and look at the big picture, we would see that the 99% also have a greed problem.  Recent interviews with some of the protesters in New York resulted in some interesting statements about individual protesters’ goals.  Many of them want a dramatic redistribution of wealth, a la Marx.  So, they want to take the money from the so-called 1%, who they deem “greedy,” but they don’t see themselves as greedy for wanting it.  Apparently, some people define greed on a sliding scale of wealth.  But, I haven’t heard anyone define the point at which “need” stops and “greed” begins.

    I have always been fascinated by God’s servant, Job.  He was a wealthy man by anyone’s definition, yet referred to as “righteous” by God himself.  After all was taken from him, he continued to be righteous.  At the end of the account of his sufferings, God blessed him with more possessions than he had before.  What?  The possession of material things can be a blessing from God?  What was the difference between Job’s situation and so much of what we see today?  Attitude.  What is it I am striving for, what will I do to get it, and what will I do with it once I have it?

    I admit I don’t understand the process by which a person looks at the current world financial crisis and concludes that 1% of the people in the United States are responsible for the problem.  The Greek people, fully understanding that their government is teetering on the brink of collapse, in great part due to the unrealistic commitments to socialistic programs like guaranteed pensions and universal health care, violently protest any efforts to reign in those expenditures because their comfort will be slightly diminished. They would rather have people from other countries bail them out.  Nor do I understand those who believe the so-called 1% are out to “enrich themselves by impoverishing humanity.”  Certainly, there are greedy CEOs, but do they really want to impoverish humanity?  Wouldn’t that ruin their businesses?  There are also greedy workers, greedy managers, greedy children, greedy welfare recipients and greedy protesters.

    So, I would like to suggest a new protest.  Let’s demonstrate against all greed!  There is a catch, though.  Only greedy people are really in positions to determine whether or not they are, indeed, greedy, since greed is an attitude.  The rest of us can observe what we think is greedy behavior, but we can’t really know with certainty.  So, I think maybe the only way to approach this problem is by changing individuals from the inside out.  Giving a person a new heart, one that loves above all else, is the only way this protest can be successful.  So, our protest will have to be conducted as individuals persuading individuals to give their lives away to God, who will lead them understanding their attitudes and actions.  And, we’ll have to begin that protest with ourselves.

Sink or Swim

 Having been without WIFI for almost a week, this post is late.  I hope you enjoy anyway.

  I have a vague memory of my father throwing me out of a rowboat in an effort to help me learn to swim.  I have no idea if this actually happened or it is a figment of my imagination.  Either way, it is a good lead-in to my thoughts for today: I just experienced driving in the United Kingdom…as the driver.

    We left Korçë about 9:00 A.M. yesterday morning.  The preferred means of travel over long distances in Albania is via fugon (foo-gone[like in bone]).  A fugon is a van dedicated to carrying people for hire from one town to another.  Our fugon was an eight passenger Ford Galaxy.  My recollection of a Ford Galaxy is a large sedan with bench seats and a huge trunk.  This model is a minivan.  With the rear seats in place there is room for only one large suitcase and several smaller items in the back.  So, three suitcases were tied on the luggage rack, the driver, my daughter and son-in-law, my two granddaughters, my wife and I climbed into seven of the seats and we were off to Tirana to catch a plane to London at 2:30 P.M.  The road to Tirana winds through many villages, a few small cities and over a couple of mountains.  It is never more than two lanes wide, and it’s often something of a gamble trying to figure out what vehicle is going to occupy a specific lane at any particular time.  The speed limit changes often, usually with no advance notice.  After three and a half hours of this winding, speed-up-slow-down, dodge the oncoming traffic ride, we entered the capital city of Tirana.  You have not experienced rush hour traffic until you have been on the streets of Tirana during the non-peak hours.  At about 1:15 P.M. we pulled into the Rine Airport flight departure lane.  After unloading our luggage and paying the driver about 7,000 leke ($70), we checked in, only to discover our flight was delayed by about 40 minutes; time enough for a cup of coffee and watching the 3-year-old run around.

    The flight to London-Gatwick was uneventful, landing us in England at about 5:15 P.M., local time (6:15 P.M. Albania time).  We walked quite a way to the immigration non-line, breezed through that process, and collected our luggage.  We picked up all but our red suitcase immediately.  That one seemed to be missing.  Then a man brought it back, after mistaking it for his own and almost leaving the airport with it.  Customs was a walk-through and we were out to the main lobby, the far end of which housed the Alamo Car Rental office.  We filled out the necessary paper work, then decided to sit down and eat dinner at an airport restaurant, since the little ones were quite hungry.   After a nice meal and a short discussion about what a biscuit is or isn’t and why the British don’t seem to know how to make one, we were off to pick up our rental cars.

    Remember the lead-in story about being thrown in the water and told to swim?  I have finally arrived at the application.  You see, we had been up for about 14 hours, spent 4 of those in a fugon, 3 more on an airplane, and the rest making sure a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old stayed out of trouble.   I was about to get behind the wheel of a VW I had never heard of (a Polo), located on the right hand side of the vehicle, with a 5-speed stick shift on the left, and drive out onto busy Gatwick roads, staying in the left lane, after dark, and possibly in the rain.  I very much felt like somebody had just thrown me out of the boat and told me to swim.  As it turned out, it wasn’t raining.  That came today.

    I had mentally prepared myself for that moment, pretending I was driving on the left side while travelling around Amador County, reminding myself that if I had been in England I would have turned into that other lane.  My amazing discovery was that staying in the left lane was the least of my concerns.  I kept looking to the right to utilize the rear view mirror that was to my left.  I kept running up on the curb on the left side and nearly hitting several vehicles, apparently compensating for my fear of driving on the right hand side.  I kept grinding the gears because I subconsciously rebelled against pulling the stick to each subsequent gear instead of pushing it over.  There are so many little habits that need to be retrained, and that takes conscious, deliberate thinking.  I have never been a great multi-tasker.  Then there were the roundabouts, but I’ll save that for another post.

    At the end of the day, we had made it from Gatwick to Penrith, safely and with our sanity in tack.  There were a few glitches concerning the proper way to interpret motorway signage, costing us quite a bit of time and petrol, but again, I will save that for another post.  I would have to conclude that I learned how to swim yesterday and today, evidenced by the fact that I am sitting here writing this without a scratch or bruise.  When I get really good at this, I believe I may swim back and tip over that boat.

POSTSCRIPT: Today I apparently ran a red light.  At least, that’s what the officer told me after he instructed me to get out of the car and take a seat in the back of his van.  I just don’t remember that light.  He let me go without incident, after informing me he knew that where I came from we can turn on some red lights, though he doesn’t really understand how that works.

Get Your Kicks on Route 66...and I-17

 

    Fifty years ago this coming November, my mother, two brothers and my sister crammed ourselves into a tan 1954 Ford Custom and headed west to California, the land of opportunity.  Since this trip has been at the surface of my personal history for the past 50 years, I thought it might be a good idea for all the siblings to reunite somewhere on that famous Americana icon to mark the occasion, so I suggested we meet in Flagstaff, Arizona.  That is what we did this past week.

    The days were filled with reminiscing, along with the obligatory elderly ailment reports, afternoon naps, sightseeing and food.  It is interesting how four people can remember the exact same trip with four very diverse versions.  We all agreed the car was filled to its maximum capacity.  The floor in front of the back seat was loaded with stuff right up to the height of the back seat.  Every cubic inch of the ample trunk was occupied by some necessity of life.  In fact, that trunk was the center of a rather momentous event.  When we were stopped at the California state line by an agricultural inspector, he wanted to empty everything out of that trunk to make sure we weren’t smuggling in some deadly New York State plant or bug.  My mother looked at him and said, “Fine.  But you’re going to put it all back in there!”  He shut the trunk and told us to go ahead.

    We appointed a spouse to take some notes while we tried to recall the dates, times, cities and events that shaped that historic trip.  We left Syracuse the Monday after Thanksgiving, drove through Erie, Pennsylvania, St. Louis, Missouri, Oklahoma City, Amarillo, Flagstaff, and ended up in Redondo Beach.  One remembered seeing cowboys in Amarillo, another recalled car trouble there.  We laughed at our ignorance concerning tacos (we assumed the word was pronounced tack-o).  Our sister was still the object of lighthearted ridicule as we recollected the time she walked out of the restaurant in which we had just eaten with the waitress’s tip money in hand.  “Here, you forgot this money on the table.”  Of course, nobody is going to let me forget that I, the only child who insisted he didn’t need Dramamine, vomited on Route 66 in New Mexico.

    It was a good time.  We are not known for staying close to each other, and have had very few reunion-like gatherings.  This was a long-overdue opportunity to get reacquainted. 

    After all the good-byes were said, three cars headed off in different directions.  The designated reunion scribe and I headed for Williams, thirty miles west of Flagstaff, to see this town that has attempted to preserve a little more of the historic Route 66 than many other towns.  After lunch in a 50’s themed restaurant, we headed for Phoenix and our flight home.

    The excitement of this trip was not over yet.  At about the I-17 mile marker 322 the hail from a slow-moving thunderstorm began pelting our rental Nissan Cube.  We had been in a very bad thunderstorm years before, but we had never seen the inches of accumulation of hail that we saw that day.  Truckers were pulled off to the side of the road, so I followed their example.  When we started moving again, I was driving on ice instead of pavement.  The piles of hail were rubbing the underside of the car.  Fortunately, there was no hail damage to the car, and we were able to drive out of the frozen stuff about five miles later.

    Overall, it was an enjoyable trip.  There were plenty of photo opportunities, fun conversations, the Grand Canyon, a power outage and a hailstorm, but reconnecting with family was the best aspect.