Celia Hayes – The Accidental Texan

Wee Jamie started day care/pre-pre-K today, so I am rather relishing being untied from his very strict daily routine, while my daughter is, of course, wracked with feelings of vague guilt and concern at turning over her most precious offspring to the care of people who, at this moment, are strangers. Because she, as a real estate agent, is not tied to regular office hours. We could, theoretically, carry on as we have been, lo these last three years and three months – that is, I looked after Wee Jamie when my daughter has a class, or a showing, or simply must go to the brokerage. The main problem with that was that his chances to associate with other children regularly – on a daily basis – were almost nil. Everyone – me, my daughter, Wee Jamie’s various therapists (for his developmental delay issues) and his godparents all agreed; he needed regular company with his peer group; for the example they would provide when it came to eating anything but crunchies, potty-training and … well, just general socialization. Being cared for full-time at home when he was a baby was perfectly fine; I rather imagine that the pediatrician approved, as it would have reduced the number of germs and viruses that he might inadvertently be exposed to. But an active, lively toddler, full of curiosity and with a full fuel tank of go-go-go? He was ready for the wider world, although if the wider world is ready for Wee Jamie … the jury is still out on that one.

So, off he went this morning, for his first day at Montessori pre-pre-K, with his little rolling-bag full of several changes of clothes, a full package of pull-ups, a little all-in-one sleeping mat/blanket/pillow, a packed lunch full of his favorite crunchies and a sippy-cup full of apple juice – everything marked with his name, of course. He ran happily into the classroom, rounded up some things to play with and never looked back. We tiptoed away while he was distracted.

He’s a social little boy – I think he will enjoy it all. My daughter usually did, when she was his age. I’d carry her into the base day-care center, and set her down so that I could sign her in – and she would tear off for her classroom as soon as her feet hit the floor. She would still be having so much fun when I came in to collect her after the day of work, that she was usually pretty casual about tearing herself away from whatever she was playing at.

Oh, Hi, Mom – is it four o’clock already?

Me, at about the time of this incident – taken when I was doing the school-kid tours for the Public Affairs office, Mather AFB

There was one little girl in her classroom, though – who almost invariably came running up to me, holding up her arms and demanding to be picked up. A little girl with red-blond hair, who would cry when I set her down, collected my own child and made to leave. This happened almost every day, and I couldn’t imagine why the little red-headed girl would glom on to me, and then be absolutely heartbroken when I left. And then one afternoon at the end of the working day,  Little Red-head girl’s  mother and I arrived at almost the same time. Red-head’s mom was about my age, height, coloring, and the same short hair, and wearing the same Class-B uniform combination … otherwise, we didn’t really look all that much alike – but, gosh, it was good enough for Little Red-Head.

Jamie had a wonderful day today – he was having fun when my daughter went to get him, and he even managed take a little bit of a nap on his new sleeping-mat, when all the other kids napped as well.

My daughter and I, with Wee Jamie in tow, had to make a road trip to California earlier this month to pay a final visit to my mother. We knew that it would be a difficult visit, saying goodbye to her. We also knew that we couldn’t stay long as my sister’s house is small, and her life is complicated enough. And that we have clients, projects and pets at home, so that we ought to keep the visit brief. My daughter suggested that we come home to Texas by way of I-40, which follows the old transcontinental Route 66, famed in song, story, TV series and all. At any rate, my daughter insisted – it would be more interesting a journey than the 20-plus hour drive through desert, desert and more desert on IH-10. She was very tired of driving or riding the train along the same route and seeing the same old ugly desert for miles and miles. Good enough reason to drive along another route, enlivened every fifty or so miles with another small town, or interesting city … and then she suggested that we make a side trip to see the Grand Canyon, arguing that it would be a while before we were in that part of the country again, we would only be an hour drive out of our way to see the Grand Canyon … so why not? It had been a long time since we had a road trip adventure, she argued.

Why, yes – it had been a long time … and after I thought about it, I agreed. And it would be a chance to check out the splendid Fred Harvey establishment – the hotel that the company built at the edge of the Grand Canyon – El Tovar, which hosted kings and presidents and celebrities of every kind since being built more than a century ago. Maybe, if the lunch menu wasn’t that excessive and they didn’t require reservations, we could have a meal in the restaurant … just like my daughter and I had tea at the Brenner’s Park Hotel  in Baden-Baden, when she was only a year and a bit older than Wee Jamie. My only worries concerned how Wee Jamie would handle hours in a car, and the usual road hazards when it comes to long hours on the highways.

So – that’s how we came to be driving away from Flagstaff very early on a Saturday morning; it was cool among the pines at such a high altitude. We had nearly forgotten what pine trees and tall jagged mountains even look like. There was still snow on some of the highest crags – but in the space of half an hour  we dropped out of the pine forests and back into high desert. There were two or three cars in line at the front gates to the South Rim. My daughter flashed her ID and her veteran’s national park pass, and there we were in the park, following the directions on her phone’s GPS program to the visitor venter in Grand Canyon Village. It was still so early in the day that there were empty places in the visitor center parking lot. Got out the lightweight umbrella stroller that we keep in the car (because the regular stroller takes up too much room in Thing the Versa’s trunk) and walked up to the wall by the path which leads along the rim …oh, my.

I think it was a bit like walking into a holy place – vast and hushed. So deep. Banded with color, tones of rust red, dark pink, sand, dark grey. Fringed with dark grey-green vegetation, cracked and creviced, jagged peaks and crevices, and away down, down at the very bottom, a little patch of glass-green water. We walked along the paved trail, pushing Jamie in the stroller; a different vista around every bend. My daughter laughed – here we were, with our cheap Cocomelon stroller, walking among all those hikers with serious boots, packs, staffs and water bottles. Jamie stayed strapped into his stroller all the way; it made us a trifle nervous, as there were no barriers along the cliff edge, nothing to block the incredible view around every turn. And nothing much to stop anyone falling for about half a mile, too. Wild horses would not have moved either of us off that path, or onto the Bright Angel trail, which zig-zags all the way down to the bottom of the Canyon, not even to take a heart-stopping picture. This did not stop other people from doing so, which made my skin crawl to see. No, I so do not do heights. Not so much the heights – but the likelihood of falling from them which distresses. We did encounter a park ranger there, and I asked him straight-out how many times they had to peel idiot tourists off the cliffs, to which he sighed and replied, “Too many times!”

At the Yavapai Point vista there is a tiny stone structure with windows all along the front aspect – it was agreed by experts a hundred years ago that the very best view of the Canyon was at that place. There were exhibits along the opposite wall, outlining how the land evolved – millions of years of sediment, a vast lake, upthrust of the continent and finally how the Colorado River carved the canyon. The river is no larger now than it ever was, so the exhibit informed us. But the Canyon itself … it was so vast, and the way down so rough that it was a barrier to travelers and explorers crossing the American desert for decades. I’d be willing to bet that the unofficial and unrecorded reaction of the first non-native travelers to the Canyon were something along the lines of “Oh, f**k, no, we’ll never be able to cross THAT!”

We checked out the Hopi House, now a gift shop and art gallery, wishing that we could have afforded some of the genuine black-on-black Santa Clara pottery. That would have done us as a souvenir; my daughter has noted how many cheaper souvenirs of a vacation or a visit have turned up at yard sales or in thrift stores. We also wondered how often visitors taller than ourselves near-to-concussed themselves on low doorways within that very authentic building.  Alas, reservations were necessary for lunch at El Tovar, and the sample lunch menu was pretty pricy, although I am certain that the elkburger was awesomely tasty. We left the park, noting that the line of cars waiting at the gates was now at least  half a mile long, suggesting to us that we were leaving at a good time. We snagged lunch at a sandwich place on our way back to IH-40 and didn’t get to Albuquerque until nearly seven that evening. But Jamie was a magnificent traveler for all that – I assume that he derived a great deal of amusement and distraction at watching the scenery flash past at 70 MPH.

I still want to go back to Grand Canyon, though – my dream now is to spend a few days at El Tovar, and see the Canyon at sunset and under a moonlit sky.