WHOA NELLIE! WHAT A VACATION

Another year has come and gone. I don’t use the normal calendar to measure a year, I use my yearly trip to my “Nirvana To The North” as my annual ending point of the year. Because as soon as it is over we kick into overdrive with school, sports, and work, after having been recharged by the magic that is the High Sierras.

This year our vacation time was cut short by two factors, an early starting school year and my daughter’s return from her Sister City trip to Australia. Thank God my son’s All Star Baseball stint was short or we might not have been able to go at all. Not that I wanted them to lose, but if I don’t get my yearly fix of “Nirvana” I would be more of a raving lunatic than I normally am and I don’t think any of us want to go there.

As I have chronicled in the past, this magical place is located in the Eastern High Sierras on the edge of a lake where we are surrounded by nature. The environment alone lends itself to relaxation, which is why I love being there. If you want to do something, you can. If you feel like sitting like a vegetable and soaking in the view like I do, you can do that as well, and for hours at a time without feeling guilty. Sorry, but that’s just the type of turnip I am.

There was, of course, the mandatory trips to Mammoth for lunch. We usually go to Grumpy’s Sports Bar and Grill which has, in addition to decent food, plenty of games to keep the kids occupied while the food is being prepared. This is always a plus, as any parent on vacation will tell you. Once you have left the complimentary crayons and color-in placemat stage, unless there is some other type of pre-mealtime diversion, waiting for your food can seem like an eternity.

That is unless you are dining at the jewel of the Eastern Sierras, Matt “Tioga” Toomey’s Whoa Nellie Deli. Not only does your food come fast it is the best food, bar none, in the area. The menu sports some very unique dishes such as Lobster Taquitos, Buffalo Meatloaf, New Zealand Rack of Lamb, and an Ahi Burger. The last two entries were on the “specials” menu, which is always changing with new delicacies.

One of the things that make this restaurant different from the rest is that it is located in a mini mart of a Mobil gas station. In fact, most of the locals and regulars don’t even call it by its proper name they just call it the “Mobil Station” which to new people to the area can sound kind of weird. You usually don’t equate petrol products with fine dining, but here at the Eastern entrance to Yosemite National Park, Tioga Pass, they do.

While there is inside dining available most people prefer to dine at one of the numerous tables al fresco with an intoxicating view of Mono Lake. Not only do you have spectacular food and a view, they have mastered something that most fine dining establishments have not, speed. You get your food fast. Considering the multitudes of people that descend on this place nightly it is an amazing feat.

When we arrived at 7:00 on Saturday night the place was packed and we still got our food faster than at most restaurants I have been to. With extra little bonuses like live music on Thursday nights, Whoa Nellie’s Deli shows no sign of stopping soon. So if you find yourself anywhere near Tioga Pass, do yourself a favor and drop in and taste Matt’s cuisine.

I don’t know about you, but whenever we go on vacation there are always a couple of instances that stick out in your mind long after the vacation is over. This year’s entry into the Vacation Hall of Fame deals with fathers and the indigenous wildlife of the Sierras.

The day of our arrival we went with my parents, Mr. Dunn and Martha or Ron and Diane, they are known by many names, to the Whoa Nellie Deli. It is about twenty minutes away from the cabin and requires driving around Grant Lake, along a winding road. My father and I have driven this road every year of our lives since getting our driver’s licenses. Day or night we usually do it above the speed limit.

That was until a fateful night a couple of years ago when my father, on his way back from the Whoa Nellie Deli, had a chance encounter with a deer. Usually when my father and a deer meet it is during hunting season, but on this night they met at 40 miles an hour on the road next to Grant Lake. While the deer’s outcome was the same, unfortunately the damage to my dad’s truck was about four times more expensive than a deer-hunting license and he didn’t get to keep the meat.

So now every time my father drives this familiar piece of highway it is done below the speed limit and if somebody else is driving, read ME, they are warned every 50 feet about the ghost deer that may appear out of nowhere in front of your car. This was repeated on the way back from the restaurant as well. I chalked this up to his one instance and his being over cautious, as any son would do. I mean it only happened once in sixty years of driving this road. What are the chances of it happening again to someone in the same family? I figured about the same as two people in the same family winning the lottery.

So a few days later, after my parents had left, we were making the same trek back to Whoa Nellie Deli when out of nowhere, you guessed it, out sprang a deer directly in front of us. Luckily, as I was driving, the words of my father rang in my ears, so my speed was slower than usual and my eyes were darting back in forth watching for these evil beasts. We had been trying to spot a deer since we arrived and almost ended up with one as a hood ornament. Deer are stupid. Sure they may be cute, but they are stupid.

Unfortunately, so are some people who think they are fishermen. During my years, this year marks my 50th anniversary of going to the cabin, I have seen a lot of them and lived with the two best fishermen on the lake, my grandmother and my dad. So when I tell you that this year I saw the dumbest person I have ever seen with a fishing pole in his hands, I know from which I speak.

Directly off of our dock is one, if not the hottest, fishing spots on the lake, so we are used to people anchoring in front of it. This provides an eagle eye view of what’s going on in their boats. On one particular day, while I was being a turnip, a father and son, obviously novice fishermen based on the newness of their dingy sized boat and the equipment they were using, had an incredible stroke of luck, well sort of.

During their brief time out fishing, not more than an hour, the son hooked what was easily a 6 to 7 pound trout. There are fishermen who have been fishing the lake for years trying to catch a fish that big, but to know avail. What was even more amazing is that these two didn’t even have a net and the son managed to get it in the boat without one. That should have been the end of the story, but unfortunately for the boy, dad got involved.

For some bizarre reason once the fish was in the boat and had stopped moving dad decided that the fish was dead and therefore no good. So without the benefit of a net he decided to put it back in the water in an effort to revive it. Of course, the fish was slippery, and dad lost him in the water. He then tried to use one of the oars to, well I don’t know what he was trying to do.

By the time he asked if he could borrow a net from me I knew it was too late but I loaned it to him anyway. They drove in circles for over a half hour while dad was doing his best impression of Captain Ahab searching for Moby Dick before finally giving up and returning the net. The son was clearly very disappointed and it was then that I offered up two valuable pieces of fishing advise in my limited arsenal of fishing knowledge. Always take a net and when you get a fish that big never let him see water again until he is restrained securely.

Another year, another lesson learned.

TIOGA TOOMEY & TWITCHER

I am back from my Nirvana in the North, my yearly trip to the magical place where everything is right. The place where the air is clean, the water is fresh, and the people are friendly. A place where I can look at a sign in front of any business and read it because they are all in English. If that isn’t Nirvana, please tell me what is.

My family and I relaxed by the lake for twelve glorious days as we recharged our batteries. Getting ready to embrace another year of school, work, baseball and softball. A last chance to rest before climbing back on that giant hamster wheel of life to make that sucker spin.

The Eastern High Sierras, for those of you who have never been, is truly gorgeous. The mountains are spectacular, they seem to cut the crystal blue sky with their peaks. The lakes are clear melted snow water. When the sun is right, you can see to the bottom of the lake and the rainbow trout swimming by just waiting to be caught. Which is what my son, Alex, did to the tune of 30, his best outing yet, and every fish was caught with a bubble and a fly. What kind of fly I can’t tell you, because that’s a professional secret between Alex and me.

If fishing is not your cup of tea, there are many other things to lose yourself in while there, depending on your energy level. You can hike the many trails, go mountain bike riding, swim at the beaches, boating, look for wildlife, shop, visit one of the historical sights nearby, read, eat at one of the many fine restaurants, and nap by the lakeside.

Those last two, eating and napping, are my personal favorites. Nothing in this world beats waking from an afternoon nap to the sound of the wind blowing through the aspen trees and the lake gently tickling the shore. The eating portion of the equation has definitely been enhanced this time around now that we finally tried the best restaurant in the High Sierras, Tioga Toomey’s Whoa Nelly Deli.

To locals in the area the Whoa Nelly Deli is no secret. They all go regularly to sample executive chef Matt Toomey’s many fine masterpieces, including Lobster Tacquitos, Kansas City Steak Caesar Salad, and Buffalo Meatloaf. If you are just passing by, and are not in the know, you might drive right by this Mobil Station on your way to the Eastern entrance to Yosemite. Yes, I did say Mobil Station, which is what makes this restaurant such a surprise. Who would have thought that a four star restaurant would be located in a gas station, but it is. The Whoa Nelly Deli is destined to becoming as mandatory a part of going to Yosemite as seeing Half Dome.

Back at the cabin, where life is slow and the living is easy, one activity that my entire family enjoys is looking for wildlife. There are plenty of varieties there to keep us busy. In the evenings there are the bears, raccoons, and deer, during the days the chipmunks and a variety of birds. And then there are the ducks……….

Over the past few years the duck population has escalated. The ducks have become an integral part of lake life especially when your cabin is as close to the edge of the lake as ours is. It has become a ritual, from the moment we arrive until just minutes before we leave, to feed the ducks. From the time we arrive they become members of the family.

This year my wife, Stacey, took a particular liking to one duck that had an injured wing. Because the duck seemed to twitch while it walked she named it “Twitcher.” Naming the ducks or other woodland beasts is not uncommon during our vacation. For example, every year there always seems to be one chipmunk that is twice the size of the rest and that one immediately becomes that year’s “Big Fat” and so it goes.

But Twitcher was different for my wife and her good-hearted nature for anybody or anything that is at a disadvantage kicked in to high gear and she immediately took Twitcher under her wing. Trying to favor one duck out of fifty proved to be a challenge. But for twelve days she stuck to her guns and was determined to get Twitcher fattened up for his flight south for the winter. I firmly believe that a lot of this nurturing was due to the fact that we our dog Stella passed away a couple of months ago and she missed having a pet. So during our vacation Twitcher became her surrogate pet. Twitcher was only too happy to go along for the ride, sitting at my wife’s feet, even when not being fed, just like a dog.

The challenge was compounded by the fact that some of the ducks had become so used to human feeding that they were fearless. There was one group in particular, who I called Ma Barker and the Boys, because a bigger group of duck thugs I have never met. This band was comprised of a mama duck and her four almost fully-grown babies, who shared the same sort of strong-arm tactics that the 1930 gangsters I named them after had.

This brazen little group, unlike the other ducks, would march right up to you demanding to be fed, whether you had any bread or not. They would even resort to pecking at your legs and feet trying to force you to do they’re bidding. Unfortunately for the ducks, being pecked by them is neither frightening nor painful in any way. For all intents and purposes ducks are wimps.

One morning I was standing at the end of our dock having a cup of coffee enjoying the serenity of the morning when a strange feeling swept over me. As I slowly turned to look back to the cabin there, at the other end of the dock, stood Ma and the boys. They were lined up in a perfect row across the dock attempting to block my way. It was like a scene from a bad Alfred Hitchcock movie. I found myself wondering if the Whoa Nellie Deli ever served duck.

The last day of vacation arrived all too soon and we closed up the cabin and gave the last of the bread to the ducks, especially Twitcher. Stacey even went so far as to mention him to our neighbor, Laurie, in hopes that she would continue the care program. Stacey really didn’t want to leave her “pet” behind and was worried about her when we left.

Four days after getting home our new dog Ruby joined the family.

The Shrub Speaks: Like you, I'm most interested in seeing how the process evolves (the Governor’s race.) It's a fascinating bit of political drama evolving in the state -- in the country's largest state. Crawford, Texas, 8/13/03

-- BD’s response - Being Prez of this fine nation, I think you should know that Alaska is the country’s largest state, followed by your home State, Texas, coming in third is California. 

JOHN & ALEX

    Last Friday, December 8, marked the 20th Anniversary of the assassination of music legend John Lennon. That day, twenty years ago, was far and away one of the worst days of my life. There is no way to express the sense of loss that I felt when I heard the news. I was sitting in my living room watching Monday Night Football when Howard Cosell informed me, and the rest of America, what had happened in front of the Dakota Apartments in New York that night and my heart just sank.

    I have never been affected by the death of a celebrity beyond the sadness of knowing that I would never be able to experience new work by them. Not knowing them on a personal level the loss would be far removed. But this was different; this was more like losing a parent. This was a person, who even though I had never met, had a key role in my upbringing. He had influenced me not just with his music but in his philosophies and his actions. 

   He had been part of my life since I was 8 years old and his music had been the soundtrack to my youth. At the time of his death he was once again giving the world the gift of his musical talents which had remained dormant while he was raising his youngest son. The album “Double Fantasy” had just been released and it pointed to a new era of musical magic from John Lennon. Sadly an era that was cut short by a madman's bullets.

   With all the press over the anniversary of his death and the release of a new compilation album by The Beatles I began listening to his music more than usual. In doing so, my kids began to ask questions about who we were listening to. I did my best to explain without becoming over zealous in my description. Hoping that somewhere in their future they would be able to understand the contribution made by this man.

       The fact that I was discussing The Beatles as a history lesson with my kids just seemed so bizarre. The memories of The Beatles and their music are still so fresh in my mind it feels as though it was only yesterday. Having to recite their first and last names and what instruments they played was such an alien exercise, probably because everyone who is my age knows it by heart.

    My ever-curious 9-year-old Alex was peppering me with questions every time the song on the CD changed. He finally got around to the inevitable question “Are they still alive?” I explained that all but one was and of course he wanted to know how he died. I was torn about how to answer his question. Alex is very sensitive about this kind of stuff, so I took it one step at a time.

    I didn't want to unleash the tirade that usually accompanies my discussing Lennon's assassination. Because of how passionate and angry I get at the entire situation I thought it best to take it slowly to see how much information he required. A week ago he was absolutely devastated by the news that he missed making “Honor Roll” at his school by a percentage point. So I decided not to go into all the gruesome details and give him the minimalist version.

    After I explained that a crazy “fan” shot him he wanted to know if they caught the guy. I said yes. Next he wanted to know where the “fan” was now. I told him that the killer was in a mental hospital. Next Alex wanted to know what a mental hospital was. I told him that's where they put people who have mental diseases. Then he wanted to know if he would ever get out of this place. Not knowing for sure but being hopeful I said, “No, I don't think so”.

   What I didn't share with Alex at this stage of his life was the deep-seeded venom I feel towards this “fan” and his senseless crime. That I didn't think he was crazy. That I think he is a cold-blooded murderer who should never be allowed to walk among us again. Alex would never understand how badly I wanted this guy to be in prison on death row. How current executions were far too humane a death for someone who deprived the entire world of who knows how many years of great music and peaceful social activism.

   If you noticed, I have not mentioned the name of the pathetic little weasel who committed this heinous crime. The reason he gave for committing the crime in the first place was to “get attention and to be remembered”. Therefore, I am not about to give him one millisecond of recognition or acknowledgement. I would not sell him my spit if he were dying of thirst. At a recent parole hearing this killer said that if John were alive he would forgive him and want him released. Well, we will never know that because someone not worthy of taking out his garbage has extinguished his flame of life.

    Maybe John would be that compassionate, but this is where he and I would disagree. While it is divine to forgive, I can never forget. With all the lessons that were given to me by him in his all too brief time on this earth, this is one that I can not abide by.

    The void that was created when he left disrupted so many peoples lives, that it can never be erased or replaced

I know that there will never be anyone in Alex's young life to rival the impact that John Lennon had on mine and I find that sad. I can only hope that by sharing the gifts that were given to me at his age, such as John Lennon's messages of “Give Peace a Chance” and “All We Need is Love” will transcend his tragic death and live on for generations to come.

REX LUTHIER: A REX BOGUE TALE

The week before last, in the Los Angeles Times Sunday Calendar section in the Pop Eye column, I read that Dweezil Zappa, son of the rock icon Frank Zappa, was about to sell a guitar. This guitar was not your average guitar; it had a very special history. 

This particular guitar was once owned by Jimi Hendrix and was played by him at the Miami Pop Festival. As with most of his performances, at the end of his set he doused it with lighter fluid and set it on fire on stage.

This guitar was eventually given to Frank, and if you were to believe the LA Times, Frank “restored this guitar and played it extensively during the better part of the 70’s”. Unfortunately, this was not true.

On March 13, 1976, my 21st birthday, a friend of mine invited me to dinner. His name was Rex Bogue and he was what is called a luthier. A luthier is someone who builds or restores guitars. In Rex’s case, his specialty was electric guitars. Rex suggested that before we head out to dinner that we meet at his shop, he had something he wanted to show me.

When I arrived, he handed me a charred body of a Fender Stratocaster Sunburst guitar. No neck, no electronics, just the body. I looked at him completely confused and asked him what it was. He told me that he had just gotten it from Frank Zappa with the instructions to rebuild it. Not to refinish it, but to just lacquer over the burnt body, replace the neck, and electronics. The electronics were one of Rex’s specialties.

In the years that followed, I did see Frank play the guitar many times in concert. There were also times when he would just place the guitar on a stand, center stage with a spot light on it, in sort of an homage to Hendrix. Even though Rex built many custom guitars for people like Carlos Santana and John McLaughlin, this restoration was something that he was very proud of. I felt it was my duty to send a letter to the Times to set the record straight, which I did. Whether they set the record straight or not remains to be seen, but my conscience is clear.

I met Rex while I was in high school and he was one of the most colorful characters I have ever known or even read about. There were so many times when he made me laugh, so many times he made me frustrated, and many more that were happy, sometimes all in one encounter. 

He was a complex individual. Someone capable of creating beautiful pieces of art on the one hand and someone who, once he would take on a project, could procrastinate like no one I had ever known. He could make both his friends and clients crazy. He was no saint by a long shot, but all who knew him, loved him.

Since writing the letter to the Times, I began to reflect on my friendship with Rex and how he had given me a plethora of memories and how he had made my youth a unique one. Exposing me to many things that without having known him I would have never experienced. As I look at my kids and the friends they are making now, I find myself wondering, will they be lucky enough to find someone as special as Rex was to me. Maybe they will become someone else’s Rex, only time will tell.

As I write this I am questioning why it took me so long to draw on my memories of the adventures I had shared with Rex, there were so many. The more I dwell on them, the more come to the surface, some surreal and bizarre, some humorous. There were lessons learned, both good and bad, and I am sure he will return to this column in one form or another. He was viewed as a genius by some and a lunatic by others, but anyone who met him will never forget him.

If you did, you were lucky because you don’t have that luxury now. Rex Bogue passed away on February 8, 1996, at the age of 44. A victim of his own excesses and complications of mishandling his diabetes. The mantle of lunatic certainly fit during the last years of his life, he became a casualty of the rock and roll life style he had adopted many years before.

So if you are fortunate enough to have a Rex in your life, embrace every moment you have with them, even the most maddening ones, because you never know when it will come to an end. 

(Bill Dunn received a call from the Los Angeles Times Wednesday evening. His letter will appear in this Sunday's Calendar section.)

THE LAKE KIDS

Having just returned from my nirvana to the north, the Eastern High Sierras, I came back feeling a little more mellow than usual. I am sure this is just a passing phase that as soon I have settled back into the daily grind will evaporate rapidly. 

While at our cabin by the lake this year I witnessed a metamorphosis. At our special place each generation has developed its own bonding ritual that, in some cases, has developed into life long friendships. This, despite the fact that the likelihood of these kids ever seeing one another any place other than at the lake is slim. But for the brief pocket of time they are together the friendships are intense. As intense as any day to day relationships they have during the year. Perhaps it's the knowledge that they only have a limited time to share one another's company.

Many families do it in different forms and if combined with a strong family unit, it is a critical part of growing up. If you don't have a cabin or RV, get a tent and go camping, If you are not the camping type find a nice little hotel. It can be a yearly trip to any place that the family likes, but remember to let your kids interact with other kids while you're there, even if your stay is brief. It will not only benefit your kids, it will make the other kids' vacation a little more special, too.

I never analyzed it as a child and they, I am sure, are not analyzing it either. It just happens that way when you go to the same spot with any regularity, or travel in a group that involves the same group of people. I remember going on group camping trips to Mexico. The parents had all bonded through mutual interests but the kids generally had nothing in common, but we bonded anyway. It was kind of like being stranded on a desert island. You made the best time you could with who you were with. While Robinson Crusoe and Friday were friends while on the island, I just can't picture them hanging out afterwards.

Even though we went our separate ways once the vacation was over, the anticipation was always lingering until that next trip to see what new adventures we could add to the memory banks. The memories that you carry with you for the rest of your life. The kids don't even realize it at this point, but they will many years from now when they begin to reflect on these special times. I know I have. There were many times when these trips were happening that I didn't want to be there. Now as I look back I wouldn't trade a second of it for the next set of winning lottery numbers.

So as I sat by the lake watching this new generation of Lake Kids, I smiled and began to reflect on that pocketful of miracles that I had of the lake and could see a lot of them replaying themselves with a different cast of characters. The interaction between this generation was the same as it was with mine. No matter if it was two or three playing, or if it was a group of twenty, they all had a common bond, they were all in the same place at the same time.

During one of the birthday parties that happened while we were there, I watched as these kids played. Out of the 20 kids in attendance most were meeting for the first time, but you wouldn't have known it in watching them. You would have thought they had known each other all of their lives or at the very least played together on a regular basis. Even though some of them were first generation to our lake, where many of the residents are working on a 4th generation, it made no difference. They were now part of the group. They were the next generation of Lake Kids, know it or not.

Many of the old guard at the lake fought with, and some still do, the advent of any new technology. They feared that with the invasion of any of those “confangled” new inventions like the radio, television, and VCR that the special feel, the vibe of being in the Sierras, would be lost. But I can say from an eyewitness standpoint that nothing was lost and, if anything, it has enhanced the experience. What was good before is still good now and the hours that the kids would dread, the night, have been filled with pastimes they can relate to.

When I spent my summers at the cabin, when night would fall the choices were slim. There wasn't a commercial radio due to poor reception and the phonograph played only 78 rpm records. You could read the comic books that you bought on the way up, play cards, go outside and look at the stars, or go to sleep. The only difference nowadays is product updates; the comics have been replaced with videos, the cards with Game Boy, and the 78's with Discman. The stars will always be cool.

Some things will never change and even though it had not crossed my mind for 35 years when it presented itself on this last trip I couldn't help but smile. Cap guns. 

Now I can just hear some of you self-righteous PC types out there saying “Oh I never let little Johnny play with any type of gun.” Well good for you, I do and while we were up there my son discovered cap guns for the first time and he was in heaven. He was experiencing the same euphoric bliss I did when I was his age and got my first cap gun. To me it was the perfect symmetry to the environment. He was reliving a part of my history and it was something we could both relate to and share.

My one hope for my children, other for them to be truly happy in their lives in whatever they decide to do, is that they pass it along. Pass along to their children what my parents gave to me. Summer times that were made special by family outings and bonding with the Lake Kids.

...and God Laughed.

A couple of weeks ago, in a moment of uncommon bliss, I expressed my love of rain--pointing out what I thought were all of the positive, happy points. At that time, I was reveling in the first rain of the season, but little did I know that God was reading my article and thought I was enjoying it a little too much. 

He looked down and laughed, and thought to himself, “Bill seems to think that rain is all warm and fuzzy. I think he needs to experience the flip side of that coin.” He chose to do it with an exclamation point for the benefit of all those who did not share my feelings about the rain.

Last Friday, March 5, at Millham Field at Longden School in Temple City, it was Opening Day Ceremonies for Temple City National Little League. After weeks of preparation the payoff for all our hard work was finally here. That payoff is in the looks on the kids' faces as they took the field for the first time to be introduced as a team to all in attendance.

As our President, Kristen Dearth, took the microphone, the evening got off to a great start. The kids were giddy with excitement as they ran onto the field as their teams were called. Their brand new uniforms shiny and colorful under the bright lights, the cleanest they will be for the rest of the season. Jeff Bearman directed them to their spots on the field and it flowed like a well-oiled machine.

Kristen was beaming as she made her announcements, followed by Al Millham leading the players in the Little League oath, seeming to be proud of the field that bears his name. Next was Gaylon the Barber playing the National Anthem on his trumpet. The kid's excitement level rose again as Kristen and Debbie Rea started raffling off gifts to all the players. Then as it ended, the coup de Gras, each player got a free T-shirt, hot dog, coke and a Snickers bar. It doesn't get any better than that.

Next up was the first game of the season, the Major Dodgers versus the Major Pirates. Although many people had left, the stands were still full, standing room only. The snack bar was hustling and bustling, selling all those Little League culinary delights at a furious pace. Being a relative newcomer to the Little League scene, I was staying mobile, cruising around and being a people watcher with one eye, and keeping the other on my kids who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

The night was colder than usual and most people were bundled up in winter garb. I am a particularly warm blooded individual who rarely wears a jacket and if at all possible wears T-shirts and shorts when I am not working. On this night, sweat pants were in order, but still no jacket. But as the night wore on, it got colder than I had anticipated, and I began to regret it.

Then as the second inning began something caught my eye. High in the dark night sky, far to the southwest a flash of light. It happened so subtly I barely noticed it, almost as if I was seeing things. As I moved out to the parking lot I kept my eyes trained on that part of the sky to see if there was any follow ups or if I was just hallucinating. 

Remembering the old adage that a watched pot never boils, I turned to walk away. Suddenly two more flashes in the same spot in rapid succession. It was still too far away to hear the thunder, but it seemed much closer and seemed to be moving fast. Standing nearby was Dermot Cullen, the player agent, surrounded, as usual, by people asking him questions about the league. They all stopped and asked, “Was that lighting?” With typical Dermot calm he responded “Yeah that was lighting” and returned to the conversation.

 I decided to find my son just in case it started raining. By the time I reached the snack bar I could feel the first few drops. First, I spotted my wife, Stacey, who was still collecting money for the 50/50. For the non-Little Leaguers out there, the 50/50 is a mini raffle where you buy tickets and split the pot with the league. This happens at every game, so come by and try it. Wait a minute I got off track here, back to the story.

I go up to my wife, who instructed me to find our daughter Rachel. As these words were leaving her lips the rain became steady as someone over the loudspeaker continued to tout the 50/50. Another flash of lighting came and this time it's accompanied by thunder. The umpire does not miss a beat, threw up his hands, and called the game. 

As soon as the game is called, and the rain was now coming down really hard, people were either fleeing to their cars or are taking refuge under the eaves of the snack bar. There were people scurrying around everywhere as the rain came down harder and harder. I couldn't find Rachel. But in the midst of the swarm of the rain-drenched crowd, I found my son Alex. At that moment, the rain turned to hail. I am very aware of this due to the fact that I was not wearing a jacket, as I mentioned earlier, and the hail was actually stinging me. Alex had had enough of this and wanted me to take him to the car. No argument from me and off we went.

After I got Alex settled in the car I set out looking for Rachel but to no avail, and the hail was now coming down full bore. I returned to the car thinking she'd show up any second, which she did. She told me to get out of the car as I am telling her to get in. Of course I won this argument through the glass and she got in. I asked her why she wanted me to get out and she said mommy wanted us to go into the snack bar to get out of the hail. I pointed out we were out of the hail and we would wait for her.

The true diehards stuck close to the snack bar eaves waiting for the 50/50 results to be announced. Suddenly Stacey appeared at my door--completely soaked--asking why we were here and not in the snack bar. I said because I thought we would be leaving shortly. She asked where are our 50/50 tickets, because they were about to announce the numbers. Diehards indeed.

At first I can't find the tickets. Stacey ran back to the snack barn and a minute later I found the tickets. So back out in the rain and hail I went. I gave her the tickets and returned to the car, twice as wet and cold as I was before. A few minutes later she returned to the car. They had done the 50/50 and we had not won, what a shock. When God decides to make a point, he leaves no stone unturned. 

So, in closing, let me reevaluate my prior reflections as far as rain is concerned. During baseball season rain sucks, Amen.

TALES FROM THE LAKE

I consider myself to be blessed in certain aspects of my life. I have a beautiful wife and children, great parents and siblings, and a job that at times can be interesting. There is also one other thing that I count as a blessing and that is “The Cabin.” The Cabin is a family retreat, sitting on the edge of a lake that has been in our family for over 55 years. To me it is the most beautiful and serene place on the face of this planet. It is the place that I go to in my mind when I am seeking refuge from a bad day. 

Just the thought of being there in “x” amount of days can usually get my blood pressure to drop, not permanently, but for a while. I have yet to have a guest come up, even a veteran of the High Sierras, who was not in complete and utter awe of its scenery. It is located in the Eastern High Sierras and that's as close to directions as you're going to get out of me, because too many people know about it already. My lips are sealed. 

I have invited fishermen and non-fishermen alike, and all have found the trip exhilarating, even though fishing is the main draw. Especially today there is so much more to do than fishing. In many cases, just being there amongst the silver shimmering aspens, breathing the clear crisp air, and drinking what most people pay a dollar a bottle for coming right out of the tap, is enough. 

Then there is the wildlife and wild it can be. The animated antics of the Disneyesque cast of characters is more entertaining than any thing you would see at the zoo. Maybe it's the spontaneity of the moment but whatever it is, it is enchanting to watch the reaction of the kids when the chipmunks or the raccoons come to call to put on their little shows. 

We have two bird feeders. One is made of a large piece of driftwood that is free standing and another that is right under the picture window of the kitchen. In the mornings, it's chipmunk time. They race back and forth, as though they are on amphetamines, scurrying to pick up every last breadcrumb and piece of birdseed. Their cheeks about to explode, they jump off the bird feeder whenever a blue jay swoops down, just to reappear minutes later, looking for more. 

At night the bigger beasts come out to play. At least once per trip we have been visited by one of the local brown bears that come over the mountain from Yosemite. The automatic lights outside the kitchen usually signal his arrival at which point my wife and I rush to see if the kids are still awake. First he goes for the hummingbird feeder, lapping up the sweet fluid like a large dog until it is empty. Next he is off to investigate the trashcan. He rips off the secured plastic lid with a pop and rummages through it until he is satisfied we have not put out anything he wants and he lumbers away towards the neighbors to entertain them for a while. 

Then much later, the bandits of the night arrive, the raccoons. This year instead of the usual one or two at a time, we had four teenagers who, like most teenagers, were fearless, pushing the boundaries their adult counterparts would not. In order to get a better picture my wife opened the kitchen window (which has no screen on it) while the kids threw them miniature marshmallows. All the while I videotaped everything, wife, kids, and raccoons. It was a circus at midnight. 

I began to lose sight of these simple pleasures when I was younger, especially when I was in my late teens to mid-twenties. For me, as with most at that age, you begin to take things for granted, thinking there are “cooler” places to be, “cooler” things to do than go the family cabin. Then as though waking from a bad dream you begin to say “gee maybe I should check out the cabin this summer.” Then, when you begin the drive up Interstate 395 and the scenery gets progressively more breathtaking with every mile you go, you begin to remember. 

You remember childhood memories. Seeing Grandma Nonie (no-nee) standing at the end of the dock in her blue captain's hat, fishing gloves with the finger ends cut off, casting her bubble and fly out onto the silver ripples of the lake after the sun has retreated behind the mountain. 

Teaching me the correct way to reel it in, slow and then fast, slow and then fast. “You have to fool the fish” she would tell me. Adding, “they have to think that fly is alive”.

This woman has never driven a day in her life. After my grandfather died in 1962, with the help of family and friends, she spent every summer at the cabin by herself, with the exception of when she had guests stay with her, until 1991. She was 87. She is 95 now and loves to hear the stories of what the family does when they go to the cabin. She is an amazing woman. She listens to the stories by her great grandchildren, who tell them with great excitement, as though Nonie is hearing about the chipmunks, bears, and raccoons for the first time. She smiles and nods knowingly, allowing them their moment.

I see the same apathy I expressed when I was younger in my nephew who has chosen not to go to the cabin for whatever reason he has. Although he did express a renewed interest when hearing that a new skateboard park had recently opened near the cabin. Marc, let me tell you, not a day goes by that I don't kick myself 10 times for every summer that went by that I didn't go up there. There is more to the cabin than fishing and you should give it another shot. There are only 27 cabins on that lake and no more will ever be built, and you have access to one. Don't let it pass you by.

Every year, after we have closed up after our stay, I stand by the lakeside soaking up the last few moments of the majestic surroundings. My wife tries to comfort me with the words “Well, only 355 days until you'll be back.” I bid goodbye to the silver shimmering leaves of the aspen trees and the silver glimmer of the lake as I hear the kids in the background saying goodbye to the cabin and every thing else associated with it as I turn and head for the car.

Sometimes everything that glitters is not gold-sometimes it's silver.