#being sick sucks but being sick with high blood pressure issues is worse

[creepygoth666]

It's always fun when, you get into an art groove, to suddenly be hit with a three day fever and God knows what kind of illness. Two COVID tests came back negative but unsure if they even catch the new variants.

Also, did you know fevers raise blood pressure? You know what's NOT fun for someone who's had issues all year controlling their blood pressure? I hit 170/112 last night. Even after taking the calcium channel blocker I was still at 163 earlier today. Had to take it again. At least I can go to my doctor's and wave my little blood pressure/food diary in their smarmy faces, because I've got proof it's not salt related considering I haven't eaten dick for three days.

Ugh. And I used up the last of my PTO for the year on this damn sick. I could've been finishing up that Echo Garden piece, but I could barely move.

[lastoneout]

@virtual-particle Yay a distraction!!

So I got diagnosed with Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension in 2021. I'd noticed some really weird vision changes that seemed concerning and so I went to an eye doctor who did a scan of my optical nerves, which showed swelling, and they said it could either be a brain tumor, MS, or IIH.

Them I got an MRI, and since they didn't find a brain tumor or any signs of MS I got sent to a neurologist with a presumptive diagnosis of IIH. They then performed a lumbar puncture to test the internal pressure of my cerebrospinal fluid, which was VERY high, and thus confirmed the IIH.

Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension is a rare disease, and as the idiopathic part of the name implys, it's not known what causes it. There are lots of theories, some more solid than others, but overall it just means your body cannot properly regulate the ammount of CFS fluid in your brain, leading to increased pressure, which then causes your optical nerves to swell. It also causes migrane-like pressure headaches which can be disabling and are hard to treat, and on top of that it can cause brain fog, vision changes, pulsate tinnitus, and a whole host of other issues. And, the icing on the cake, if left untreated it can result in permanent vision loss.

The front line treatments for this condition are diamox, a diuretic medication typically used for extreme altitude sickness with loads of unpleasant side effects, and weight loss.

Now, I'm of the opinion, from both personal experience and talking to people on the r/IIH subreddit, that weight has fuck all to do with it and is just used as a convenient excuse to ignore this condition and blame it on the patients. I was already skinny when I got it and have had to deal with SO MANY DOCTORS saying "we don't usually see this in people your size" before telling me to lose weight anyway, because ??? I did lose weight, way more than the recommended 5-10% of my bodyweight, and nothing got better. Also, lots of people on the subreddit were also already skinny when diagnosed or lost weight and had it get way worse or did nothing only for it to magically go into remission on it's own, and on top of that it's fucking idiopathic, so blaming weight is stupid if you don't know for sure what's causing it in the first place. (It's also apparently very common in "women who gain weight during their childbearing years" which uh. that's all women. and humans. almost all humans gain weight in their 20s and 30s, we don't stay what weight we were when we were 16 forever ffs, and it being more common in women is probably another reason why doctors are so shitty about it tbh.)

Diamox also has a lot of really awful side effects and isn't intended as a long-term medication. It makes my IBS worse, gives me random painful tingles all over my body, throws off my electrolyte balance so badly I have to work extra hard to stay hydrated so my blood doesn't turn acidic, it's a nightmare. It can also cause hair loss?? Apparently?? Which fucking sucks, and long term use puts you at risk of osteoarthritis. It does lower my CFS pressure, but it doesn't fix it and the downsides are only balanced by the whole "not suffering severe brain damage or going blind" thing. I cannot WAIT to stop taking it.

Anyway. My shit ass doctor put me on diamox, prescribed a migraine rescue medication that make me feel like complete shit, and told me to lose weight because getting a shunt would ruin my life. Her weight loss advice was to stop eating fruit and skip meals, and she didn't listen when I said I already don't eat much, so I just ignored her. I only lost weight because I found out I'm allergic to wheat and stopped eating it. Even after I lost weight she kept pushing weight loss, insisting another 5lbs would send me into remission even though I was almost as skinny as I was in high school, and refusing to even explain a shunt to me because she was certain it would ruin my life.

But anyway I ended up getting so sick of not being helped by my horrid neurologist(who has also treated me so badly I have honest to god trauma now) thst I dropped her and got in with a neurosurgeon who immediately was like "uh yeah if weight loss was going to help it would have by now, time to explore other options. Either a shunt, or a newer treatment, a stent to open up a specific vein in my head. They just needed to do a couple of tests to figure out which would be better.

So I got a MRV, a special kind of MRI to highlight the veins in my head, and it did show narrowing at a key spot that they see in IIH patients, so next I got a cerebral angiogram, which I won't explain bcs if you're squeamish it's not fun to hear about, look it up at your own risk, but they checked out the vein in my head and despite me having narrowing it was clear that the narrowing was caused by the IIH and it wasn't what was causing it in the first place, so stent wouldn't be helpful in my case, and thus I am now waiting for Jan 6th to get my shunt.

The shunt is actually fine, my old neurologist was being insane about it, it's going to get plugged into my lower spine, and essentially become a spigot for my CFS to drain out of. They can program it, and the fluid will just safely drip out into my abdominal cavity where my body will absorb it, which will relieve the pressure in my head and I'll be able to get off the diamox, I won't be at risk of blindness, and it might even make the headaches go away. I can also still get MRIs, I can get pregnant safely if I want, and while there can be complications it would mostly just be the tube getting clogged which can be fixed with a quick surgery, and if I magically go into remission or something else happens that necessitates removal that can be done no problem.

I'm very excited for the surgery. I know it's def risky, all surgeries are, but if it means not going blind and getting off the diamox I'll do it! I will probably still have to deal with some headaches, but this should help make them less intense or happen less often.

Anyway yeah I hope that helped! I don't really know about other uses for shunts but they really don't seem all that bad! It's honestly pretty interesting all things considered, and I hope this info was helpful or at least interesting to read o7

Stuck in the ER and god I cannot wait until my wheelchair is finished and delivered T-T the regular chairs here are angonizingly uncomfortable and getting around when I'm in this kind of pain sucks. But also the regular hospital wheelchairs are a nightmare and I can't get around on my own in them at all so ajdnfkgkglh

When will my wheelchair return from the manufacturers 😭😩

[starstruck-thirst]

Feitan Portor: Cut Above the Rest

Warnings: Dark tea, Non-con, blood play, bound and unable to move, NSFW

Request

______________________

“Kneel,” Feitan said, striking the back of your knees with the snap of a switch.

 You hollered, almost falling forward from the force of the blow. It was only the small trace of resilience in your heart that kept you standing spite the stinging pain that nibbled at your skin.

The thing in front of you looked roughly made. A head and wrist stock connected to two thin benches that were about a leg length apart. Exactly that distance, you realized as you put a knee onto one of the thin planks of wood slowly.

Your throat was unbearably dry, and no amount of swallowing was helping in anyway. Perhaps you had already cried out all the spare water you could.

“Move.” Another slash to the back of your still extended leg made you wince and quickly do as you were told, kneeling fully on the two thin benches in front of the stockade.

Feitan didn’t say anything else for a moment as he locked cold shackles around each of your ankles, causing your naked body to tremble from the chill and fear while you waited for his next instruction with growing anxiety. A speck of red on the neck rest of the stockade caught your eye and you shook harder.

Was that blood?

Your eyes trailed the rough wood noticing several spots of red. Several larger pools of red on the leg benches caught your attention before the dark-haired male appeared before you. Just as several times before, you hadn’t heard him move at all.

Grey eyes stared at you, no trace of human remorse to be found in them, as he lifted the stockade top open. Half circles waited like open mouths in front of you, and you shook your head. “No,” you finally managed, the one word harsh in your throat.

A single eyebrow raised at your defiance. Your lips trembled as Feitan stared hard into your eyes. The thought of what he would do if you kept him waiting much longer finally spurred you into action. Unwillingly, you leaned forward. Each hand gripping the wrist slots for stability as you slowly lowered your neck into position.

“Good,” Feitan praised, though it didn’t make you feel very happy. It just made you feel slightly less fearful of his wrath. “Wrists now,” he instructed.

It was agonizing to move your fingers and rest your delicate joints into the little divots. Your legs had to take all of your body weight so that you didn’t push down too hard on your wrists and neck. As Feitan brought the top of the stock down into place you bit your lip already feeling the wood bite into your knees. Nothing about this situation had been comfortable before, but now you were in actual slow building pain.

The click of a lock made your legs tremble again as you carefully lifted your head to glimpse Feitan in an attempt to try and read what he had in mind. But as before, it was impossible to get a read on the man. His high collar hid most of his face, and what you could see of it was so stone cold that there was nothing you could even hope to gleam off of it.

A swish cut the air and you tried to turn your head more in an attempt to see what was in Feitan’s hand that disappeared just out of the reach of your vision. The stockade blocked his entire arm, and looking back into his face you could now read something in his eyes. Glee.

The nothing was better, you decided. The childlike glee you could feel coming from the way Feitan looked at you while you shook with fear was too horrible.

After your next blink he was gone. Erratically, your eyes shifted around the mostly empty room, trying to catch glimpses of the man. Then, a red hot ache sliced through your side. This was nothing like the feeling of the switch that you had been hit with before. It was sharp and you could feel blood well up on the wound.

He had cut you.

Feitan had actually cut into your flesh.

“No scream? Impressive,” Feitan muttered, the sound of his voice hard to pin-point in the small room.

Taking your lack of scream as a challenge, Feitan touched the cold tip of a knife to the side of your breast. You sucked in a mouth of air, clamping your teeth together tightly as he slid the knife down in an arc. Still you didn’t scream, but you hissed as the especially thin cut burned against your skin.

“How much, until you scream?” he asked with a curious tone in his voice, his cruelty somehow still clear despite his slightly awkward words.

Warm breath against the fresh cut made you shake again. “Curious,” he muttered before the feeling of a wet tongue slid along your breast.

“Stop,” you whimpered, wrists straining against the stock as you squirmed with discomfort.

“Stop? Why?” Feitan sounded almost genuinely curious as he ran a finger against the bleeding wound in your side. “Are you not having fun?”

You almost yowled as a finger slid into the wound. It wasn’t wide enough for Feitan to prod too deeply, but the invasion into your body was still striking and you groaned to keep from screaming.

As his finger rubbed the wound, another hand cupped your sex. Expertly, he palmed the outside of your pussy to the same rhythm he prodded your wound. White spots formed on your vision as you struggled to keep silent. “Having fun now?” he asked, an amused tone in his voice now.

The finger left your wound, and one finger slipped into your folds to brush against your clit teasingly. You groaned again, thighs shaking from the sensation of being toyed with as your knees howled in strain from the prolonged weight on rough boards. “Should have known. This is the only excitement a slut can have.”

You wanted to reply, to tell him he was wrong, but your words were cut short as the feeling of Feitan’s blade slid along your inner thigh. Without more than a second of pause it slid against the opposite thigh at a different angle and you had to bite your lower lip to keep quiet as possible, only the low groan occasionally escaping. You didn’t realize it until that moment but you were determined to not let him have this one thing. He already was free to take whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

This was the only thing you could keep from him. The only thing that you could deny him fully.

But somehow you got the sense that Feitan wasn’t bothered at all as his hand continued to work your clit with more pressure and vigor while his other hand went between your thighs and rubbed against the open wounds that were trickling blood.

The pain was only offset by the strange sensation of wet on your thighs that you had never felt before. Some part of your brain thought that perhaps you had pissed yourself, that being the only other comparable thing it could equate the sensation to.

Feitan slapped your ass with the hand that had been rubbing your bloody thighs and you gasped. You hadn’t been expecting such a normal sting in this moment, and it shocked you enough you almost let your voice go free from the surprise.

‘No, I gotta focus. I can’t let him have this one thing,’ you thought with determination as you tried uselessly to shift your legs as more of your body throbbed due to your awkward position.

“You’re wet.” His finger slid from your clit to your opening with ease and you sighed at the pleasurable sensation. “Maybe it is fun now?”

“N-no,” you replied, words becoming harder as your breathing was growing more labored.

Your thighs were in such pain from the bleeding cuts that the pleasure you gained from Feitan’s fingers barely registered.

He slipped a curious finger inside of you and you groaned, pulling against the stockade and making your wrists ache from the effort. Interested, he put a second finger inside as well. You held your breath as he pumped his fingers in and out of you a few times, whimpering but keeping the sounds as quiet as you possibly could.

If you thought the assault of his fingers was horrible, the absence of them was somehow worse you realized as he slipped them back out. But it gave you a pause to try and breathe. It was harsh against your dry throat but it helped refocus you as Feitan walked casually to your face once more.

His coat was gone, exposing his muscular chest and arms. It could have been attractive, if he wasn’t cutting into you like a madman and finger fucking you.

“See?” he asked, bringing his fingers close to your face for your inspection. Two of them were slick with your juices, and when he spread them you could see the fluid stretch between the digits. You felt sick and embarrassed at how your body betrayed you. “You lie,” he said, cupping your face with the hand that was covered in your blood. The wet sticky feeling against your chin was nauseating.

“Scream, and maybe I’ll let you go,” he offered with a nonchalant shrug.

If you had any saliva in your mouth, you would have spat at him. But as things were, you could only glare.

“Fine,” he said, releasing your face. “I enjoy challenge.”

Every muscle in your body tensed as he ran the blade against your inner thighs over and over again. You bit into your lip, trying to fight to keep your last whisper of dignity as Feitan made a mess of your poor legs.

When he finally stopped you let your lower lip go to pant, not realizing you had been holding your breath the entire time. Blood dripped off your lip and you wanted to cry real tears as you tasted copper in your mouth. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as your thighs, but it felt like a final straw on what your mind could take.

But Feitan wasn’t done pushing your mental limits.

The moment for you to breathe and recollect was too quickly over as the benches your legs were strapped to were pushed together suddenly. The feeling of your burning thighs being pushed together was horrible, but what was worse was Feitan’s erect dick slipping easily between them.

Your blood provided enough of a wet lubrication for Feitan to thrust into your thighs without issue. The friction of his skin rubbing along your wounds was somehow worse than the initial pain of each cut. The mixture of angles at which the skin was sliced guaranteed that each thrust into your thighs pressed some open and rubbed excruciatingly along others.

A quiet cry escaped before you could clamp down on your lower lip again, hands balled into fists as you tried to focus past the pain. There was a tiny amount of pleasure in his action as his dick slid against your clit from time to time, and with nothing else to focus on this became the thin string of sanity to cling to.

With eyes squeezed tight, you focused on that single sensation as he slammed his hips forward again and again. More often he was slipping upward and brushing your clit and you drank in each and every tiny bit of pleasure you could get from it.

Meanwhile Feitan’s dick was growing firmer. You could feel it as your bloodied thighs squeezed down. ‘Please,’ you asked no one, ‘Please just let him cum and it all be over.’

Your sense of time was completely messed up as you endured the agony. Each time he slid through your thighs was like a second and a minute at the same time. And when a new feeling of warmth splashed onto your thighs you thought it would be over. But he continued to thrust as he came, rubbing the cum into your wounds and you finally screamed.

The pain that shot through your body was undeniable as the invasive body fluid was rubbed into several of your wounds at once and you could no longer control your voice.

If your body could have gone limp, you know it would have as Feitan pulled away from you. Every part of you felt used up and exhausted, but your position on the device ensured no rest.

Feitan sighed, sounding as if he had been forced to put forth more effort than he had anticipated or wanted. A hand ran down your bloody and cum covered thighs and you whimpered at the feeling.

“I didn’t expect you to bleed so much.”

[prayandfeast]

Twisted Luck

It’s the new year, and I’m already launching into some Witcher tales. I hope 2021 is an improvement for us all.

This story was originally going to star Caligarus, but maybe I’ll do a near death by cliff fall for all three.

Zvonimir & Caligarus. Content warning for vomiting.

Zvonimir was unlucky. That had to be it.

That fickle intangibility that humans so often blamed their misfortune on. That complicated thing that both relied on one's actions and acted completely in spite of it. That thing that Zvonimir had never believed in once had to be the reason behind the sudden downturn in his life.

The sky drifted further away as Zvonimir fell. He thought back to the research that brought him here and the contract that would now go unfulfilled — the warnings that would never delivered. And once his mind settled on Caligarus and Avitamis, a small wry smile curled his lips. Perhaps, if he was lucky, those two would find him bent and broken. They would recover his sword and his spells, and they would give him an honourable burial. Perhaps, perhaps... But it might have been too much to ask.

As he fell, he could feel the venom still making its way through his body. It burned around the entry wound near his stomach. In fact, that very spot felt as if he had been branded. Even breathing now brought notthing but a shred of misery. Maybe his luck would turn back in his favour and he would be unconscious before his body hit the ground. His eyes began to drift closed but only snapped open once a sharp whistle sounded through the air. It was harsh and almost unnatural. Zvonimir had little time to ponder on it. A wide shadow passed over him, and his eyes trailed to follow it. Only... they didn't stop moving. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the pain hit a fever pitch. The toxicity in his body was too high, and he could feel the clutches of faintness easing towards him.

A new pain joined soon. Sharp talons pierced his back and into his organs. It was enough to jolt him back into the world. Blood spilled from his mouth and down towards the jagged rocks. The massive creature sank a foot when new weight jointed. Dizzily, Zvonimir attempted to lift his head. He was only successful when a hand cupped his cheek and turned his attention.

     "Cali....garus...?"

    "You look worse than usual," came the grim attempt at humour.

Caligarus thumbed down Zvonimir's bottom lid before shaking their head. They made a motion with their hand, and Zvonimir felt the effects of Axii flow over his mind. However he could have met his end, at least he knew a moment of peace before all went dark.

-----

When he awoke, it was to the sound of hushed voices. One was Caligarus' usual drawl, but the other was punchy and elegant. Zvonimir attempted to open his eyes. Which was a trial onto itself. He attempted to let out a faint noise to let them know he was awake, but the sound died in his throat. His entire body felt heavy, useless. The Axii couldn't have been that strong, certainly not.

     "I believe your friend is awake," said the eloquent voice.

    Measured, heavy footsteps, and suddenly, Caligarus was cupping Zvonimir's neck. "His pulse is steady at least. Finally." They turned away. "I can't thank you enough."

    "I'm sure you could manage. My, my. I do have my hands full with you Witchers."

    "Perhaps you could open your own practice. You'd make a killing."

The other speaker laughed, and it was reassuring. Zvonimir felt it in his chest, and it lessened the pressure in his mind only a little.

    "Cagli..." He attempted, but his tongue was heavy. The word slurred in his mouth.

    Caligarus shook their head before lowering him back down onto the bed. "You need more rest."

    "Buh..." It was useless, but Zvonimir's instinct told him to resist whatever this was. Had he been drugged? Charmed?

His hand slid down the length of Caligarus' arm, and it was all too easy for him to succumb to the rest that overtook him. His eyes filled with darkness for the briefest second. He was out immediately after.

-----

Rising the second time was far easier. In fact, he felt completely energised! He placed a hand on his head and sat up without trouble. All of his arm had been stripped and cleaned. The pieces had been stacked and prepared for him on a nearby bench. At the furthest end of the bench sat Caligarus, who had been scraping down a root of ginger.

    "Where are we, Caligarus?"

The Ox Witcher halted their task; their eyes swung over to Zvonimir, gaze intense. He licked his lips without thinking. Dry and flecked with blood. He made a face before looking towards the ground. He raised his hand to touch his lips and saw that his entire left hand had been bandaged.

     "What...?"

    "And here, I thought I was going to be regaled with the tale of what happened to you," Caligarus explained. They bent forward to grab a few stray pieces of ginger. They dropped the root scraps into a basket before grabbing it and standing. "I've never seen you come out so terribly."

    "The- the Ekhidna, did you...?"

    "We found her," Caligarus added, "and you."

We. Zvonimir looked around and then scented the air. There was no sign of the other person still around, but there was the lingering smell of herbs. Powerful, that... He looked to Caligarus, and they extended to him a two-toned potion. It was red mixing with honey yellow. Smelling it brought no offense, but even still, he shot a reluctant look to Caligarus.

    "I'm not going to poison you. I need you alive."

    "Funny. You typically don't need anything of me, but."

Zvonimir stopped the token protest before downing the potion in a single pull. He was almost immediately winded. His sinuses cleared up at the same time his breath was taken away. He reached out, and Caligarus knelt down in front of him. He gripped his hand on their armoured shoulder and held on as tight as he could as a literal nerve-wracking pain built up. It charged up from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair. He sucked in a pained breath as he started to shake.

    "Shit..."

    "He warned me it would be powerful, but it's going to purge all the poison from you."

    "Oh, it's going to do more than—" Zvonimir seized as the sudden gag nearly blinded him.

Caligarus, quick with their senses, began to pull him to his feet. He went without issue. Walking didn't bring any further discomfort, but the second heave of his body made him feel even more lightheaded. By the time they were near a pile of dead leaves and weeds, Zvonimir was ready to unburden his body of both toxin and organ. He dropped down to his hands and knees and gave up all that his body wanted to expel. Caligarus was kind enough to kneel down and tie his hair back.

Zvonimir heard the dying whimper of something and prayed to every force and being that it was him. When he opened his eyes, he saw something bruised coloured and writhing in his sick. He regarded it with a flat, teary stare.

    "A parasite," he breathed. "Joy."

    "Do you remember what else you fought?" Caligarus asked as they produced a tiny hemp bag from their side.

    Zvonimir watched almost disdainfully as they collected the thing and dropped it into the bag. "What are you planning on doing with that?"

    "Consider it payment for saving your life." Caligarus tucked away the bag before sighing and dropping their hands to their thigh. They looked over to Zvonimir. "That's what I've been told to say."

    "By. Whom?"

    "The one who did the saving. Truly, in this case. I merely hauled your almost corpse to a safe location." They reached out to grab onto him and help him stand once again.

Zvonimir felt weak in the legs and empty in the stomach, but otherwise, he felt perfectly fine for someone who just wretched several generations of eating. Caligarus pulled them away from the dry brush before setting it all ablaze with Igni.

    "Who was here earlier, Cali?" Zvonimir asked as they headed back to the small domicile.

    "A friend. Someone who I had great fortune of running into while I was out." They looked to him from the corner of their eye. "And you haven't answered me yet."

Zvonimir took in a deep breath, ready to fire the sentiment back at them, but he knew that it would be no use. Fighting Caligarus about their vagueness and mystery had about as much purpose as yelling at a tree for growing its bark. He waited until he was sitting again before finally explaining,

    "I went there because I was told that fishermen and such had been attacked by a terrible she-beast. Based on their testimonies, I had been prepared for a fight with a siren and maybe, perhaps, an Ekhidna. But there was something in the forest."

    "A cursed one?"

    "Perhaps, I never saw it. No matter what I did, it struck with such a savage ferocity that by the time I saw the Ekhidna, I." Zvonimir stopped short and frowned deeply. He wasn't so detached from humanity that he didn't know what shame was. He licked the inside of his cheek, his gaze unfocusing as he thought to the first moment he saw the Ekhidna. "I was already dead."

The air between them went dead. He nodded his head slowly before closing his eyes and balling his hand into a fist. He thumped it down against his thigh. A harsh sigh escaped through his nose. When he opened his eyes again, he stared at Caligarus both annoyed and focused.

    "Tell me you finished the thing."

    Caligarus nodded somberly. "It would have been easier with help, but I knew you needed to be tended to." They leaned against the small counter and crossed their arms. "So, no hint at all?"

    "None. Unfortunately."

    "That is unfortunate, hmm." Caligarus looked at the wall ahead of them. "And I didn't see anything when I returned... I did collect on the contract, however. There were two going at once for this thing, and I managed to talk your clients into believing that you were no coward nor were you dead."

They dug into their pocket and held out his Griffin medallion. Zvonimir felt at his neck and realised that he was truly naked without it. He accepted the pendant and set to work refastening it around his neck. Caligarus continued,

    "Seeing to the beast that did this to you would have been a suitable step in my revenge, but for now, I'll stay to cursing it blindly." They pushed away from the counter then. They moved to a small table by the window and put together something modest to eat.

    "That beast that grabbed me when I fell..."

    Caligarus was quiet for a beat. "A Royal wyvern," they explained.

    Zvonimir stared at their back, incredulous at the idea. "You—! You tamed such a beast?"

    "Tamed would be a stretch. I merely offered it a trade." Zvonimir turned. They crossed the room before setting the bread and meat in Zvonimir's lap. The plate was chipped and a speck of dust had hardened on the edge. He missed the details for he was still staring up at his companion. "Some beasts can be haggled with. It's usually far easier if you know what they're after."

    "And what... did you offer it?"

    "Its territory back. It and the Ekhidna were rivals for that spot." They spoke with an air of confidence and certainty. Even still, Zvonimir thought they were mad. "Anything else, however, I wouldn't know."

    "Oh, of course." Zvonimir began to eat.

    Seeing this, Caligarus fetched their waterskin for him and turned towards the door. "I'll be back before the afternoon. I've yet another trade to make."

    "Are you going to meet this 'friend' of yours?"

    Caligarus paused at the door and looked over their shoulder. "I am."

    Pointless to ask, he reminded himself before readying another bite of his food. "Tell this friend I said 'thank you.'"

    "I will along any other long-winded vows of gratitude you wish to make."

    "Sod off..."

Caligarus smirked before heading out the doors with a slight wave. Zvonimir watched their retreated back, frustrated that he couldn't go along to unravel this mystery himself. Once they turned the corner and exited his vision, he shifted his focus to the brush still burning in his line of sight. Maybe his luck was mending little by little. Of course, he had to pay in blood before that happened. He ate with a burdened air of gratitude. Well, if that was the case, at least he was still alive to pay that debt. One more day bought, one more ounce spilled. Such was the life of a Witcher.

[nessywinchester]

Not Broken - Part 1

Paramedic!Dean Winchester x Reader (AU)

Warnings: medical emergency, continuous mention of chronic illness, mention of bodily functions/fluids, probably some medical discrepancies. 

Word Count: 1,146

A Note from Nessy: Thanks for reading! I want to start off by saying that a lot of these instances (mainly medical) come from personal instances in my own life. Chronic illness is rough. Take care of yourselves. Please let me know what you think! Sorry, but for now, there is no tag list for this series.

Part 2

“911, what’s your emergency?” you heard a muffled voice echo around you. It sounded like it was coming from a speaker, from a cell phone maybe? Who knew? You were just trying to figure out where you were. 

That’s when a familiar, muffled voice answered the question. 

“My friend, she collapsed! She has medical issues and is taking some sort of new medication. She had a bit to drink, and now she’s not answering me when I talk to her!” your best friend rambled. There was desperation in her voice, but you couldn’t seem to follow the direction it was coming from. “She just leaned out of her chair and fell unconscious—” Her words started to warp together as you tried to move, but nothing was responding. Your legs were stiff and your arms throbbed, probably from falling out of your chair. The tile floor beneath you was cold, causing your already weakened joints to ache even more.

Voices drifted in and out of range as you closed your eyes again. Your whole body hurt much more than usual. You were hot, and cold, and sweating, and shaking? It all just seemed so out of control.

“Emma—” you muttered for your friend, but couldn’t see her well. You heard her footsteps approach her, but still couldn’t figure out which side she was coming from. 

“It’s okay, Y/N. Help is on the way. I’m right here.” Something smoothed over your hair, probably her hand in some sort of effort to calm you. But, at this point, everything what just fuzzy, and you were oddly… calm? 

“Emma, I—” Without warning, you threw up everything. Breakfast, lunch, the two beers you had sipped over the past few hours. But, weirdly, the instant it all came up, everything seemed a little but clearer. You could make out the shape of Emma to your left, holding you up a little as you hovered over the massive pile of puke to your right. 

This wasn’t the new medication. You knew that. If it was, this would have happened four months ago when you started it. No, this was something else. You had felt like crap for the last few days, but that wasn’t totally abnormal considering your autoimmune disease. 

Just as another wave of nausea hit you, you heard the sound of sirens in the distance. You squeezed your eyes shut, then threw up again in the same spot. When you were done, Emma reached under your arms and dragged you onto the carpeted living room, closer to the door. Your vision was a little better now, but you were still incredibly dizzy. 

“Y/N, hey, do you know what’s going on?” She questioned as she held you against her on the floor. You nodded slowly.

“I threw up,” was all you were able to get out. You turned you head a little to look at her. She was crying, which made your stomach churn even more. “No,” you muttered, but you just didn’t have the energy to say much more.

The next second, a man entered the unlocked door and rushed to your side. You could see a redheaded woman following them with a gurney.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” a low voice greeted you from your left side. You turned to the men kneeling beside you and blinked hard. “What’s your name?” he asked rather calmly.

“Y/N,” you mumbled. “Y/F/N Y/L/N.” 

“Okay, Y/N. My name in Dean. Do you remember what happened?” He was rummaging in a bag beside you and lifted what looked like a blood pressure cuff. Then, he grabbed a thermometer and rested it on his leg. His eyes flicked up at you every couple of seconds. 

“I was drinking.” You paused and swallowed another wave of nausea. Dean wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your bare arm. “I felt sick, and got worse.” You were pleased that you were able to talk a little more now, and your vision was quite a bit clearer.

“How do you feel now?” Dean asked. He grabbed the thermometer and grazed it over your forehead to your ear. 

“Hot, cold, nauseous.”

“Hmph.” Dean studied the thermometer. “Well, you have a pretty high fever, and your blood pressure is pretty low.” There was a sense of distress in his voice. “Y/N, let’s get you loaded up onto the gurney here and get you down to the hospital. Sound good?”

You just stared as another chill rushed over your skin. You could feel your shirt actually sticking to your chest and shoulders as you leaned in an effort to lift yourself. 

“Hey, hey. Slow down sweetheart,” Dean instructed. “Charlie and I will help you up.” As he said that, you felt a thick, muscular arm curl under your shoulder and latch around your arm. A small arm did the same on your other side a moment later.

“Alright, one, two—” And you were up before you could gain any footing. Your heels dragged back few feet until your butt met the squashy padding of the gurney. “There you go,” the redhead, Charlie, huffed. 

Once you were buckled in and secure, Charlie pushed you into the back of the ambulance. Dean followed shortly after, taking a seat beside you. You watched out the back as Emma jumped into her car and prepared yourself to follow you to the hospital.

“So,” Dean huffed as Charlie started the ambulance’s engine. “How long have you been feeling sick for?”

You leaned your head back and sucked in a breath. “A few days.” You closed your eyes as nausea built up again. “Three or four maybe.” Your vision was getting worse. Shit. You just hoped your weren’t going to puke in the ambulance. 

“Do you have any new injuries?” The questions caught you off guard. As a matter of fact, you did. You had sliced yourself placing paper into the printer at work just over a week before. But, it wasn’t something you put much thought into. You cut yourself at work all the time. And, being someone with an autoimmune disease, your injuries didn’t always heal nicely.

Without opening your eyes, you lifted your right index finger and pointed up. Just below your nail, there was a paper cut, no wider than a pencil eraser. Yeah, it had gotten infected, and you had started taking some antibiotics your doctor gave you to have around just in case. It still hurt like hell, but you thought it was getting better.

“Oh, wow.” Dean’s voice was soft, almost like a breath. “Y/N, that looks really infected.” His voice sounded like it was coming from everywhere, and echoed in your suddenly sensitive ears. You grimaced while your stomach churned and sloshed. The round light on the other side of your eye lid dimmed as Dean’s voice started to fade. And, within seconds, your body slumped everything was black.

[c-stress]

My Ultimate Taekook Fic Recommendations!!

This will be my ongoing list of Taekook fics that I really loved  reading and want to share with you guys ♥

A few things beforehand:

All of the following fics will be completed.

I don’t take any credit or responsibilty for any of the following fics.

In this household we support Bottom!Kook.

Please enjoy~~

He Tells Me, “Stay If You Can” by vestals

It takes Jungkook three years to realise two things: 1. He certainly is not straight 2. He is very much in love with Kim Taehyung

#friends to lovers #canon/non au #coming of age #bottom kook #experimenting #8k #ao3

pulling shapes just for your eyes by aeterisks

The number one rule when you're a producer on a show like Miss Right, Taehyung thinks, should be do not fall for the bachelor.

It's such a shame Taehyung has never been good at following rules.

#reality show #producer tae #bachelor kook #secret relationship #switch tae and kook #hot #110k #ao3

The Blood Donor by IncubusRose

A series of kidnappings and killings has led the world to the astonishing discovery that vampires have been living alongside humans for centuries. And it seems they're just as bloodthirsty and twisted as ancient lore makes them out to be.

So when Jungkook finds himself the victim of a kidnapping that's perhaps not as nefarious as he initially thought, why is nothing the way that he thought it would be?

Now he's been roped into helping a sick, red-haired vampire against his will. But the more he explores and discovers in this new world, the faster and harder he falls into Wonderland.

#vampire tae #human kook #kidnapping #no stockholm syndrome though #bottom kook #fluff #violence #ot7 #hate to love #97k #ao3

you're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be by aeterisks

He has seen Taehyung smirk, smile seductively, smile cheekily, grin lazily, but nothing like this. This, Jeongguk thinks, is what happiness must look in Taehyung.

(He tries to ignore the way his chest pumps when he sees it, and the urge to see it again once it’s gone.)

#club owner tae #dj kook #rich tae #fwb #fuckbuddies to lovers #misunderstandings #tae has issues #bottom tae #27k #ao3

Suit & Tie by Wontonz

Taehyung and Jeongguk really shouldn't have been partnered together.

#CEO jungkook #CEO taehyung #bottom kook #both are the best in their job #rivals to lovers #25k #ao3

Eclipse by Bangtanbananas

After the tragic death of his parents, Jeon Jeongguk hated werewolves.

The last thing he ever expected was to fall in love with one.

#werewolf tae #werewolf hunter jk #slow burn #bottom kook #fluff #mating #big fight in the end #ot7 #91k #ao3

As You Are by taekover

Jeon Jungkook, the youngest private investigator in Seoul at 23 years old, with over a hundred solved cases under his belt, does not do favours.

Well. That's what he says.

#fluff #funny #private investigator #5k #ao3

War of Hormones by C_Stress

When Jungkook left the house that day, he just wanted to dance for a bit, not getting it on with some (hot) stranger...

#basically pwp #tattooed tae #virgin jk #bottom kook #one night stand? #3k #ao3

Sugar...daddy? By whatspoppin-yoongi.tumblr

Jokingly but also totally not jokingly putting an ad out to find a sugar daddy seemed simple enough. He never expected people to respond though…

Being rich was all he knew, and so help him god, he wasn’t going to turn out like all the selfish people that surrounded him.

#social media #pictures #texting# sugar daddy jungkook #side yoomin #tumblr

Bubblegum Bitch by snowmoney

Jungkook is but a simple delivery boy; the last thing he needs is a high maintenance fake boyfriend.

#fake relationship #tae in heels #model tae #falling in love #misunderstandings #bottom tae #dislike to love #33k #ao3

Snowflakes by IRINEL

Taehyung falls in love for the first time, right when the first Snowflake kisses the ground. As, a Single father, Drown in responsibilities & pressure, he finds his strength in a pair of Doe eyes, exactly a week before Christmas Eve. In a pair of Doe eyes, belonging to a simple country boy - named Jungkook.

Visiting Jimin's grandmother didn't seem like a good idea from where Taehyung was standing. Especially after her daughter's_Taehyung's wife's sudden disappearance, leaving the young man with a Five years Old Son, a bunch of responsibilities, his parents' '"I told you" looks and of course a letter reading "I can't do this anymore". But if he knew what was waiting for him from the start he would never, ever waste a single second to head to the small Village.

#aged up tae #aged down jk #age difference #jimin is taes kid #he's the cutest #bottom kook #orphan kookie #christmas #fluff #angsty #happy ending #slow burn #27k #ao3

whatta man (good man) by aeterisks

Out of all the kinds of blogs Jeon Jeongguk could have run, never in a million years Taehyung would have expected him to have a porn blog.

(Or, Jeongguk runs a porn blog and Taehyung not so accidentally finds it.)

#college #social media #fluff and smut #crack fic #friend to lovers #bottom kook #7k #ao3

Working Conviction by rix

How their trust evolves to go from from Jungkook pointing a loaded gun in Taehyung's face to Taehyung binding Jungkook down and fucking him till he can't see straight.

#mercenary kook #mercenary tae # enemies to fuckbuddies to lovers #smut #guns and violence #bottom kook #9k #ao3

Read All About It by jvante

A star football player and an aspiring journalist fall in love, and make headlines everywhere.

#college au #life through the years #football star tae #writer jungkookie #established relationship #bit angst in between #happy end #bottom kook #realistic description of a relationship #40k #ao3

Cage Match by golden(SlimeQueen)

Taehyung knows he likes the rush of adrenaline that comes from fighting. He likes his knuckles split and stinging, heart pounding in his ribcage, the rush of blood in his ears. Jungkook is new to it all but all he knows is that he likes Taehyung.

#fight club au #hate to love #bottom kook #pining jk #choking #kinky smut #violence #20k #ao3

Just Two Dudes Being Bros by micmicbunjin

"So you two aren't dating?"

"Nah, man, we're just best bros. I mean like, if I was gay, and that's a very big if, then I would be on my knees right now sucking his dick. But I am very straight, so Jeon's dick is nowhere near my mouth."

Jeongguk nods convicingly. "I like pussy."

Namjoon puts his face in his hands and screams.

#gay panic #bros to lovers #denial #college #bottom kook #excessive use of the word bro #7k #ao3

New (Newer) Rules by jvante

Step #1: Don't get involved with the guy your girlfriend cheats with.

Failed step 1.

#bottom sub kook #sub/dom #kinda pwp #humiliation #lingerie #cock stepping #hate to fuckbuddies to lovers #hurt jungkook #108k #ao3

A crow will not pull out the eye of another crow by taetaeggukie

"If you killed me you'd let go of the only chance you've ever had to find your soulmate." That smirk was annoying Jeongguk to no end, he was close to pulling the trigger, but the man deserved something worse than a bullet to his head.

"By now you're only spitting out lies in hopes to be able to save yourself." Jeongguk was the one smirking now. "You know nothing."

"You'd let Kim Taehyung just slip through your fingers like that?"

- in a world where your soulmate's name is written on your wrist, Jeon Jeongguk blindly trusts a pirate captain V in order to find his soulmate and doesn't realize he might fall in love sooner than expected

#soulmates #pirates #bit angst #kidnapping #enemies to lovers #bottom kook #pirate tae #crew bangtan #13k #ao3

whisper me all your secrets by noekkin

Series of prostitute jk and rich man tae who just likes caring for the younger

#cute af #prostitute kook #bottom kook #caring tae #26k #ao3

Sugar and Spice by kkozumes

Jeongguk can't deny that he's attracted to Taehyung. No, he realised he was attracted to him as soon as his car pulled up by the side of the road. Jeongguk appreciated a handsome face and Kim Taehyung was beautiful to him. What he didn't expect however was for the beautiful man with the expensive car to take him back to an equally as expensive apartment away from home, give him new clothes, allow him to stay and then ask if Jeongguk wanted a sugar daddy.

#sugar daddy taehyung #daddy kink #fluff and smut #poor jk #sub kook #bottom kook #23k #ao3

Spy on Me by C_Stress

Jungkooks dad gets killed by a mercenary and he swears to get revenge. What he didn't plan though, was falling in love with said murderer.

Or

When you find out you not only moved in, but fell also in love with your mortal enemy.

#mercenary tae #hitmen au #fluff and smut #flatmates #bottom kook #cute kookie #violence #friends to enemies to lovers #17k #ao3

My Daughters Teacher by Staerrykookah

Jungkook is the single father of a 5 year old named Asami. Taehyung is her kindergarten teacher who thinks the little girl is cute but her dad is cuter.

#kindergarten teacher tae #father jungkook #top kook #falling in love #aged up #5 year old daughter #cute #wattpad

So, pancakes? By Captainotp

„He thought I was a top.“ Jungkook all but whined, hiding his head in Taehyung's chest. „Well what else is new?“

Jungkook struggles to, like, get it, because everyone thinks he's a top, and his roomate Taehyung is more than willing to help. That's it that's the story.

#friends to lovers #bottom kook #roommates # fluff and smut #soft kook #4k #ao3

you the one that I dream about all day by locks

Taehyung finally convinces Jeongguk to do the boyfriend tag/boyfriend does my make up tag.

#soft boyfriends #established relationship #youtuber tae #boyfriend does my make up #domestic fluff #shy kook #nicknames #5k #ao3

The Give and the Take by JKDoYouLoveMe

submission | səbˈmɪʃ(ə)n | noun [mass noun] 1. the action of accepting or yielding to a superior force or to the will or authority of another person. ~ domination | dɒmɪˈneɪʃ(ə)n | noun [mass noun] 1. the exercise of power or influence over someone or something, or the state of being so controlled. ~ Young and inexperienced college student Jeongguk thinks he is a dom. His older and considerably more experienced roommate Taehyung is quite determined to show him that he is, in fact, not a dom. Drama ensues.

#sub kook #dom tae #college #roommates #friends to lovers #more like friends to fuckbuddies to lovers #degradation #humiliation #jk is a brat #subspace #tried rape at one point from another character #57k #ao3

Sing me to sleep (I can't fall without you) by HesterAntoniaDracolas

They call him demon child and think him a monster. He must be, they say, to have survived down there.

Jungkook thinks it’s because the demon actually likes him.

And maybe if you asked him, just maybe, he would admit that he likes him too

#demon tae? #jk is afraid of tae first #falling in love #sweet #8k #ao3

tenacious d in the dick of destiny by jhopeg

In the midst of struggling with debts and empty plastic packets of instant ramyeon, Taehyung and Jeongguk joined forces to put the phrase "sex sells" to good use.

#social media #use of pictures #college au #bottom tae #pornblogger #41k #ao3

tats'n'thots by Deaths_Impala

“Jeon Jeongguk, hear me out.” Taehyung says with a grin. “I feel inspired, and I want to work with you, so how about this: let me tattoo you in any way I want, free of charge – with your input of course.”

#tattoo artist tae #tattooed jungkook #aged up #life through years #smut #bottom kook #cute af #12k #ao3

say you'll stay by ChocolateKookie

Jungkook and Taehyung meet at the beach and they spend the summer holidays falling for each other, but they both know that their romance has an expiry date.

At the end of August, Jungkook is supposed to have gone back home, halfway across the country, so Taehyung expects to go back to school and continue pretending to be straight, as if nothing's changed; playing up to his role as the jerk who's never had a serious relationship. He doesn't know what to do when Jungkook turns up at his school and expects them to pick up from where they left off.

or: the BTS Grease AU that no one asked for! in which Jungkook is Sandy and Taehyung is Danny and they just want to be able to be together but Taehyung is still in the closet which makes things complicated.

#grease au #sandy jk #danny tae #secret relationship #bit homophobia #tae's deep in the closet #cute cute cute #300k #ao3

my guy pretty like a girl (and he got fight stories to tell) by hunnydews

He's dressed in another black sleeveless tank top with deep cuts on the sides, showing off his canvas of a body and all the intricate tattoos he has to offer. His pants are black and fitted as well. He forwent the bandana tonight instead his shaggy brown hair is falling into his eyes. They look like opposites of each other, yet complimentary somehow. Jeongguk likes it.

--

Alternatively, Jeongguk wears lots of pastels and pink and loves to draw. Taehyung is practically inked from head toe and is in a band. Taehyung broadens Jeongguk's musical horizons and shows him what love is supposed to feel like.

#bamf jk #crossdressing kook #tattooed tae #tae's in a band #past abusive relationship #fluff and smut #healthy relationship #artist jk #falling in love #69k #ao3

Mileage May Vary by rix

Jeongguk is a stripper with a penchant for trouble. Taehyung is curious.

#stripper kook #age difference #bottom kook #smut #falling in love #80k #ao3

Camerman, Swing The Focus by augustdarling

“I thought you were into landscapes recently. Why does it have to be me? More importantly, why does it have to be me naked?”

“Because artists want to capture beautiful things, baby,” Taehyung murmured, leaning down to nibble on his ear. “And you’re the most beautiful thing I know.”

Or:

Taehyung combines his two hobbies: photography and Jungkook. The results are even better than expected.

#basically pwp #bottom kook #dom tae #canon #exhibitionism #humiliation #2k #ao3

You Are My Chosen One by C_Stress

Jungkook starts his first year at Hogwarts..what could possibly go wrong?

#hogwarts au #slytherin jk #gryffindor tae #bottom kook #fluff and smut #secrets #falling in love #45k #a03

Of cigarette smoke and alcohol by fluffy-lychee

Taehyung likes to dye his hair.

Jungkook struggles with the opinion of Taehyungs mother about their relationship.

#no real fluff #nor real smut #but always close enough #2k #aff

pick me up, buttercup by vppa

AU where your soulmate's first words to you will be tattooed on your wrist when you meet.

Which freakin sucks, because Jungkook's forearm will now forever read "Hey baby, if you were a booger, I'd pick you first."

What the fuck, universe.

#fluff #soulmates #crack au #9k #ao3

dark blue (this night's a perfect shade of) by memetaehyung (21cg)

jungkook has never seen the world and taehyung is determined to show him it

#blind jk #fluff #bit smut #bit angst #bottom kook #8k #ao3

Mischief Managed by Vanteblack

Basically a Hate to Love Uni AU but at Hogwarts because I'm a slut for Harry Potter lmao. Also you start at Hogwarts at age 15 instead of 11 so everyone in the story is over age.

#hogwarts au #secret relationship #hate to love #slytherin kook #hufflepuff tae #rated #fluff and smut #20k #ao3

Don't Let Your Love Go To Waste by krscnl

Taehyung and Jungkook meet on Omegle.

#college au #actor tae #writer kook #life through the years #at one point established taekook #41k #ao3

fellas is it gay to want ur hot roommate to dick u down? By hunnydews

Jeongguk tunes them out as they argue, it’s normal and happens often. Instead, he takes out his phone and decides to google "how do you know if your friend is gay for you?"

~~

Jeongguk comes to the realization that he's def not as straight as he thought and he starts to explore that realization with himself and with his hot dormmate/best bro, Taehyung.

The stupid college au no one asked for but i wanted so here we are almost 20k later :)

#college #coming out #excessive use of the word bro #friends to lovers #bottom kook #cuties #19k #ao3

got a kiss (with your name on it) by marienadine

“I just—I just thought, like. Maybe I wouldn’t be so horrible if someone more experienced than me taught me what to do.”

#inexperienced kookie #college #roommates #bros #friends to lovers #first kiss #practicing #bottom kook #11k #ao3

I forget to breathe (when i'm with you) by locks

"Do we have a deal, angel," Taehyung repeats, and Jeongguk can hear that he's losing his patience, hands resting on his hips.

Jeongguk lifts his head, snapping the lid closed. "Pleasure doing business with you, daddy," he nods, sending a grin up to Taehyung who just narrows his eyes at him.

"You're lucky I like you," Taehyung mutters, sounding mildly threatening as he steps over to him and tilts Jeongguk's chin up, leaning down to press a kiss against his lips.

Lucky doesn't even come close.

Or, Jeongguk's trying to figure out how he ended up with a sugar daddy when all he wanted was a couple packets of instant noodles.

#non sexual daddy kink #sugar daddy tae #tattooed kook #aged-up #tae in heels #soft nicknames #praise kink #fluff and smut #bottom tae #sub top jungkook #fashionista tae #realistic description of a relationship #111k #ao3

Suspenders, Daddy Issues & Miracles of Halloween by chimscharli

It's nearly Halloween when Jungkook can't stop stealing glances at Taehyung during practice, and wonders when exactly everything went so wrong. It's nearly Halloween when Jungkook is in a coma, and doesn't want to see Taehyung when he wakes. It's nearly Halloween when Taehyung walks in on Jungkook moaning his name.

It's nearly Halloween, and maybe it's time Jungkook stopped being so afraid. Maybe it's time a miracle happened.

#real daddy issues #and daddy kink #smut #sub jungkook #lots of kissing #happy ending #hate to love #violence #angst #both are football players #17k #ao3

(They Long to Be) Close to You by vantoa

Kim Taehyung is a sassy and talented KBS World Sports reporter. Jeon Jeongguk the most outstanding speed skater in South Korea. They meet, hate each other and then, one eventful day, they like each other, a lot.

#speed skater jungkook #reproter/journalist taehyung #enemies to lovers #bottom tae #misunderstandings #11k #ao3

国王的小丑 by saranghaengbok

When Taehyung had announced that he would steal Yoonji from him, Jungkook had not expected that he would be the one falling for Taehyung, in the end.

#heir jungkook #prince jk #prince tae #enemies to lovers #falling in love #bottom kook #12k #ao3

Rumor Has It by buttstrife

Contrary to popular belief and multiple eyewitnesses, Taehyung did not make out with Jungkook in the pool. And no, they absolutely did not fuck in the shower rooms. Seriously.

#college #baseball player kook #swimmer tae #sut #enemies to friends to lovers #exhibitionism #manhandling #8k #ao3

make this feel like home by aeterisks

Taehyung has spent his whole life looking for excitement, but instead, he ends up finding Jeongguk; somehow, that seems to be even better.

#motorcyclist jk #fluff and smut #bottom tae #44k #ao3

Love Scarred by gjungkook

“You are unbelievable,” scoffed Jeongguk while shaking his head. “I’ve never met anyone who pisses me off as much as you do.”

Taehyung had licked his lips before he smirked, with his hand still around Jeongguk’s wrist, he stepped forward closing the distance between them. “Let me tell you why, it’s simple really...”

“You feel threatened. You know I’m better than you.”

(Jeongguk wants to win against Taehyung at everything. Win their matches in quidditch, win their spontaneous sparring sessions, win his heart— But one day, Jeongguk takes it a little too far with a single curse.)

#enemies to lovers #hogwarts au #angsty #gryffindor jk #slytherin tae #secret fuckbuddies relationship #bottom kook #denial #26k #ao3

Comeback Kids by rix

Taehyung is infuriating and Jungkook's always been easy to rile up. Which isn't the best combination, but also isn't the worst, either.

(or: Taekook as hockey fuckboy rivals)

#icehockey players kook and tae #rivals #enemies to lovers #bottom kook #fluff and smut #34k  ao3

[shystoryrebel]

LOST WITH THE WAVES

(1)

It happens only with dreamy Indians. Children are the happy dreams of their parents. To fulfill their dreams, I had obtained B.Tech., degree in Computer Engineering, from I.I.T... After B.Tech. I acquired masters’ degree in Management from I.I.M... After working for few years in India, like any other Indian, I joined a multinational company in USA.

America is now treated as a dream country especially in India. It is the cherished dream of every Indian to touch the soil of that dreamy land, the land of braves, patriots and vast opportunities. Americans are born with three Ts in their mind; TRY---for better future; TRUE---To your nation, religion and work; TRUST---in God and self. So in my case also that long cherished dream had come true. My parents were very happy on this achievement.

Every entry point has an exit point, so I resolved to make my exit from my dear motherland to enter into the land of dreams as a wonderful experience, with lots of joys and graceful achievements. Here at last I reached a place where I truly deserved and where my merit and talent has got respect. Here I saw a beautiful world, waiting for me. I decided to walk with an aim. Bubbling with happiness and confidence I planned to stay in this country for about five years in which time I hoped to earn enough money to settle down

comfortably back home in India.

We belong to a Brahman priestly family. But my father did not have any interest in our traditional profession because in our country it was almost a

(2)

secular and intellectual fashion to abuse and curse Brahmans and Brahman priests. In some states like Jammu & Kashmir and Tamilnadu, Brahmans are treated worse than slaves and animals. He generally used to recite this poem;

BRAND NAME

God send me on the earth, an innocent being,

Untouched by the black and white doing,

But the world branded me as a Brahmin,

And a curse fallen on this urchin,

A child of lesser God,

The entire honor was forbidden to this pod.

Education, help, livelihood;

All was snatched by Robin Hood,

Some branded it as social equality,

But it was state cruelty,

Others’ called it secular passion,

But it was ugly repression,

All the isms kill human rights,

They are the Janus face of racial might.

As a result of this scenario my father preferred to be a teacher. As honesty, hard work, patriotism and Sanskars were in his blood which he inherited from his parents. He could not do much for his family and his economic condition remained grim through out his life. Only after his retirement he could purchase an ordinary one bedroom flat in a slum type locality. More over he had to pay hefty bribe to government babus to get his day today work done in government offices. Even still he has to pay bribe to get his PF and other dues cleared and get his monthly pension from the same department which he served for thirty five years. But ambitions could not touch him. He believed in,” When nails are growing, we cut nails, when ambition is growing; we cut ambition but maintains relations and character.

I wanted to do much more than my nationalist father. I wanted to earn and earn like secular leaders of the country. But in AmericaI could not adjust comfortably and started homesick and lonely as the time passed. My patriotism and love to my roots always troubled me there on the foreign soil. Moreover in America, Indians were not treated respectfully. As upper castes Hindus are insulted and abused in India, in the same manner Indians are treated in America as a community who are there only to mint fast bucks only,

come what way. There too I saw each heart had pain, only the way of

expressions were different; some hide it in tears in their eyes while others’ hide it behind their beguiling smile.

(3)

I used to call my parents almost once a week using low cost international phone sim cards. In this manner three years passed and my contract with my employer was over but my employer extended my contract for another three

years as in Americaperson is recognized by merit, talent and work where as in India quota castes, minority religion, language and region are recognized and not the merit, talent and work.

Another one year passed on burgers, pizzas, chowmin, potato chilies etc... Years and months passed, watching foreign currency rates and getting happier whenever the value of Indian rupee went down. One thing I learnt from Americans that getting upset would not help. Always getting up, to set the things right.

The problem of marriage always was a big issue for my aging parents. Finally I decided to get married and gave nod and told my parents that I had

only ten days of holidays and everything must have to be settled down within these ten, very important ten days of my life. I got my ticket booked to Indiain the cheapest economic class. I was on seventh cloud and was actually trying to purchase gifts from the cheap duty free shops, for all my relatives and friends back home. If I fail to do follow this custom, there will be talks because in India it is believed, if one is in America, he must be rolling in money. Right from the babu at the airport to the dancing terror eunuchs, this great Indialoot is a part of life.

After reaching India, I spent some time at home with my parents. All the time we all were involved scanning photographs of girls and as the time was very short I was almost forced to select a girl as my future life partner. Bride’s side was in much more hurry as they did not want to let out this America settled son-in-law. They told that I had to get married within three-four days. After the marriage, my departure time to U.S.A.was very close. After giving some money to my parents I again had to leave Indiaand requesting my relatives and neighbor friends to look after my parents. We both returned to U.S.A.

In the beginning my wife was very happy in America and she enjoyed her stay here. But after some time she started feeling lonely. Her frequency of calling her parents, back home in Indiaincreased and sometimes almost everyday. As a result of her extravagant nature my savings started vanishing rapidly. I tried to get some job for her but I failed and could not arrange a job for her. She used to receive wise upbraiding from her parents especially from

her mother every day. In my case it was very true, “If the first button of your shirt is wrongly stitched, all the rest will definitely be crooked. So always be careful on your first step, success will automatically follow you”.

(4)

Although she was Ph.D from Gazab Singh University, India, but to my horror I came to know that she was not capable even to write a letter. All her degrees were almost manipulated through corrupt methods. Her father was a judge and her mother was a professor in Gazab Singh University, India. She boosts of guiding forty five, Ph.D.s to her credit, through lifting, scissoring and pasting methods. This university was notoriously famous for selling fake degrees.

In this way two more years passed, and we were blessed with two lovely kids, a daughter Ganga and a son Brahmputra. Every time I rung to my parents, they asked me to come to Indiaso that they could see their grand children before their eyes are closed for ever. But work pressure coupled with difficult monetary conditions, I could not visit India. Months and years passed and visiting India to see my aging parents was a distant dream.

Then one day at around mid-night, my phone rang and I got a message that my father was seriously ill. I tried to get leaves but failed to get the leaves sanctioned, to go to India. The next message I got was the death of my father. As there was no one to perform the last rites, the close relatives helped by the neighbors performed the last rites.

The death of my father shattered me and I was badly depressed. My father passed away without had a glimpse of his grand children.

One day he came to me to meet me in my dream and cried at me:

MY FATHER AND THE CURSE OF MY NATION

I

I heard my heavenly father, last night,

What is your dear nation’s curse? Write

And throw it beyond Himalayas, high,

I trembled, collecting my father’s sigh.

I can’t do, my dear father!

There are many curse but ask my brother.

I am pressed by love and patriotism.

The voice shouted to shun hypnotism.

My father’s word in mind,

Generated radiant and vigor in side.

(5)

II

Tender little hands of children begging in streets,

Brutal and intoxicated fathers musing in fleets.

Donors giving through misty doors,

This is unknown to fair floors.

For right of freedom, this crowns,

The rogues as lords in Parliament frown.

Tears in eyes, I cried, patriotism means,

Self interest, corruption and rotten dreams.

As honest and intelligent have lost their claim,

Corrupt touching glory and nation in drain.

III

Secular cry breeding fanatic name,

Social justice prospering caste chain,

Tainted rulers dance while enemy conspire,

Brave soldiers are fried on crying pyre,

Jihadi killers dance while innocent cry,

Bloody red hidden in white to rob every pie,

Alter decorated with anarchic laws,

To strangulate the weak and just with claws,

There my father cried in terse,

Shall thou write my nation’s curse?

IV

Now modern women have only know,

To cheat hearts with tears false below

And swap bed every day and night,

Every right is wrong and wrong right.

Framed racial and communal laws,

To bestow trump powers to our foes,

Here wise man choose to silence,

And fools throw tantrums on their glance,

Where unmerited groups laugh at your gate,

Merit is scorned and measured without weight.

V

As you turn your body to side,

Met with foul tradition and conscience tide,

Power shines with mirth deadlier best,

All this I wrote to mourn the test.

This is the curse, open to all to read,

Go with ill doers, my father cried

And furl your flag with sick brewers,

Now cannot be changed a new,

Six decades of ill governance,

Has dried and sucked all fragrance.

(6)

VI

With heart sinking and tears in eyes,

Death can change this entire fry,

Otherwise rot will go on,

With all my blessings to you to worn,

Saddened to leave you alone here,

As I cannot be no more with you there,

Left crying in a cruel winter evening,

Twenty years have passed by mourning,

His sudden march to the kingdom of death,

Left we orphaned as a traveler without sheath.

VII

That mighty soul, sober, cool and austere,

Must be shining in some unknown sphere,

Enjoyed his shadow as wise banyan keeps boughs under,

Here he was to beat the storms and not to flounder,

Helping and guiding the masses in need,

With a happy and honest hand indeed,

True servant of Almighty in this world wild,

Goddess Saraswati seated on tongue with message mild,

Such souls loved and needed in ages all abound,

Pray to Master to reincarnate him again around.

Three, four years passed. I decided to return to Indiaand to settle down there. This decision was not appreciated by my children but my wife was very happy on this decision. I started to look for a good and affordable property. But now here Dr. Man Mohan Singh was the Prime Minister and to my shock my savings and pocket were much short and the price of property gone up very high during all these years. I had to again return to the USA.

But this time my wife was very intelligently tutored by her mother. She was not ready to come back to USAwith me nor was ready to live with my aged mother. On the other hand I and my children were not ready to live in India under these circumstances. I, with my two children returned to USA after promising my mother and wife to come back within three years. Every thing about our future was uncertain but God has arranged every thing for our tomorrow. You just have to trust Him. He grants us the power to accept things you cannot change.

Time passed by and my daughter decided to get married to an American on her own. Neither due to financial constrains, my wife nor could my mother join us to bless our daughter. My son was happy living in USA because he was very comfortable with American life style. Suddenly I received the news of the death of my mother due to heart failure.

(7)

Now I was fed up with this type of life. It was enough and decided to wound up every thing and returned to India. Relationship is like fragrance, you can never touch it but you feel it. Now I had just enough money to buy a decent three room flat in a posh colony in India.

With this vagabond type of life I became sixty years old. Beaten from all sides I became highly religious and a regular visitor to the near by temple. My faithful wife was still living with her parents. She was not ready to leave me nor was ready to leave her parents. I was a cash card to her and her family. As her father was a judge he knew the hazards of filing and settling divorce cases. So my wife was happy living as a married lady but her parents’ daughter, financing her rogue brother by the money I used to send

her as a peace package. She was like Stephen Blackpool’s wife in Charles Dickens’ Hard Times:

TRUANT DAUGHTER IN LAW

Always play truant and abhors all in laws,

A knotty bride, slamming doors,

A perverse father’s tricky daughter,

Floats in muddy and shallow water.

Guided and guarded by,

Inhuman Taliban laws,

Branding man’s race,

As savage and subhuman.

Men in khaki and gown black,

Are suitors dear?

But never gave respect to,

Her elder in laws.

Rude and twisted to caring in laws,

Direct from honeymoon cracked

Whips on these helpless fellows.

At school her report card noted as spoiled child.

Decked and jacked in false glitters,

Children she mothered,

Narrate tales awful and deadly,

Never taught children with milky hymns.

Children never impressed by her dear mother,

But never learnt to slam the door.

Her funeral was performed sacredly,

Mentioned her virtues in tone false.

(8)

But all and sundry present there,

Dwelled her vices in hushed detail,

She was a bandit queen,

In garb of bridal make up.

Again another mishap happened in my life. Papa’s daughter, but my faithful wife also left me high and dry and gone to the last abode from where no body returns. Now I started wondering the meaning of life. Is it worth all this? My father, even after staying in this country as a poor teacher, had a house to his name but he never was alone. I too have the same, nothing more. But I have lost every thing, my parents, my wife, my children, my mental peace and near and dear ones. Life is like onion which has many layers of relationships. If you do not cut it adds taste to life but if you cut it, you will get tears only.

Looking out from the balcony I see a lot of boys and girls riding on bikes and dancing. This modernization and liberty has spoiled our new generation and these children have no values in life. I get occasional greeting cards from my children on different days. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hug some one dear, but no dear ones were around. You cannot hug yourself, you cannot cry on your own shoulder; perhaps life is all about for living others. So live with those who love you, not with those whom you love. World’s happiest relations never have the same nature. They just have the best understanding of their difference, which we missed in our life.

Now perhaps I will also die and my neighbors again will be performing my last rites. God bless them. At least this one thing is still there that at least last rites are performed with full honors. But again the question remained unanswered, is life all this worth? A failed son, who could not serve his parents, when they need him most, a failed husband, who could not be with his wife, a failed father, who could not continue the legacy of a family…and a failed Indian who could not serve his nation. Whatever life throws at us: it will be easier to comfort if we feel loved.

My children and the grand children will not realize this pain and pain of losing my culture for ever and for ever-----is it really worth so many souls alienated. On a one fateful morning I was reading the divine Bhagavad Gita. My phone rang. From the other side I was overwhelmed to listen the sweet voice of my dear son, hello papa, can you give me an appointment to bless your grand child, mothered by a close friend of mine, means born out of wed lock.

Shocked, I sank into the chair on which my father used to sit and teach. Slowly and slowly darkness gripped me, perhaps I shall never be able to give an appointment to bless my grand child and its mother. But my question remained unanswered; was life worth this? With this I lost somewhere and sagged down.

📷

etad yonīni bhūtāni sarvānī’ty upadhāraya

aham krtsnasya jagatab prabhavah pralayas tathā

Know that all beings have their birth in this. I am the origin of all in this world and its dissolution as well. All things are dissolved in me.

(The Bhagavad Gita, Ch.VII. Sl.-6 (Trans.))

[auburnfamilynews]

John Glaser-USA TODAY Sports

The time has come to put down on imaginary paper what type of season we think the Tigers will have this fall

This past weekend finally made it real. College football is actually back.

Yes, there have been and will continue to be some major hiccups this season but there WILL be a season and fans will get a chance to watch their beloved Auburn Tigers take the field this fall. For a year that has been most unpleasant having the ability to shut out the world for 3-4 hours and let our blood pressure rise to unhealthy levels as we watch Auburn do battle on the gridiron is a most wondrous blessing.

So with kickoff being just under two weeks away, it’s time the sages here at College & Magnolia put down in writing their expectations for this 2020 Auburn football team. This year, more than any other, feels the most unpredictable. Games that seem like obvious wins right now could turn into multi score losses if a positive tests pops up on the wrong position group. Chances are good at least one game will be disrupted, positively or negatively, for Auburn this season due to COVID-19.

But your wise contributors on this here internet street will do our best to enlighten you, our loyal readers, on proper expectations for this fall. Season prediction takes, let’s have em!

AUNerd

8-2 would be a good season for Auburn this fall. 6-4 would be a bad one. I have no idea how I would feel about 7-3 so obviously that’s exactly what will happen. I’m not sure who exactly Auburn loses to outside of Bama this season but my general guess is Auburn goes 2-2 vs Bama/UGA/LSU/A&M then drops a frustrating one to either UK or Tennessee. It wouldn’t shock me to see Auburn start 7-0 then lose their last 3 plus the bowl game to send us into another off-season of debate over whether or not Gus Malzahn should keep his job.

But also ya’ll... This year feels as chaotic as every so why not some Chaos Auburn?

Verdict: 7-3

Joshdub

The folks in Vegas (typically not dumb!) place the over/under on 6.5 wins for Auburn this year. 6.5...that seems very precarious. I have no idea if Auburn will struggle to pass protect, put Bo in lots of bad situations, and force him to make bad throws. I have no idea if Chad Morris can overcome any 2020-related obstacles and produce another juggernaut offense. But when you’re making preseason predictions, swing for the fences. Echoing Nerd: expect CHAOS AUBURN. Auburn will ruin ALL YOUR NICE THINGS (um, including a perfect season for Auburn, who will definitely lose an early game they are actually favored to win (please not to lane kiffin, please not to lane kiffin, please not to la-))

Verdict: 9-1

Ryan Sterritt

As we saw in the first week of power conference games, we may be in for some ugly football this year. I think (hope?) that lends itself to teams with established quarterback play, although replacing seven starters across the two lines of scrimmage might cause more than enough issues. Still, despite the inherent difficulty of an all-SEC schedule, things line up relatively nicely for Auburn. UGA seems to be in crisis mode with a new OC, chaos at quarterback, injuries at WR, and new starters on the OL. LSU is replacing effectively their entire starting lineup. Texas A&M is suffering a slew of withdraws, most recently leading to their top returning wideout having three (3!) catches last season.

It’s going to be a frustrating season, I think, but it’s important to remember everything these players and coaches have done to even get to this point. I think we knock off Georgia in Athens for the first time since 2005, AND we knock off the defending champion LSU. I also think Alabama has no excuse to lose a single game this year, and it would not surprise me if random COVID cases or contact tracing bites us in some other game.

Verdict: 8-2

Will McLaughlin

I see Auburn splitting the first 2 games, then see the Tigers getting on a roll. The Tennessee game is a must win for Gus this year but I can see Auburn getting to the Iron Bowl at 6-2.

Verdict: 7-3

AUChief

Only one thing is clear about the upcoming season: it’s gonna be a weird one. The fact that you are reading this article in mid-September talking about an upcoming season is only one of many indicators that it’s already weird. And so that makes predicting what will happen even harder than usual. As Auburn fans, we have learned to embrace weirdness over the years. Doesn’t it just feel like this is the kind of year Auburn can do something special? A year that only the ultimate victors won’t assign a huge asterisk to each and every opponent win? People could get sick or opt out at any point, throwing an otherwise good team into chaos.

All that said, let’s see where Auburn ends up. I think Bo Nix is going to have a whole new lease on life this year. He’s going to have an opportunity to throw a lot of high percentage passes to his TEs, and the running back situation is miles ahead of where it was last year. The only question for me is the OL, but I don’t see it being worse than the last few years. I have complete faith in our defensive staff to get the best out of the players on that side of the ball. Auburn is going to go 9-1. The loss will come to Kentucky, LSU, or Alabama. I know what you are thinking, “Kentucky?!” It’s gonna be a weird year folks, so hold onto your butts. LSU seems the least likely to me out of the three. Alabama will obviously be good. They managed to somehow avoid any opt outs. 9-1 will only be good enough to get us to the title game if the loss is to UK or LSU, so hope for one of those. Let’s assume that’s the case and say we will face Florida in the SECCG, winning 42-27. After that we’ll eventually face Clemson in the national title game.

Am I Barning hard enough for you people? Anyway, War Damn Eagle.

Verdict: 9-1

Josh Black

I am far more skeptical on this season than most here. Pre-COVID my skepticism was rooted in a simple truth that has held up for the most part in the history of this conference: It’s hard to be confident when you don’t know what you have at the line of scrimmage.

I expect the offense to show signs of legitimate progress under Chad Morris, and provide further compliment to Bo Nix’s potential, especially with more passing concepts, A TIGHT END (!), and a far more talented running back room than we’ve had the last 2 years. I also expect our offensive line to struggle mightily at different points throughout this season. It’s not for a lack of talent, but it hurts us early that we didn’t have spring to help those 5 to gel. It hurts even more than it’s hard to find 5 guys consistently with COVID, so early on communication between the guys is going to be rough.

Defensively I expect Kevin Steele and Co. to continue reinforcing the sterling reputation the Auburn Defense has earned since 2016. Questions abound for me up front though, once again, as you are going to feel the impact of losing not just the insane talent of Derrick and Marlon, but the amount of sheer snaps they had. That experience is a heavy burden for Truesdell, but what is around him are a bunch of guys who need to step up and/or grow up quick. Same holds true in the secondary, where Auburn is quietly producing 1st round NFL talent nowadays. I have zero doubt about the abilities of our back 4-5, but quality depth matters, especially at corner, and I’ll need to see it before getting my hopes elevated.

I’m going to do a breakdown of how I see this schedule going with what I think will happen, and the best case/worst case scenario:

Kentucky - Win (Do not take this team lightly, as they can come into Auburn and win. They’re extremely well coached.)

at Georgia - Loss (We can absolutely win this game as I don’t feel threatened by the quandary Georgia finds themselves in at QB (you just hate to see it), but they have arguably the best defense in the country depending on if Ohio State plays football this fall, and I think we’re going to need 21+ points to win. I don’t have a lot of confidence that happens in Athens.)

Arkansas - Win (LOL yeah no...Gus and Chad ain’t losing to Arkansas)

at South Carolina - Win (Abysmal offensive football team with a lack of talent to beat Auburn)

at Ole Miss - Win (Lane will beat someone he shouldn’t in year one, but they’ve got enough problems defensively that tell me it won’t be us.)

LSU - Win (Coin flip game prior to LSU basically deciding to take the year off. I don’t blame them. 2011 sucked for us too. Still though, they’re LSU and an obvious threat, but this is a game we should win, especially since Dave Aranda, who had our number, is gone.)

@ Miss. State - Win (Some other SBN site will tell you State is the most talented team in the conference. That site is laughably wrong.)

Tennessee - Win (Must win game for us that absolutely could go the other way. Sucks to say but Jeremy Pruitt has had our number way too often. Easily the most dangerous game on this schedule that I almost went with my gut and predicted a “Chaos Auburn” loss.)

Alabama - Loss (They’re loaded. Their schedule gets easier with every opt-out we see. Nobody outside of Clemson is beating them this year.)

Texas A&M - Win (Much like Tennessee, this is a true coin flip game for us. Beat up after the Iron Bowl means something here, as it did in the 2017 SEC Championship. Still, the day I put money on Kellen Mond or Jimbo Fisher being worth a damn without insane talent all around them is the day I go broke. We should win this game. We could lose this game.)

So I say we’re 8-2, with Kentucky, Tennessee, and A&M being games that could absolutely derail all of our hopes and dreams for something better. I do see the 2 losses I mentioned being definite. This team is going to show improvement at best, and confusion at worst. We’re a year away, basically. But I also expect 2021 to be the year where we actually enter the College Football Playoff, so I’ll take it in a year where there are more important things going on than football, especially knowing that the Georgia game and Alabama games are on the road in front of mostly nobody. To hell with both of them.

You’ve read our takes, now it’s your turn. Give us your prediction for this 2020 Auburn Tiger football team.

War Eagle!

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2020/9/14/21434903/c-m-roundtable-predict-auburns-2020-season-record

[bizarropurugly]

Dame’s Eating Problem(s)

okay so I’ve been wanting to make this post for like ever now but kept getting too tired to write it but basically this post is going to be a detail on my difficulties with eating and food

so tw for disordered eating, and food obviously, and vomiting too, and unsanitary stuff too, there might be ableist language, suicide and self harm, body image and/or dysphoria probably? I think that covers it

let’s get this show on the road below cut

So to start with, I have digestive issues, a tender mouth, sensitive teeth, and autism. This makes eating hard enough already. 

I am sensitive to grease, sugar, dairy, spiciness, and salt. Which kind of sucks because I actually need a lot of salt in my diet due to my vasovagal syncope and chronic low blood pressure, but it burns my mouth so brutally I swear I even bleed. Some other examples of problems I have would be eating a candy bar in one sitting makes my teeth ache, or fighting between puking and shitting myself to death over most fastfood because they use so much fucking grease. 

It’s very possible I have irritable bowel syndrome but I have hangups with getting any of that checked out, mostly that THAT particular area of my body, I am actually too shy and embarrassed over to want to risk any kind of... examination of it... haha... and with all my other problems it takes a back seat. 

Then there’s the autism, which is almost unpredictable in what will set off my gag reflex sometimes. I know for certain peanut butter*, mushrooms, and anything with legs (such as some shrimp and DEFINITELY any squid) are guaranteed triggers. 

(*Small amounts of peanut butter in things like packed candy bars or puppy chow are fine. Small amounts, though.)

And then sometimes I just get tired of eating something and will come close to puking on just the thought of eating it. This mostly happens with meat, potatoes, pastries, and whatever you’d consider shit like waffles and pancakes. Vegetables and fruits seem to be safe for the most part, but unfortunately they’re not very filling and their acidity / fructose content can trigger my OTHER digestive issues. 

I’m guessing it’s an autism thing because it’s primarily about the textures that I don’t want to feel when I get tired of a food, hence why it tends to be with... squishier, sometimes slimier stuff I guess.

Usually food intolerance comes from the fact I have very few options of “safe” food and eat the shit out of any I find, and ultimately make myself hate it temporarily from that being the only thing I ever eat. Sometimes, though, this is permanent, such as with peaches, pears, chili, goulash, pineapple, and at times beef stew specifically of the Dinty Moore line.

This is a backdrop for how my troubles began. I kind of ignored this, like, aggressively for a long time, particularly because of being abused by adults over it? I had no explanation and everyone thought I was being a picky brat - in fact being called picky was a trigger for me as a kid because it was always in such a brutally negative fashion that implied I was a lying spoiled piece of shit because I would shit my pants or throw up over some adult’s stupid fucking idea of “kid friendly” food like tacos and peanut butter sandwiches. 

So I just... didn’t eat. A lot. It got worse over time. I was so tired of fighting about food, and I was tired of not knowing what was going to hurt me, that I just straight up forewent eating, often. Very often.

By high school, I was probably only eating lunch twice a week. When I graduated high school I was down to like 95-98 pounds. 

But it wasn’t just that, actually. It got worse, if you can believe it! 

What this did was pave the way for me to get worse as my depression, anxiety, and other untreated mental illness took their toll on me in high school. Years of ignoring my hunger pangs / being used to them left me with no realization of just how bad my mental health was, because not eating was normalized to me.

It came to be that even when I had food that I liked and knew was safe, I couldn’t eat it. My body was completely rejecting anything I tried to eat. And I didn’t notice for a while because it “wasn’t” interfering with my life, because it was all par for the course. Starving was par for the course. Like, my mother worried about me moving out on my own because she knew I had to be pushed to eat, otherwise I’d go the whole day and not notice.

I can’t remember when I realized something wasn’t right. I do remember a particular moment in my favourite restaurant, which I didn’t get to go to often because we are poor and it’s a steak place, and I think it was my 18th or 19th birthday, and I had my most favourite things to eat in the world in front of me and... couldn’t eat it. 

In fact, I threw up for my hubris in trying to make myself eat it. 

And I started crying, because I was hungry, I was SO hungry, and this was my favourite food, and it wasn’t fucking cheap, but... I couldn’t eat it. My body wouldn’t let me, and on top of that, I fucking THREW UP on the table. I felt so ashamed and like a horrible person, because of course wait staff has to clean that up, and I was so weak and tired and just wanted to eat my fucking steak and go home... 

(This was when I learned to never, ever, EVER push it if I’m feeling this way lol)

And this kept going on, actually. The explanation was never found until I actually got help for my mental health, but only after urging from my best friend after confessing to them a suicide attempt.

I don’t remember how we went about trying to find the cause before I came in about depression. I remember that I was literally wasting away for like... 5 or so years. It wasn’t just the depression that made me fall asleep in class or in the halls between class. I was always cold, too, cold and weak, and could often be found wedged underneath a radiator at school. I got so small and tired and miserable. My mother says I dropped towards 80 pounds before I finally got help.

I kind of really hate it because I used to be strong, but I was beat down. It was beat out of me, verbally, emotionally. Bullies nobody did anything about, teachers proud of embarrassing me, everyone around me thinking I was obnoxious and retarded, having no actual friends. I used to be able to carry classmates twice my size and take down football players. Now I really am a sack of shit, now in a more literal sense. 

When I fell through the mire, I lost it all. The muscle and the wile and the flexibility. Started failing my classes, when I had previously been among academic elite. None of those kids thought I was smart enough for it either and couldn’t wait to position themselves as better than me when I literally fucking DYING, STARVING TO DEATH, TRYING TO KILL MYSELF.

....But that’s a tangent. Sorry. 

Anyway, once the problem was actually found, and I got put on medication, it was like magic. I could eat again!! I could seriously eat again and not be afraid of throwing up or wasting food or anything!! 

And by god, did I eat. 

A common side effect of psychiatric medication that they don’t seem to explain very well is that your appetite increases. In my case, where I was literally starving, that was like going from 0 to 100 overnight. And I get why it’s a side effect - difficulty eating is a very common symptom of depression and anxiety! - but nobody told me how intense it would be, let alone that I should be careful.

You know how you’re not supposed to feed a starving animal a full bowl of food right away or else they’ll make themselves terribly sick because they’re stupid as hell and will gobble it down in seconds?

Basically, that. I gobbled and gobbled and gobbled everything my fucking hands could snatch, even my not safe foods. Didn’t care that I was shitting my brains out because I could FINALLY EAT AGAIN. I was so excited to EAT AGAIN. 

Well, by starving myself, I had completely destroyed my metabolism. Experts have said it over and over again, starving puts your body in panic mode, and it relegates everything to storage. 

So now I’m fat. I eat the same as I did before the troubles really got going, but because I went through several years of NOT eating, I have completely fucking screwed my body up. I’m fat, fat as hell. 

And I’m pretty sure it’s not my “normal” weight because when I finally sit up out of the fucking mire and get to exercising and eating on a normal schedule, I lose weight, or at least change fat to muscle pretty easily. 

But I’m wracked with stress and little to no feeling of control on my life. My mental health is spiraling again and I’m not eating, let alone eating right, again, and certainly I don’t have the energy to properly exercise myself. 

Back when I first started my job things were better and I was excited because I was losing weight and feeling a little healthier because I was on a regular schedule, but now...

My executive dysfunction is also being a fucking pain in the ass because it keeps waving a metaphorical to-do list in my face and saying, “No!! you can’t exercise now!! look at all this stuff you need to do!! you have so many things to do!! there’s so many things and they need to be done and you can’t do anything ever without doing all the things right now!!”

The consequences are worse now, though. I have to actually drive and be at work and be an adult, which takes a LOT of my energy, and if I don’t eat? I pass out. More vasovagal syncope bullshit combined with the chronic low blood pressure. It was one thing falling asleep in high school, but now I have much more I need to do in a given day thanks to life being, you know, life.

Sunshine and One Eye keep me from letting myself wither, right now. I have to have a job and go to it in order to take care of them. If I didn’t have them, I’d probably quit my job and move back in with my parents and basically fade away. 

Sometimes it’s a curse because I really, really don’t want to live, I don’t want to sustain myself. I’m... really fucking tired, I am beyond tired. 

And I have to force myself to eat, but it’s rarely anything worthwhile anymore. It’s almost always snack food because it’s just so hard to eat anything right now, let alone something fulfilling. It takes me months to go through a bag of pretzels or something because I’m so unwilling to eat. I don’t even buy actual food now, no butter or bread or soup or meat, because I’m so unwilling to eat that it ends up expiring without ever being used. I cleared out my freezer recently and had food in there that expired in 2015. The only thing my fridge has is juice, soda, and milk for cereal for breakfast (the only dairy I’ll be able to eat for the next 12-24 hours unless I’m feeling less sore for once and want an ice cream cone lol). 

So. Uhhh.. I guess that’s it. That’s my problem. Ruined metabolism brought on by starving because depression which was easy to do because I fucked up my eating instincts from a childhood of Angry Stomach vs Angry Adults, and now I’m heading right back in that direction again. 

And I fucking hate it because all my life I’ve been skinny but strong-ish and smol but now I’m just a weakling blob and none of my favourite clothes fit.

[thedancemostofall]

notes on eating

Ruby Tandoh on Sugar

The idea of a monolithic, wondrous, dreadful sugar would hardly have made sense to medieval cooks. Sweetness was not a category, but a seasoning

In many cultures, this sugar-salt symphony is still foundational. “The food I grew up eating every night — that is to say, Persian home cooking — is all about balancing the plate with sweet and sour, salty and rich, crisp and soft,” says Nosrat. “Fresh and dried fruits — pomegranates, sour cherries, dates, raisins — all regularly found their way onto our dinner plates. So I have always been drawn to a little sweetness in my food.”

How has sweetness — something we are evolutionarily programmed to like, for survival — come to stand in for sex and escapism and hedonism? Humans are metaphor machines, and our mouths are liminal places where food and words mingle, where hot dogs, tagliatelle, and Nigerian puff puff meet “my name is,” memory, and “I.” True synesthesia — the blurring between one sense and another — is relatively rare, but its logic pervades our language, so that trumpets might sound hot, or sadness taste sour. One study found that honeycomb toffee tastes less sweet when eaten whilst listening to a “bitter” soundtrack than when eaten whilst listening to a “sweet” soundtrack. And our senses don’t just crisscross randomly — “How come silence is sweet but sweetness isn’t silent?” one paper asked.

https://www.eater.com/2018/8/6/17631452/ruby-tandoh-sugar-history-kara-walker-will-cotton

Taffy Brodesser-Aknery on Losing it in the Anti-Dieting Age

About two years ago, I decided to yield to what every statistic I knew was telling me and stop trying to lose weight at all. I decided to stop dieting, but when I did, I realized I couldn’t. I didn’t know what or how to eat. I couldn’t fathom planning my food without thinking first about its ability to help or hinder a weight-loss effort. I went to a nutritional therapist to help figure this out (dieting, I have found, is its own chronic condition), and I paid her every week so I could tell her that there still had to be a way for me to lose weight. When she reminded me that I was there because I had realized on my own that there was no way to achieve this goal, I reminded this wonderful, patient person that she couldn’t possibly understand my desperation because she was skinny. I had arthritis in my knees, I said. Morality and society aside, they hurt. I have a sister with arthritis in her knees, too, but she’s skinny and her knees don’t hurt.

I went to an intuitive-eating class — intuitive eating is where you learn to feed yourself based only on internal signals and not external ones like mealtimes or diet plans. Meaning it’s just eating what you want when you’re hungry and stopping when you’re full. There were six of us in there, educated, desperate fat women, doing mindful-eating exercises and discussing their pitfalls and challenges. We were given food. We would smell the food, put the food on our lips, think about the food, taste the food, roll the food around in our mouths, swallow the food. Are you still hungry? Are you sure? The first week it was a raisin. It progressed to cheese and crackers, then to cake, then to Easter candy. We sat there silently, as if we were aliens who had just arrived on Earth and were learning what this thing called food was and why and how you would eat it. Each time we did the eating exercise, I would cry. ‘‘What is going on for you?’’ the leader would ask. But it was the same answer every time: I am 41, I would say. I am 41 and accomplished and a beloved wife and a good mother and a hard worker and a contributor to society and I am learning how to eat a goddamned raisin. How did this all go so wrong for me?

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/08/02/magazine/weight-watchers-oprah-losing-it-in-the-anti-dieting-age.amp.html

Oprah- how did i let this happen again?

"How Did I Let This Happen Again?"   Photo: Matthew RolstonFour years ago, when Oprah managed to get down to a trim and fit 160 pounds, she thought she'd hit on a foolproof formula for permanent weight loss. Then life—in the form of a thyroid problem and a killer schedule—intervened. Last year she was back up to the 200-pound mark and knew something had to change. After a desperately needed time-out to reflect and recharge, here's what she's learned, what she's doing differently, and what's next.You know how bad you feel when you have a special event, a reunion, a wedding, a bar mitzvah, and you wanted to lose that extra 10 to 40 pounds, and you didn't do it? So the day comes and now you've got to try to find something to wear that makes you feel halfway decent, and you have to figure out how to hold in your stomach all night and walk backward out of the room so no one sees that your butt keeps moving even when you stop. Multiply that feeling by a million—make that more than 2.4 million for every Oreader—and you'll know how I've felt over the past year every time I had to shoot a cover for O. If you're a regular subscriber, you'll notice you've not seen a head-to-toe shot all year. Why? Because I didn't want to be seen. " In 1992 I reached my heaviest, 237 pounds. I was 38. Then, four years ago, I made it a goal to lose weight, and I appeared on the January 2005 cover (left) at a toned 160 pounds. I thought I was finished with the weight battle. I was done. I'd conquered it. I was so sure, I was even cocky. I had the nerve to say to friends who were struggling, "All you have to do is work out harder and eat less! Get your 10,000 steps in! None of that starchy stuff!" Bam! Karma is a bear of a thing. So here I stand, 40 pounds heavier than I was in 2006. (Yes, you're adding correctly; that means the dreaded 2-0-0.) I'm mad at myself. I'm embarrassed. I can't believe that after all these years, all the things I know how to do, I'm still talking about my weight. I look at my thinner self and think, "How did I let this happen again?" It happened slowly. In February 2007, at 53, I started to have some health issues. At first I was unable to sleep for days. My legs started swelling. My weight started creeping up, first 5 pounds, then 10 pounds. I was lethargic and irritable. My internal clock seemed totally out of whack. I began having rushing heart palpitations every time I worked out. Okay, I've never loved daily exercise, but this was different. I actually developed a fear of working out. I was scared that I would pass out. Or worse. I felt as if I didn't know my own body anymore. After many trips to various doctors, I received a diagnosis. I had hyperthyroidism (an overactive thyroid that can speed up metabolism and cause weight loss—but of course didn't make me lose a single pound) and then gradually started moving into hypothyroidism (a sluggish metabolism that can cause fatigue and weight gain). My doctor prescribed medication and warned me that I must "learn to embrace hunger" or I would immediately gain weight. Believe me, no part of me was prepared to embrace hunger. It seemed as if the struggle I'd had with weight my entire adult life was now officially over. I felt completely defeated. I thought, "I give up. I give up. Fat wins." All these years I'd had only myself to blame for lack of willpower. Now I had an official, documented excuse. The thyroid diagnosis felt like some kind of prison sentence. I was so frustrated that I started eating whatever I wanted—and that's never good. My drug of choice is food. I use food for the same reasons an addict uses drugs: to comfort, to soothe, to ease stress. I switched doctors and still gained weight. At one point I was on three medications: one for heart palpitations, another for high blood pressure, another to moderate my thyroid. Who knew this tiny butterfly gland at the base of the throat had so much power? When it's off, your whole body feels the effects. [For more information about thyroid disorders, see The Truth About the Thyroid.] I followed my doctor's orders to the letter (except for the part about working out). I took the prescribed medication religiously at the same time each day. Being medicated, though necessary, made me feel as if I were viewing life through a veil. I felt like an invalid. Everything was duller. I felt like the volume on life got turned down. I realized this to some extent, but I wasn't fully aware of the effect of the medication until I had a conversation with my friend Bob Greene. He'd given up lecturing me about working out and eating well, but we were walking together one day and he said, "I think something's wrong. You're listless. Your movements are slower, even when you're just doing normal stuff. Twice I've told you something and you don't remember it. There's no sparkle in your eyes. I think you're in some sort of depression." Me—depressed? I hadn't thought I was, but definitely something was off. I felt like the life force was being sucked out of me. I always had an excuse for being tired. It took extra effort to do everything. I didn't want to go anywhere, and I didn't want to be seen any more than I had to. I could oversee a show and a magazine that tell people how to live their best lives, but I definitely wasn't setting an example. I was talking the talk, but I wasn't walking the walk. And that was very disappointing to me. Immediately after that conversation with Bob, I called my doctor. "All this medicine is making my life feel like a flat line," I said. So my doctor slowly weaned me off it, except for one aspirin a day. (By the way, never suddenly stop taking prescribed medication, especially heart and blood pressure medication, without checking with your physician.) That choice was the beginning of my road back to health—and back to myself. Regaining my footing hasn't been easy. What is true for every one of you is also true for me: Life's responsibilities don't lessen just because you aren't feeling your best. In my case, the show literally must go on. Many days I didn't feel like going to work, but sick days aren't an option when more than 300 audience members have bought plane tickets and arranged babysitters so they could come to a taping. I think I hit bottom when I wanted to stay home even from a show as fun as the one we did with Tina Turner and Cher in Las Vegas. I was supposed to stand between them onstage, and I felt like a fat cow. I wanted to disappear. "God help me now," I thought. "How can I hide myself?" Later, as I was interviewing both of them about their ages (at the time, Tina was 68 and loved being older; Cher was 61 and didn't), I asked myself, "Who's the real older woman here? I am." They both had more energy than I did. They didn't just sparkle; they glittered. At the close of our 2007–2008 season and the beginning of my summer hiatus, I still had other commitments. I make at least four trips each year to check on my girls in South Africa. No matter what continent they're on, a group of 150 schoolgirls is a lot to manage. By the time I left South Africa, I knew I needed some time to do absolutely nothing. In July I was able to take a break. I went to sleep and woke up whenever I pleased. I sipped soy milk, downed vitamins, snacked on flaxseed, and allowed my body to restore itself. Some days I exercised by walking with my dogs in the hills of Maui; gradually I started working out on the treadmill, at first with a heart monitor to make sure there were no palpitations (it was a black box smaller than a BlackBerry, which I wore on my belt). By the end of the summer, I felt I could do a full hour of cardio without dropping dead. Next I tackled the food addiction, which is ongoing. As far as my daily food choices go, I'm not on any particular program. I've gone back to the commonsense basics we all know: eating less sugar and fewer refined carbs and more fresh, whole foods like fish, spinach, and fruit. But in order not to abuse food, I have to stay fully conscious and aware of every bite, of taking time and chewing slowly. I have to focus on being fully alive, awake, present, and engaged, connected in every area of my life. Right now. What I've learned this year is that my weight issue isn't about eating less or working out harder, or even about a malfunctioning thyroid. It's about my life being out of balance, with too much work and not enough play, not enough time to calm down. I let the well run dry. Here's another thing this past year has been trying to teach me: I don't have a weight problem—I have a self-care problem that manifests through weight. As my friend Marianne Williamson shared with me, "Your overweight self doesn't stand before you craving food. She's craving love." Falling off the wagon isn't a weight issue; it's a love issue. When I stop and ask myself, "What am I really hungry for?" the answer is always "I'm hungry for balance, I'm hungry to do something other than work." If you look at your overscheduled routine and realize, like I did, that you're just going and going and that your work and obligations have become a substitute for life, then you have no one else to blame. Only you can take the reins back. That's what I'm doing. These days I've put myself back on my own priority list; I try to do at least one hour of exercise five or six days a week. As I work out, eat healthfully, and reorder my life so there's time to replenish my energy, I continue to do the spiritual and emotional work to conquer this battle once and for all. My goal isn't to be thin. My goal is for my body to be the weight it can hold—to be strong and healthy and fit, to be itself. My goal is to learn to embrace this body and to be grateful every day for what it has given me. In 2009, dare I, dare all of us give ourselves all the love and care we need to be healthy, to be well, and to be whole? I know for sure that for each moment of this brand new year, I'm gonna try.

https://www.oprah.com/spirit/oprahs-battle-with-weight-gain-o-january-2009-cover/all

The unhealthy truth behind “wellness” and “clean eating”

I spoke about this purity fetish to Nigella Lawson, whose guilt-free approach to eating helped to reconfigure my attitude to food when I was at my most vulnerable. "I despair of the term 'clean eating,'" she said, "though I actually like the food that comes under that banner. ['Clean eating'] necessarily implies that any other form of eating—and consequently the eater of it—is dirty or impure and thus bad, and it's not simply a way of shaming and persecuting others, but leads to that self-shaming and self-persecution that is forcibly detrimental to true healthy eating."

Our diets become a moral issue when this is the food culture we foster, and gluten is just the start of it. "I wish people would recognize [this] before saying, 'Hey, try this cool elimination diet—you've got nothing to lose,'" lamented Alan Levinovitz when I asked him about this modern cult of elimination dieting. "Nothing to lose? No, there's a lot to lose."

https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/jm5nvp/ruby-tandoh-eat-clean-wellness

Why we fell for clean eating

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/aug/11/why-we-fell-for-clean-eating

[howtoloseweightfastsafely]

The #1 Ridiculous Diet Myth Pushed By 95% Of Doctors AND "Experts" That Is Keeping You From The Body Of Your Dreams

This refers to the myth that just "eating healthy" and substituting good choices for bad choices is all you need to do to lose weight.

How often do you hear "have brown rice instead of white rice" or "eat chicken breast instead of lean beef" or "just eat organic foods and you'll lose weight"?

I call B.S.

I'd love to know how this "expert" expects Americans to lose weight eating brown rice instead of white rice when the caloric load is nearly IDENTICAL.

Or how eating chicken breast is any different than lean beef when the caloric load is nearly IDENTICAL.

Or how eating organic cereal is better than eating regular cereal when the caloric load is nearly IDENTICAL. (Note: in the case of cereals, as you'll learn later, neither are good from a longevity perspective.)

You get the point.

Calories are numero uno when we're talking weight loss (with carb/fat/protein assortment & food choices being close behind). With food substitution and eating healthy, and any other similar nonsense trumpeted in the media, the dieter is NOT monitoring intake.

And truth be told he/she has no idea what his intake should even be because none of these "experts" have helped him/her how to figure it out. They just went on talking about healthy foods and not differentiating the weight loss side from the wellness/longevity/everything else side.

The reality is, research definitely does show tremendous benefits in reducing "bad carbs, fats, and protein"...in favor of "good carbs, fats, and protein". But a greater percentage of these benefits are on the wellness/longevity side. For the weight loss side of the equation, healthy foods are important, but NOT all the time, and especially not if trying to eat them 24/7 is going to throw us off our diet.

You see, by trying to combine "weight loss" and "wellness/longevity/everything else" 100% of the time, we're cooking up a recipe for guaranteed failure, in addition to stress, misery, tons of confusion, and an alarming, rapidly growing condition known as orthorexia nervosa (obsessive dieting practices, especially in regards to eliminating certain foods or food groups completely).

And in my honest, but accurate, opinion, it's this "all or nothing" approach to weight loss (egged on by media nonsense) that is quickly destroying the American population, and making us heavier and sicker than ever before.

It's even more pressing because by going "all or nothing" and being more likely to fail, we stay overweight and don't receive the plethora of other benefits associated with weight loss.

By "other benefits", I'm referring to the fact that a shockingly large percentage of health problems get better or disappear completely with weight loss.

Obesity is the direct or indirect cause of almost all major modern diseases (including heart disease, diabetes, some cancers, Alzheimer's, chronic pain, osteoarthritis, high blood pressure, stroke, etc.)

Knowing this is a blessing in disguise. Before worrying ourselves to death over diseases that we have, or may have one day, we now know exactly where we need to focus our efforts.

Weight loss is the #1 goal. All the positive internal and external changes due to the weight loss will travel further down the chain and likely reduce the risk of most other diseases.

And this weight loss can be accomplished by eating well 80-85% of the time and having "cheat" foods the rest of the time.

In doing this, we reap the majority of health benefits from eating clean, healthy foods to nourish our body and mind AND we lose weight AND we still feel satisfied with occasional indulgences in our favorite foods.

On a personal note, I watched the "weight loss = much more than just weight loss" dynamic unfold right in front of me.

I had always thought my chronic shoulder bursitis and debilitating lower back pain would need surgery or "years of physical therapy" (the latter of which I did, for 5 years, only to see zero progress). I literally thought it would never improve, and I had all but given up on it.

This all changed after I lost about 40 pounds (of my total 76 pounds) and inadvertently took a huge strain off my body and mind.

This tremendous decrease in pressure on my joints, coupled with proper nutrition, a few supplements and some activity ended up doing MUCH more than just making me look and feel better. It actually got rid of my chronic shoulder and back pain, which gave me a whole new lease on life. (On a deeper note: I had suffered from years of chronic depression, anxiety, and poor self-esteem, which had seemed insurmountable in the past. I realized later on that a lot of this had to do with my poor self-image via obesity from a young age. This literally disappeared once I got in shape and started taking better care of myself.)

So, if you're suffering from any sort of anxiety, depression, or self-esteem issues, sit tight because in my experience, weight loss affects MUCH more than just how you look in the mirror.

In any case, now that we've started to rip apart some myths about weight loss, let's talk about the factors that run the show.

It essentially comes down to lifestyle choices (which, for beginners should be very taken slowly and easily. More on this later.)

Specifically, it boils down to the "Big Three of Weight Loss":

#1: Smart Nutrition

#2: Natural Movement

#3: Stress and Toxin Management

Now that's all simple in theory right?

Eat healthy, exercise, and don't smoke, right?

Well...sorta. It's unfortunately not that simple.

You see, for starters, our beliefs around real "nutrition" and eating "right" are completely fed up, for lack of a better phrase.

Instead of studying the lifestyle habits of people who've "done it right" for thousands of years (while staying free from obesity and illness)...what do we do?

Well, we (i.e. most Western societies) follow the advice of big corporations, mass media, and uninformed doctors. Most of whom, mind you, have a financial stake in recommending certain nutrition methods and medicines to us.

And with all our advances in modern science, we're still ending up with uncontrollable obesity, early death, and major illnesses, some of which include:

Cancers

Heart Disease

Alzheimer's

Parkinson's

ADD and ADHD

Diabetes

We're stuck with these horrific diseases, while many societies have NEVER even *heard* of them. (Remember how some cultures don't even have a word for "cancer" in their vocabulary?)

----

When I was starting out (75+ pounds heavier than I am today), I had NO idea how to eat right. I was completely lost amidst different advice coming from every other website, blog, or magazine article.

And you know what? It sucked! I didn't know what was right for me, and I kept going from plan to plan...NEVER seeing any real progress.

Even worse, I hated myself for it.

I saw people all around me, in good shape, or I saw people losing weight easily, and I was sick to my stomach. I did what was supposed to be right but just couldn't get it. And it left me thinking that I just wasn't "good enough" to be skinny too.

It was far from a happy existence, to say the least.

Have you ever felt that way? Doing everything "right" but then beating yourself up for not seeing results?

Thankfully, this all changed when I stumbled upon the amazing secret of "real food" nutrition (and the traditional cultures who'd been following it).

The best part? It helped me finally cut through the "fog" and B.S. that everyone and their mother yaps about.

Let's get into it.

 Interested in losing weight? Then click below to see the exact steps I took to lose weight and keep it off for good...

Read the previous article about "How I Lost Weight By Not Following The Mainstream Media And Health Guru's Advice - Why The Health Industry Is Broken And How We Can Fix It"

Read the next article about "The Dangers of Low-Carb and Other "No Calorie Counting" Diets"

Moving forward, there are several other articles/topics I'll share so you can lose weight even faster and feel great doing it.

Below is a list of these topics and you can use this Table of Contents to jump to the part that interests you the most.

Topic 1: How I Lost 30 Pounds In 90 Days - And How You Can Too

Topic 2: How I Lost Weight By Not Following The Mainstream Media And Health Guru's Advice - Why The Health Industry Is Broken And How We Can Fix It

Topic 3: The #1 Ridiculous Diet Myth Pushed By 95% Of Doctors And "experts" That Is Keeping You From The Body Of Your Dreams

Topic 4: The Dangers of Low-Carb and Other "No Calorie Counting" Diets

Topic 5: Why Red Meat May Be Good For You And Eggs Won't Kill You

Topic 6: Two Critical Hormones That Are Quietly Making Americans Sicker and Heavier Than Ever Before

Topic 7: Everything Popular Is Wrong: The Real Key To Long-Term Weight Loss

Topic 8: Why That New Miracle Diet Isn't So Much of a Miracle After All (And Why You're Guaranteed To Hate Yourself On It Sooner or Later)

Topic 9: A Nutrition Crash Course To Build A Healthy Body and Happy Mind

Topic 10: How Much You Really Need To Eat For Steady Fat Loss (The Truth About Calories and Macronutrients)

Topic 11: The Easy Way To Determining Your Calorie Intake

Topic 12: Calculating A Weight Loss Deficit

Topic 13: How To Determine Your Optimal "Macros" (And How The Skinny On The 3-Phase Extreme Fat Loss Formula)

Topic 14: Two Dangerous "Invisible Thorn" Foods Masquerading as "Heart Healthy Super Nutrients"

Topic 15: The Truth About Whole Grains And Beans: What Traditional Cultures Know About These So-called "Healthy Foods" That Most Americans Don't

Topic 16: The Inflammation-Reducing, Immune-Fortifying Secret of All Long-Living Cultures (This 3-Step Process Can Reduce Chronic Pain and Heal Your Gut in Less Than 24 Hours)

Topic 17: The Foolproof Immune-enhancing Plan That Cleanses And Purifies Your Body, While "patching Up" Holes, Gaps, And Inefficiencies In Your Digestive System (And How To Do It Without Wasting $10+ Per "meal" On Ridiculous Juice Cleanses)

Topic 18: The Great Soy Myth (and The Truth About Soy in Eastern Asia)

Topic 19: How Chemicals In Food Make Us Fat (Plus 10 Banned Chemicals Still in the U.S. Food Supply)

Topic 20: 10 Banned Chemicals Still in the U.S. Food Supply

Topic 21: How To Protect Yourself Against Chronic Inflammation (What Time Magazine Calls A "Secret Killer")

Topic 22: The Truth About Buying Organic: Secrets The Health Food Industry Doesn't Want You To Know

Topic 23: Choosing High Quality Foods

Topic 24: A Recipe For Rapid Aging: The "Hidden" Compounds Stealing Your Youth, Minute by Minute

Topic 25: 7 Steps To Reduce AGEs and Slow Aging

Topic 26: The 10-second Trick That Can Slash Your Risk Of Cardiovascular Mortality By 37% (Most Traditional Cultures Have Done This For Centuries, But The Pharmaceutical Industry Would Be Up In Arms If More Modern-day Americans Knew About It)

Topic 27: How To Clean Up Your Liver and Vital Organs

Topic 28: The Simple Detox 'Cheat Sheet': How To Easily and Properly Cleanse, Nourish, and Rid Your Body of Dangerous Toxins (and Build a Lean Well-Oiled "Machine" in the Process)

Topic 29: How To Deal With the "Stress Hormone" Before It Deals With You

Topic 30: 7 Common Sense Ways to Have Uncommon Peace of Mind (or How To Stop Your "Stress Hormone" In Its Tracks)

Topic 31: How To Sleep Like A Baby (And Wake Up Feeling Like A Boss)

Topic 32: The 8-step Formula That Finally "fixes" Years Of Poor Sleep, Including Trouble Falling Asleep, Staying Asleep, And Waking Up Rested (If You Ever Find Yourself Hitting The Snooze Every Morning Or Dozing Off At Work, These Steps Will Change Your Life Forever)

Topic 33: For Even Better Leg Up And/or See Faster Results In Fixing Years Of Poor Sleep, Including Trouble Falling Asleep, Staying Asleep, And Waking Up Rested, Do The Following:

Topic 34: Solution To Overcoming Your Mental Barriers and Cultivating A Winner's Mentality

Topic 35: Part 1 of 4: Solution To Overcoming Your Mental Barriers and Cultivating A Winner's Mentality

Topic 36: Part 2 of 4: Solution To Overcoming Your Mental Barriers and Cultivating A Winner's Mentality

Topic 37: Part 3 of 4: Solution To Overcoming Your Mental Barriers and Cultivating A Winner's Mentality

Topic 38: Part 4 of 4: Solution To Overcoming Your Mental Barriers and Cultivating A Winner's Mentality

Topic 39: How To Beat Your Mental Roadblocks And Why It Can Be The Difference Between A Happy, Satisfying Life And A Sad, Fearful Existence (These Strategies Will Reduce Stress, Increase Productivity And Show You How To Fulfill All Your Dreams)

Topic 40: Maximum Fat Loss in Minimum Time: The Body Type Solution To Quick, Lasting Results

Topic 41: If You Want Maximum Results In Minimum Time You're Going To Have To Work Out (And Workout Hard, At That)

Topic 42: Food Planning For Maximum Fat Loss In Minimum Time

Topic 43: How To Lose Weight Fast If You're in Chronic Pain

Topic 44: Nutrition Basics for Fast Pain Relief (and Weight Loss)

Topic 45: How To Track Results (And Not Fall Into the Trap That Ruins 95% of Well-Thought Out Diets)

Topic 46: Advanced Fat Loss - Calorie Cycling, Carb Cycling and Intermittent Fasting

Topic 47: Advanced Fat Loss - Part I: Calorie Cycling

Topic 48: Advanced Fat Loss - Part II: Carb Cycling

Topic 49: Advanced Fat Loss - Part III: Intermittent Fasting

Topic 50: Putting It All Together

Learn more by visiting our website here: invigoratenow.com

[kaoruyogi]

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 7)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content! (Eventually)

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 7: Everything Sucks Ass

Her meds were gone. Every pill and puff, all gone.

Belle couldn’t move, but there was work to be done, so she moved. She couldn’t breathe, but there was work to be done, so she breathed. She couldn’t eat, but there was work to be done so she ate. It didn’t matter that pain ached and jabbed at her. It didn’t matter that she coughed and wheezed and had to lie down every time she ascended the stairs in her quarters. It didn’t matter that she vomited up most of what she ate, and vomited even when she hadn’t eaten. There was work to be done, and it wasn’t like she could get home for a refill, anyway.

She would die in Thedas. Maybe it would take a week, maybe a month, but she would die. A severe asthma attack would take her, or dehydration, or malnutrition. She was a ticking time bomb, and she resolved to do the best work she could until she exploded.

So she got up every morning. Most days, she had to throw up. Acid pooled to great excess in her stomach, unable to escape during the night when the gastroparesis trapped it there. If she didn’t have to throw up first thing, she put on her headphones and listened to her one song. She still sang when there were words. She would be lying if she said the music wasn’t one of the only things that helped her get out of bed in the mornings. She would prefer to sleep while she wasted away.

She walked everywhere slowly. The heat and humidity weren’t factors she had to worry about in Skyhold, so she moved like a sloth to avoid an asthma attack. Her throat would still get sore. Here and there, a breath would still stop in her lungs before she could keep breathing, like an inside out hiccup.

Since she couldn’t eat properly and didn’t have any more painkillers to keep her blood vessels open when her pressure dropped, migraines plagued her. They varied in their severity. Sometimes it would just be the flickering and blinding rainbow-but-white-but-invisible lights. Other times, she barely managed to get to her tower before the miniature stroke leapt into full, debilitating swing. No one would see her for the rest of the day.

Belle wrote up her contracts, attended her meetings, and mingled with the nobility as if nothing at all were amiss. She triple checked her documents, knowing she was not firing on all cylinders but refusing to cause any harm to the Inquisition on account of her own shoddy workmanship. She met with the advisors, who seemed to look at her with increasing concern and scrutiny.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t know she looked worse, either. The tiny mirror in her compact showed her the dark circles under her eyes and the sallow tones of her already pale skin. The laces and belts on her clothes showed her that she was decreasing in size, wasting away. The prominent veins in her arms and the dry skin of her lips showed her that she was already dehydrated. The slump of her shoulders and curve of her posture showed her that her spine ached from top to tail. The tremor in her hands showed her that her nervous system was beginning to go into shock, shutting down synapse by synapse until all it would do was tell her lungs to breathe and her bladder to piss and her bowels to shit. It probably wouldn’t even do that right.

“Are you alright?” Josephine asked in her rolling accent. Worry was plain on her face, as it was on Leliana’s beside her.

Belle realized she’d been staring down at the tarnished pewter markers on the war table for God knows how long. Her fingers trembled against her clipboard—she wondered sometimes if she should keep calling it that because there was no clip on it—and her dry lips hung open in silent want for water and food and just one fucking deep breath that didn’t end in a gasp.

Belle shook her head. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, what were you saying?” She smiled a smile that may not have been as nonchalant as she wanted.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Cullen. He held a stack of missives in one hand, and the pommel of his sword in the other. He stared at her, that perpetual slight crease stuck to his brow. She hated her inability to tell what he was thinking when he stared at her like that, and he did it for the whole meeting.

She sat at her desk the next day just after yet another lunch she couldn’t eat. In her shaky scrawl, which was messy even before she spun into her hell-spiral of ailments, she penned her second letter in the negotiation of an arranged marriage. Josephine warned her that the talks would be arduous and might fail to yield positive results. Belle wanted to try anyway. To her, it was a worthwhile endeavor.

Cullen barged into her office without knocking, a habit for which he seemed to hold quite the affinity. She knew it was him without looking. He always threw open her door like a hot wind, and it always creaked the same way. Without looking up from her letter, she asked, “You need something?”

“Why haven’t you been to see the healers?” he asked.

That drew her eyes up. The crease in his brow was no longer slight, but deep and angry. He held a single piece of weather-worn and water-spotted parchment in his hand. What did it say, she wondered.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Belle said. “I’m fine.” She clenched her quivering hand into a fist.

“You are not fine. You are ill. I can see it, plain as day. This—” He held up the paper. “—just confirms my suspicions.”

Belle stood, ignoring the white spots in her vision and trying to avoid wobbling from her instant dizziness. Cullen stepped forward as she rounded her desk with her hand held out. He handed her the parchment and she snatched it away.

She recognized Spencer’s handwriting without a second glance.

Commander, the letter read.

I hope you don’t think me insubordinate for writing you. I would normally write to my sister, but I’m very worried about her, and the Inquisitor told me it was okay to send word to you instead. I know it will only be a few days’ time until our return when you get this, but I fear this issue may need to be addressed immediately.

Belle is sick. She has a lot of parts in her body that don’t work properly, and it makes her very ill if she doesn’t have her medication. She told me she was running out when we reunited, and by my count, she has. Her pills probably ran out at least a week ago. Her handwriting has gotten worse, and she keeps talking about “if something happens to her” while I’m gone. I don’t think she’s seen the healers like I told her to.

If you would, Commander, make sure she’s doing okay. If she isn’t, please get her to go to the healers. I apologize if this seems impertinent, but it’s in the best interests of the Inquisition that she stay alive and well. Not just my own. Even Max the Inquisitor thinks so.

Sincerely,

Recruit Spencer Dolan

“Jesus fucking Christ, P.” She muttered the words to herself as she dropped her hand to her thigh. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine.”

That crease in Cullen’s brow deepened even further. He held out his hand. “Come with me to the healers.”

“Dude, I just said I was fine. I don’t need to go to the healers. I’m. Fine. Fit as a fucking fiddle. Right as rain.” Belle set Spencer’s letter on her desk behind her.

In a movement so fast she could barely see it, Cullen grabbed her forearm. She only had enough time to get confused when he tugged up and crouched down. A squeak pushed out of her weak lungs as he hauled her ass over tea kettle onto his shoulder. Her stomach rested on that furry monstrosity he called a mantle and her hands knocked into the backplate of his armor.

“Motherfucker! Put me down!” She pushed herself up against his shoulder so her head was right side up and held high.

He started walking out of her tower. “I suggest you settle down if you do not want your head to hit the doorway.”

“Fuck you! Put me down!” She lowered herself just in time to miss the stone doorway. “What the fuck? What the fuck, Cullen?”

He walked Belle out onto the battlements, her ass beside his head and her arms dangling down his back. His arm wrapped around the back of her knees, and with the toes of her boots she could feel the spot where his breastplate ended and his pants began. She wriggled and smacked at his backplate and tried to reach his face with her fingertips. “Let me go!”

“If you do not stop wriggling, I will. Then you can see how much a stone walkway can hurt one’s face.”

Belle’s mouth fell open in an indignant gasp. “Oh my God! You son of a bitch, put me down!”

Cullen walked her halfway across Skyhold like that. Ass first. Various noises came from various people—laughter, gasps, oohs and aahs like children mocking her for being called into the principal’s office. It was probably the least dignified way she’d ever travelled, and she’d ridden in a shopping cart more than once in her adult life. She thought about going for his balls, but he was right, she would just fall on her face. She didn’t need a broken nose on top of all this bullshit.

Finally, she could hear him open a door. At least she could be mortified inside.

“This her?” a woman’s voice asked. Older, from the sound of her.

Cullen grunted out a “yes” as he crouched to plop Belle onto a little wooden chair. The legs made a scrrch noise against the stone floor.

She made to stand, her hands balled into fists and her arms swinging. But he held her down with one gloved hand on her shoulder. “You fucking douchebag motherfucker piece of shit! Shit-sour bag of dick tips! Who the fuck do you think you are, manhandling me like that, you fucking prick?!”

“Oh do calm yourself, child,” the woman said. She was older, maybe in her mid-fifties. Belle spied a dark, silvery braid running down the length of the woman’s back. “Commander Cullen is only trying to help you.”

Belle’s jaw clenched tight while she scanned the room. It was lit with dim candlelight. The walls were covered in shelves and drawers. The shelves and drawers were overflowing with potted plants and jars and little bottles full of a mélange of different liquids. Two cots sat beside her, and she suspected more lay beyond the closed door. She’d seen people get taken into that room from the courtyard when they were wounded or sick.

She turned her gaze to Cullen, who’s hand still rested on her shoulder. There was something past anger on his face. It may have been concern. But Belle was going rage blind. Her vision may also have been blurring because the blood was finally running back out of her head.

“Tell her what’s wrong with you,” she heard him say.

She lifted her glasses and brought her hand up to rub the heel of it into her blurry eye. “Why don’t you tell her what’s wrong with you first, dickhead? Why would you do that?”

“You are not well, and you were refusing help.” She could see his face again. She had not been mistaken in thinking she saw concern there.

“Hmm…That sounds familiar. Why does that sound so familiar? Oh, I know. It’s because you said you were fine and then you let yourself die on the floor of your goddamn office!” Belle swatted his hand off her shoulder. She suspected he let her do that.

“I know,” said Cullen. His voice had softened to a degree she’d never heard from him before. He sounded wounded. Wounded and worried. “I am sorry. I cannot let that happen to you. I do not know how to bring you back to life with my bare hands. I—I cannot watch you let yourself die.”

Belle heard a thick swallow roll down her own throat. Her eyes burned and blurred again, not from rage or strange blood flow, but from guilt and fear. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep the tears back. She was successful with all but one. That one little bastard slipped out and marched halfway down her cheek before she caught it with her knuckle.

“You have no idea how long it took to find the right combination of medications back home.” She kept calling it home. It was still home. It was still supposed to be home. She missed it. “It took years. Years of hives and vomiting and worsened symptoms and bad drug interactions and the fucking shakes. I’m allergic to fucking everything. I don’t want to wind up sicker because of some random herbs from some random place.”

Cullen took a breath to speak, but Belle cut him off. “And magic? I haven’t even the slightest inkling of what magic does to a person’s body or to their insides. I’m not from here. It could scramble me up like that fucking pig-lizard in ‘Galaxy Quest.’ Turn my insides into my outsides.”

The silvery woman laughed a husky laugh. “That’s not how magic works, dear. I couldn’t turn your insides into your outsides any more than you could.”

Belle’s body had sure as shit tried, though.

“We used healing magic on Spencer,” said Cullen. “He’s received several treatments with magical healing, actually. I dare say he’s alright.”

“Why don’t you just let me do a quick little diagnostic spell first?” asked the woman. “No fiddlin’ around, just finding out what’s wrong. I have a feeling it might be easier than having you explain it to me.”

Belle’s lower lip quivered, and she pouted, pitiful and scared. She felt like a little girl getting her first tetanus shot. She used to like the doctors’ offices. They were calm, sterile places where she would see the man or woman she’d become friendly with over years of treatment. This, however, was no doctor’s office. There was dirt and grime everywhere and not a single speaker playing easy listening on KOST 103.5. This woman was not her friendly doctor or nurse or even medical assistant. She was a stranger who wanted to lay hands on Belle like some sort of freaky faith healer.

Belle looked up at Cullen. He was never shy about his wariness of magic. He’d expressed concerns over the alliance with the mages and keeping them in check more than once in their meetings. She looked to him for advice or approval. For something. He looked down at her with a kindness the likes of which she’d never fathomed possible from his stoic features. A small smile touched at the corners of his mouth, giving an infinitesimal curve to his scar. His amber eyes held a tenderness she couldn’t believe was meant for her. With all his edges smoothed like that, he nodded to her. It was safe, he told her silently.

“What’s your name?” Belle asked the woman.

“Eudora. And you’re Belle, the way I hear it told.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you, Eudora. You can do the spell. Just…be gentle. Please.”

Eudora smiled. “No gentler spell in the world, child.”

Belle’s body tensed as Eudora’s hand splayed across the center of Belle’s chest. A faint buzzing sensation, not unlike what Belle had felt when the rift opened up to swallow her, emanated from the healer’s hand. It oozed through Belle’s body at a snail’s pace, bringing with it a hint of the scent that always preceded a rainstorm. Ozone.

The feeling of the magic coursing through her chest set her on edge. Nervous terror made her whole body shake and shiver. She watched Eudora’s calm, appraising face, but it did little to relax her. Belle trembled like a chihuahua in a snowstorm. She trembled so hard she thought she could hear her bones rattling.

Rough, ungloved fingers touched her palm. She squeezed them hard, turning to the man to whom they were attached. Cullen’s face still held all that gentle kindness. His bare thumb rubbed comforting little circles over the back of her hand.

Belle looked into Cullen’s eyes while the buzzing spread throughout her body. His amber eyes that had always appeared as cold stone encased in museum glass seemed to melt into honey then. They were warm and compassionate and worried. His mouth that was always set in a firm line had become soft and affectionate. She had the inexplicable urge to run her thumb across his bottom lip just to see how it felt.

“All done,” said Eudora, lifting her hand away from Belle’s chest. As surreptitiously as Cullen’s hand had found Belle’s, it was gone again. The loss of his touch left her with a tinge of sadness.

“So what’s the prognosis?” Belle asked.

The healer laughed that husky laugh again. “I don’t know about prognosis, but I can tell what’s wrong with you. And it’s a good news, bad news sort of thing.”

Belle let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, hit me with it. Bad news first.” Always bad news first. Predict, prepare, preempt.

“Alright,” said Eudora, leaning back against a small desk so coated in plants and bottles that Belle hadn’t even realized it was there. “Bad news is most of what’s wrong with you can’t be healed with magic. Can’t be healed permanently at all.”

“I figured as much.” Belle began to stand.

“Not so fast, girly. You want the good news before you run out of here all hangdog, looking like you’ve been kicked?”

Belle settled back in her chair. She swept her arms out to the sides in a sardonic gesture that said, “Please continue.”

“Right. Good news is I can fix your lower back with magic. Won’t be perfect as the day you were born or anything, but I can fix it to where it won’t hurt you so bad every day. More good news is the rest of your ills can be treated with potions, draughts, and herbs.”

“Really?” Belle asked, her tone more dubious than curious.

“Yes, really.” Eudora snatched up a basket from the corner of the room and started piling little bottles and jars and plants into it, listing off what they were for and how to use them as she went.

First was a beaker of purply-clear liquid. It was viscous, coating the sides of its glass container as it sloshed about. “This is for the bile problem in that gut of yours.” Belle thought to correct her before remembering that, before modern medicine, any fluids in the body that weren’t blood were called bile. She let the healer continue. “Woeful bad, that gut is. Not too far off from our Commander, there.”

Belle looked at Cullen, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Maker’s breath. Was it necessary to bring my ailments into this?” He was cute when he was embarrassed.

“It was,” said Eudora. “She’s got to know it works.” She turned her attention back to Belle. “One spoonful of this every morning should set you right for the whole day and night.”

She picked up a little bottle of red stuff next, waterier than the previous concoction. This had an eyedropper for a lid. “This one’s for your aches and pains. It’s real strong, so just a few drops at a time.”

Next up was a bundle of flowering plants with orange and green petals and leaves. Belle thought she’d seen them growing in the garden. “This one’s embrium,” said Eudora. Ah, so that was the stuff Belle had been making deals for all over Ferelden. “This is for your breathing. Put a petal or leaf into a cup of hot water in the mornings. Inhale the steam while it steeps, then drink it down, leaf and all.”

She set the full basket on Belle’s lap. “Take these for two days to make sure they work for you, then come back and see me. I’ll fix your back up then.”

“Okay.” Belle was petrified. Honestly, though, what did she have to lose at this point? She would die if the stuff didn’t work or if she was allergic to any of it. She’d hit “fuck it,” she supposed.

She was following Cullen out of the door when a time-worn hand found her wrist and turned her back. Eudora held up a small envelope full of crushed leaves. She bore a mischievous grin on her face.

“This is just a little something extra,” she said, low enough to be out of Cullen’s earshot. Probably. “For if and when you decide to have a little romp with someone.” Romp? “Make a pinch of this into a tea the morning after. Save yourself the trouble later on.”

Oh, that kind of romp, Belle thought. “Oh Jesus. Okay, no. No, I don’t need that.”

“You like girls then?”

Belle’s voice came out like a hiss. “No! Jesus Christ in a crockpot, woman! I just have no plans of having a ‘romp’ with anyone. Boy or girl or anyone.”

“And why not? There’s plenty of strapping young folk around here.” Eudora looked over Belle’s shoulder. “The Commander would do quite nicely, I should think.”

Heat suffused over Belle’s face, and she was grateful she wasn’t a visible blusher. “Oh my God. Oh my God, okay, just give it to me. Whatever will end this conversation.”

Belle snatched up the envelope from the giggling healer, stuffing it into her bra as she walked out the door. She imagined plenty of women left with similar packets every day. She didn’t need anyone thinking she had those plans in mind, least of all Cullen. He’d hung back once he realized she wasn’t with him, and he watched her exit the healer’s room.

“I’m not going to say, ‘thank you’ yet,” she said. “Not until I know these will work and not just kill me. You don’t get a thank you if they kill me. You get to haul me off and bury me or burn me or whatever it is you do with dead people around here. Heavy, ungrateful, dead me. All this trouble and no ‘thank you.’”

Cullen laughed. He actually laughed. It was a low stream of three slow chuckles. “Alright. I accept your terms.”

Belle’s mouth hung open. “Did that hurt?”

He looked confused. “Did what hurt?”

“Laughing. I just assumed you didn’t do it because it hurt or something.” She smiled wide at him.

Cullen’s face pinched up for a moment. “I laugh when I hear something funny. Have you given a thought to the idea that you might not have been funny until just now?”

Belle barked out a laugh of her own through her incredulous and wide open trap. “You sassy asshole!” She laughed again. “Okay. I’ll remember that you said that.”

He smirked at her, shocking her yet again. He was handsome when he smirked.

“See that you do.”

*****

It worked. The lot of it. All the potions and teas worked. Well, most of the teas worked. She hadn’t tried the post-romp tea yet. That withstanding, Belle’s body felt better than it had in years. She was sleeping and eating and breathing again. She’d even manage to put back on a couple of the pounds she’d lost via unhealthy means. Just a couple, though. It was a goddamn miracle, in any case.

The magic had felt strange. It felt even stranger when her lumbar spine had begun to right itself. A rash of pops accompanied the odd sensation, and the movement around her nerves nauseated her a bit. When it was done, though, she felt almost as good as before that day in high school when she fell backwards onto the crooked books in her backpack. Almost like she’d never been injured. Another goddamn miracle.

The few days Spencer mentioned in his letter had passed. He and Max and the others were supposed to arrive that night. Then, in about a week, every high-ranking member of the Inquisition was headed to a place called Halamshiral for some grand ball. Belle was excited to get out of Skyhold and see what other parts of Thedas looked like. It didn’t matter that she was being called upon to schmooze and work and flirt her way through the party. She didn’t mind being dangled in front of the nobility like a prize to be won. She knew she could not be won. She was just happy to be going.

Belle was finishing her appointment with her Rivaini tailor—nice guy, a little handsy, though—when two demure knocks tapped against her door. She would know Josie’s knock anywhere. Belle called out for Josephine to come in while she looked over the final design for her gown. It was perfect, as far as Belle could surmise.

She thanked the tailor and escorted him to the door that Josephine had just opened. Once the door was shut behind him, she turned to her friend slash boss. “What’s up?”

Josephine handed Belle a piece of parchment. “Congratulations on your marriage,” she said with a sly smile. She could be pretty funny when she wanted.

Belle read over the letter and laughed. “Comte Laval agreed to the terms? He’s willing to let Nanette marry Baron Capet’s son, Damien?”

“All he asks is that the Inquisition provide an honor guard for the happy day to demonstrate that we have sanctioned the marriage. He believes that will make up for Nanette marrying below her station.”

Belle grinned and squealed. “I hope she really loves this Damien guy. If not, his dick better be dipped in gold and make her scream with how much work I did getting the Comte to agree to this.” Josephine hid her giggle behind her hand, no doubt bashful about her amusement at Belle’s lewdness. “Let’s go tell Cullen the news.”

The two women marched arm in arm across the battlements to Cullen’s office. Josie was shorter than Belle by several inches, creating an interesting dynamic to the way their elbows hooked together. They chirped and giggled and mused about salacious details of the relationship between Lady Laval and Lord Capet right up until they were standing in front of Cullen’s desk.

He had his back turned to them. A soldier and a scout were on the receiving end of quite the tongue lashing for being intimate in the guest quarters. One looked humiliated while the other looked proud. It was an interesting sight to see and an interesting story to hear, to say the least. Apparently, the two of them had been at it in an Orlesian minor lord’s room. He walked in on them, but was angrier that they refused to let him join in than he was at their presence there.

“You’re both on night watch duty across Skyhold from one another,” Cullen said. “Next time, find a hiding place that does not send an Orlesian noble knocking at my door. Dismissed.”

The soldier and the scout high tailed it out of Cullen’s office hand in hand. Belle thought she might try to find one of them later. She’d discovered some places in the keep that might have been exactly what they needed for next time.

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen squeezed at the back of his neck again before turning to face the two amused women. “What can I do for you today?”

Josephine was smiling and it made Belle’s smile wider. “I need you to arrange for an honor guard to accompany us to Halamshiral. Four soldiers should be enough.”

“Why?” Cullen sounded like he’d had a long day. Belle thought she would just tell him and leave him be.

“You should congratulate Belle on her marriage,” Josie said. The joke was still funny, and she and Belle laughed about it again.

“What?”

Belle was coming down from the crest of her laughter as she answered. “The marriage will take place near Halamshiral two days after the ball. I figured we could just tote along the extra four people and they could stick around for the ceremony afterwards. They wouldn’t be gone long.”

It looked like Cullen might pop a blood vessel in his neck. His face was going red and heavy breaths sawed through his body. His brow furrowed so deep it seemed like the bridge of his nose might cave in.

“You—You duplicitous woman!” He practically roared it. To say that Belle was confused was an understatement.

“I don’t und—”

“You arrived here and said you wanted to work for the Inquisition. You said you had our best interests in mind. So we trusted you. And the first moment the opportunity arises, you arrange an advantageous marriage to escape us!”

“Commander—” Josephine said, only to have him interrupt her, too.

He was inching closer and closer to Belle’s face. “You would rather marry some Orlesian noble prat than stay here, you deceitful woman?! Go then! Sell your quim for a good deal!”

Belle’s entire body trembled with hurt and fury. So, this was what Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition really thought of her. That she would just sell herself off to the highest bidder. Just when she was starting to like him.

She didn’t want him to see the tears rising up in her eyes. She didn’t want him to hear her scream out her anger. She wanted to be rid of him.

Her fist clenched and unclenched at her side as her vision blurred. Cullen’s face was becoming no more than a peach-colored amalgam before her eyes. She resolved to do the only thing she could do. She opened her shaky hand wide, her fingers quivering with her righteous indignation. And her indignation was righteous.

She felt the sting on her palm radiate through her fingertips the instant she slapped him.

*****

[bearfootketo-blog]

How I Started

Before I begin telling you my story, I wanted to share a little history about myself.  I have always struggled with my weight.  By the time I started high school, I had already exceeded 300 lbs.  Weight was always a touchy subject for me because for the longest time, I simply did not want to address it.  I always found other things “more pressing” that I wanted to focus on.  It wasn’t until 2014 before I started to think a little more about my overall health and well being.  I had moved to Indiana to start my master’s program at IU.  I made my first attempt to try to lose some weight but was easily discouraged after not seeing the progress that I had hoped.  I tried on and off over the next couple of years to get back into working out and eating healthier but again found myself easily giving up. 

In January 2019, I had my first doctor’s appointment in years for a consultation to be put on PrEP.  I was first referred to Planned Parenthood and as usual for every medical visit, it all starts with taking vitals.  I will never forget that I had to step on one of the non-digital scales with the sliding bars and came to find out that my weight had exceeded what the scale could measure.  To make matters worse, when they took my vitals my blood pressure had skyrocketed to a frightening 153/100.  Despite my weight, I never really had an issue with blood pressure.  Normally when I’m sick it would be slightly elevated but never to this extent.  I was immediately turned away from the consultation because the doctor was not comfortable prescribing me the medication until my bp had return to the normal range.  Something seemed off to me and I felt that I should seek a second opinion.

On January 21, 2019, I had my second consultation with a different medical provider.  My vitals were completely normal and come to find out the doctor had figured out that the geniuses at Planned Parenthood had actually used the incorrect size cuff for my readings which can actually lead to a false high reading.  I remember stepping on the scale at this facility which was digital and there it was on that 3x5 display - 362 lbs.  Seeing that number on the huge display just shattered me and turned my world upside down.  I finally came to terms with the reality of things and decided that there’s no better time for action than now.  I decided to start with what I know and that was to be more conscious of what I eat.  I also started finding little ways during the day to be more active whether or not it was getting up from my desk at work every hour to stretch my legs or go for a short walk.

A couple of weeks later, I was in a meeting with my boss and she had mentioned something about the keto diet and how she had been on it for years with her family.  She gave me a little crash course on what it is and encouraged me to go do some independent research.  I did a lot of online researching and even consulted several of my friends.  Keto looked very enticing but I was extremely skeptical.  My boss encouraged me to at least give it a try and suggested that I ease myself into it.  My understanding of the keto diet is that it is a low-carb, high-protein/fat diet that forces your body into a state of ketosis.  Ketosis is a natural process the body undergoes when the body starts burning fat for energy rather than breaking down carbohydrates that are consumed.  Yes, there are a few more intricacies than that but for the purpose of this introduction, it’s easier to keep the explanation broad and encourage those interested to do their own independent research.

Before I even started, I really wanted to know how many carbs per day I was consuming so I started a food diary.  After one week, I had determined that I was averaging at least over 200 grams of carbs ingested per day!  Once I had assessed what my body was used to, I started strategically planning on cutting back gradually until I was averaging less than 30 grams per day.  When I first started and I won’t lie - it sucked.  My body was going through withdrawals from everything and I felt sluggish for the longest time.  It wasn’t until about a week and a half in until I started noticing some positive changes: more energy throughout the day and improved sleep quality.  Then the best thing started happening - the weight started dropping and dropping and dropping.

If you made it this far - thank you!  Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to read about my story.  Let’s go on a journey together and with that said, welcome to my blog.

[kidneyadvocate]

Chronic Pain Sufferers Should Win Emmys

Warning, there will be times this is too much information for some.  

I could never wish pain and suffering on another person, but there are days where I wish people that don’t understand chronic pain could feel what I go though in a day, what my husband goes through, what all people with chronic pain and/or chronic illness go through.  For those that understand, thank you.  For those that understand without having to have experienced something similar, double thank you; you probably helped a loved one through chronic pain, or work in health care. Kudos.

Well to do, healthy people, make comments that to the ears of someone in pain almost every day, or every step of every day, sound absolutely asinine. One of the worst is, “But you look great, why are you complaining?” 

Why thank you, yes we do look great!  Because we feel obligated to put on a show to protect the feelings of everyone not suffering from our pain. We put on a show to get through work everyday.  We put on a show for our friends, even our families.  We may be a little more relaxed to those closest to us, and sometimes the kids or our parents can see how very real it is.  But we will do our best to comfort them too.

Behind my husband’s smile, that I find quite attractive, is chronic kidney disease and dialysis on top of other aches and pains associated with being a steel worker and putting in extensive hours.  

Some of the first signs of kidney failure don’t cause pain, and can be hardly noticeable.  Ammonia breath, mild low back pain, foamy bubbles in the toilet after you pee.  You can get as low as 19 percent total kidney function before you have a single symptom.  As that function gets lower the pain starts, the back pain increases, the restless legs start, and then the leg cramps start waking you out of your sleep multiple times a night.  Cramps that have you walking and stretching sometimes for hours, and sometimes to no relief.  Oh, and the headaches.  Sometimes high blood pressure causes kidneys to fail, and sometimes kidney failure causes high blood pressure.  It kind of goes hand in hand.  With the high blood pressure comes the headaches that can make migraine pain seem week.  But no one can see a leg cramp, no one can see a headache.  It doesn’t require a cast and leaves no scars.  Later stages of chronic kidney failure, also called end stage renal disease, can be as terminal as cancer yet it doesn’t have near the awareness.  

“But you can go on dialysis, right?”  Yes, you can.  I will save most of why my eyes roll at that statement for another day’s rant.  I will just talk about the pain associated with it.  Dialysis tries to do what healthy kidneys do in a fraction of the time.  My husband is on in facility hemo dialysis, so that will be my example (there are 3 options, all with different reasons to be unfavorable).  A body with healthy kidneys has 168 hours of cleaning in a week, kidneys never sleep.  A hemo dialysis patient’s body has to go through the same amount of cleaning in an average of 12 hours.  But hemo only cleans the blood, not the organs.  So they still do not come out in the same shape as the healthy person standing next to them, and feel as though they just ran the Boston Marathon, but are often expected to perform as that healthy person does.  The pain this creates knocks the previous 10 out of the park, on the scale of 1 to 10 (10 being worst).  It gives a whole new meaning to the concept of leg cramps.  Have you ever had a charlie horse?  Okay, now have one in every single toe, then your calf, and how about your right thumb.  No, you can’t stand up and walk it off, because you are cabled/tubed to a machine and you might pass out if you try, because of how fast all of your blood is being taken from and put back in you.  So that’s over, it’s a new day, your off day (from dialysis), this should be a good night.  Not so much.  Yesterday while on dialysis your phosphorus was low (because for the safety of your other organs this is one of the nutrients necessary to be low).  Since your phosphorus wasn’t within a normal range, the dialysis also caused your calcium to be sucked out of your bones.  Poof, have some joint pain in your hips and knees... But no, you don’t need prescription pain meds for this because you are young and no one wants you to be addicted. Now, smile for the rest of the world and keep up with the healthy person telling you that you look great.  

Oh, and there are over 100,000 people in America on dialysis desperately hoping to receive a kidney transplant, so the smile no longer has to be an act for them too.  Not to mention those on dialysis that don’t qualify for a transplant.  Yeah, that is a thing.

So that was how my husband’s days go...  I have stopped replying, “Okay,” to the questions from concerned people as to how he is.  I am slightly more truthful.  I have started using phrases like, “The same,” and “Hanging in there.”  Followed by, “Until we get a kidney he will stay the same, or get worse, there is no getting better from here without one.  Thank you for your concern.”  What I often don’t say is were it not for dialysis I would be a widow within two weeks.  But we will still smile for everyone else’s comfort... Now lets move on to my pain.

I am diabetic, have irritable bowel syndrome, and have chronic cluster migraines.  The diabetes and the irritable bowel syndrome aggravate each other regularly.  Because things with carbs are what helps the IBS, and what makes the diabetes worse.  So I have to choose between having stomach cramps, or potentially destroying my pancreas and kidneys amongst other/worse unfavorable consequences...  The diabetes generally doesn’t hurt (me), I don’t have neuropathy yet and am use to the needles.  

So lets talk about the stomach cramps.  I have to know where a toilet is at all times, because sometimes I have about two minutes to get to one.  I usually have warning on days that will be like that, so I know when not to travel.  Yes this could be a last minute decision that I feel horrible about cancelling on you for.  Sorry.  Warning is a weird rumbly sick feeling for a few hours prior.  So the two minute notice arrives, and I am not within two minutes of relief.  So I have to hold it.  Holding it results in horrid pain.  I will have cramps, followed by contractions that start in the back.  But these contractions don’t come with a beautiful reward like birth does.  Yes, they are as painful, and I do qualify to speak for the good kind.  So I make it to the bathroom, but now I have to wait for the contractions to stop to be able to ‘go.’  But the anxiety is in full swing, so the contractions keep coming.  If I find something to read I can calm myself some, it helps this process...  Now I will bounce between relief and contractions for a while.  Then it will be safe for roughly 20 minutes until the next bout.  This will go on for anywhere between one hour to four, occasionally a day.  Then I can function a little better.  

But that’s not all, there are days/weeks/months where it is the opposite.  And not just your normal constipation.  Look up fecal impaction if you like, I will spare you most of the details.  Will just leave it at: it requires gloves, and mine has never gone past my rectum.  

Which by the way, I am sooooo very sorry that my discomfort and pain taking too long in the bathroom is a problem for YOU, thanks for being concerned. Ha. 

So yes, I know counting carbs and watching the diabetes is more important, but it is the least painful currently.  It is very difficult to balance these, especially if you ask me to join you for dinner at Old Chicago for calzones. I have gotten better at having my boring tea and a salad while you have red wine, an appetizer, and a calzone.  But there are absolutely times I reach a point that I just don’t care about counting anything.  

Most people are aware what migraines are, the pain that makes you vomit, the loss of vision, the nausea, dizziness, auras, sensitivity to sound/light/scent, etc. So we will brush past that, though they are truly horrible and crippling; yet not visible.  Mine are a result of a head trauma at age 12, leaving me deaf in one ear and with no vestibular activity in the same ear.  Make your kids wear bike helmets.

But all of this is noting at all compared to my spine and joints.  In which my current non-diagnosis is a toss between, “You are just unlucky,” “It could be because your father was exposed to agent orange in Vietnam,” “It is probably an immune disease, you have lots of symptoms of many things, but not all the symptoms of anything, so we just have to wait and see what happens,” and my favorite, “You need to loose weight.”  Because I have been loosing weight and all that has done is make the diabetes worse, cause me to need a cardiologist (oh yeah, I forgot to mention the essential tachycardia for no reason), leave me hungry all the damn time, continue degenerative issues, and increase the daily pain because it means increasing my activity.  FYI, I am far from lazy; hospital/clinical phlebotomist full time, have two entrepreneurships (balloon art/children's entertainer and yarn craft/traveling vendor), volunteer day camp director, kidney advocate, on top of wife and mom to active school age children.  And news flash, I am not the only fat person on the planet.  Find a new excuse.

All of these non-diagnosing statements follow after viewing my MRI’s and saying, “Well this is normal wear and tear for someone twice your age that played hard their whole life.”  I am 38 on the outside...  The translation of twice your age is:  bulging/herniated disks (one of which is in my neck and pushing against my spinal cord, and has caused the protective membrane to become very thin and has increased the migraines), torn discs, degenerated disks, spondylolisthesis (no disc left so the bones are grinding), advanced osteoarthritis, bursitis, something about sacroiliac joint arthritis and facet arthritis but I haven’t understood why it is different than all the other arthritis, and for a bonus Forestier's disease (another fancy arthritis that causes spurs on your vertebra that in turn cause calcification of your ligaments). Eventually it will most likely lead to stenosis of the main spinal cord, I already have this in other areas. None of these arthritis issues are the kind you can slow down with the help of medications by the way.  Oh, and I have a congenital defect at C4/C5 where a disk just never showed up for the job because of premature birth; and my right leg is longer than the left causing my tail bone to twist around and knock my pelvis out of place, creating more bursitis.  There is like a one in eight chance you have the leg thing too, you should check and get corrective shoe inserts/lifts before it hurts, if needed, please.  

All this degenerative crap effects my joints too, but they just grind, pop, and occasionally give out.  Knees have had ligaments replaced and repaired in the past, but that’s not a huge deal yet. 

What all that means is that my muscles work twice as hard as a healthy persons just to keep me upright.  So I get exhausted from the muscle fatigue and pain much faster than you, and still have the same work day. Because I am certain if I went on disability I would rot and die before my 45th birthday.  I have to have a reason to get up everyday.  Yes I have my spouse and our children, but they are mostly grown.  I need to have a purpose to get up, and a place that relies on me to help serve others.  Because despite my pain, I feel we are all given gifts/talents that are meant to be used in service to each other. So I get up, take my first daily handful of meds, and go about my day.  I will probably be slower than you at some point in the day, probably hobble some, and am definitely in pain you can’t see on the outside every single step of every day. 

My next treatment step is a series of three spinal epidurals to inject steroids into my spinal cord.  Doesn't that sound fun? Then when that stops working, surgeries.

But, I look great, right?  Suppose I am glad the pain isn’t more visible.  I don’t want pity.  I want fixed.  I want understood in the mean time.

Remember what you just read is about two people.  There are far too many people with these kind of stories, and so very many more ailments causing them.  They look great too.  

If you want another thing to research, look up Chiari Malformation. It is the awareness month for Chiari. I care greatly for a friend’s two amazing and normal looking teenagers that suffer this.  Most likely because of their grandfather's forced exposure to agent orange... I read that stuff can have congenital defects for 5 generations, but no one will study past the first born of the first generation of offspring. What I suffer is just a portion of what persons fighting Chiari face.

Mike and I do have good days though.  Some that just aren’t as bad as others, where the pain meds are actually enough.  We don’t have days without pain meds, period.  We will take advantage of these days to make truly good memories with our loved ones.  We will also suffer even more the day after because we did.   We will also smile and do our best to act as normal/healthy as possible to try and blend in, and avoid conversations that make others uncomfortable.  We will push forward, and always fight, because we have to.  This is the story for most people with chronic pain and chronic illness as well.  

Hollywood, you are missing out on some wonderful talent.  But that’s okay, I prefer working behind the scenes in health care anyways. 

If you made it all the way through reading this, you deserve some ice cream.

[cattbunny]

nexplanon experience (TMI and long)

In about 3-4months, that little 3-year long matchstick in my arm will finally be removed, and all I can say is “Thank. God.”.

When people told me to stay away from nexplanon, I didn’t listen. When I had it in for my first 1.5-2 years?

- I’ve always had irregular periods, so the first year I wasn’t as annoyed, but I was CONSTANTLY bleeding randomly. If I wasn’t on my period, I was spotting brownish. Most of my periods were also brownish instead of red, but I assumed since I’d get cramping only a week before starting, that maybe the whole “oh yeah this shit thickens your mucus so nut juice doesn’t crawl into your womanhood” (that was one of the things it did, right?) made it so my blood would take awhile to actually, er, come out?

- I had cravings BAD. I’ve had normal period cravings, but I mean these were so bad. If I wasn’t eating SPECIFICALLY what I wanted, the smell of food would make me sick. Of course this resulted in me pigging out a lot, but luckily I didn’t gain any weight (if noticeable anyways)

- Sex was painful. I took this thing FOR sex, and now I can’t enjoy sex? And I mean, I’d try everything from tylenol (can’t take ibuprofen) to lube to having incredibly long foreplay and nothing would help the pain, no matter how aroused (physically and/or mentally) i was.

- Not very common, but occassionally I would (and sometimes still do) get really really weird vivid dreams. I find it more funny and entertaining than anything, and people love my stories? But still a side effect none the less.

The side effects sucked, but they weren’t enough to make me completely miserable. If anything, I loved nexplanon, even if any sort of pressure on the site, no matter how small, made my whole arm hurt.

And then... The 2 year mark came. And any side effects I either didn’t have or didn’t notice suddenly decided to show up and pretty much slap me in the face constantly.

- It has been suggested a lot of my mental issues could be linked to Nexplanon. This thing seriously has my mood shifts fucked up. Now, I already am a pretty emotional person, but I mean, my boyfriend could hangout with his friends for the night. I could be at home relaxing, playing video games and feeling great, and then all of a sudden I’d be sobbing uncontrollably (like seriously hiccuping and basically gasping for air) about how suicidal I am and how much everyone hates me. Not to mention my overall happiness declined. Some days I want to just lay in bed and never get up. When I am up, I have so many panic attacks and anxiety (which I wound up begging for meds for), doing simple tasks like driving or saying goodbye to people or being on my own scares me. Before my meds I would have panic attacks EVERY single day. I admit I’m pretty sure I had a little bit of anxiety before being on this thing but I KNOW my first panic attack started after this thing was put in me.

- Low sex drive. And lately it’s been SO bad. Like, I love my boyfriend and I enjoy sex genuinely, I used to look forward to it and had a high sex drive. But lately I have to force myself to have sex. Like, it is SERIOUSLY low.

- Nausea/Heartburn. This is the one that takes the cake. The biggest, most uncomfortable one for me. Throughout the months I’ve had little, SMALL bouts of nausea. In fact, I’m sure throughout the whole time I’ve been on nexplanon I’ve had it. But they were small, nothing for me to complain about really. But the past almost-two months, I’ve had nausea that just gets worse and worse. And lately, that’s been accompanied by heartburn. My doc wrote it as “acid reflux or GERD” and gave me meds but I’m starting to wonder if nexplanon is causing this heartburn/nausea (it’s awful. i mean, at one point i could barely keep down water, and eating ANYTHING requires a TUMS immediately after). I’ve never heard of anyone specifically having heartburn, but I have heard of lots of people with nausea on nexplanon. I thought maybe my braces were affecting it, but looking back, I’ve had nausea before I even got braces.

- Now, I talked about having spotting/period issues before. Which is true. The spotting went away however and my periods up until a few months ago had started to regulate. But now, oh my god. I’ll be lucky to have 2 weeks between my periods, and for the first time I’ve had a period last longer than a week and still be steady.

I want to say I love nexplanon but if it’s the reason causing this God awful heartburn/nausea, I’d get it removed in a heartbeat before my time is up. I’m not sure why symptoms got so awful after the 2 year period, but someone recommended it could be all the hormones or whatever in my body, considering throughout your implant cycle, the amount of shit being released in your body increases. If so, it would be nice to just have a 2-year implant cycle, but whatever, considering I loved thing thing for the first 2 years.

The worse is I’m not sure what other BC options I’ll wanna use after this is all done. I have seriously never taken a pill in my life and get anxiety just THINKING about it, but a close friend of mine had a very VERY nasty IUD experience, and other friends have told me to stay away from that too.

[salisbury1980]

THE MISADVENTURES OF JAN AND TRAVIS

INTRO: I transcribed this old journal from when Mother Janet went into the hospital with her terminal cancer back in September 2014, having started it as a letter back to my Eugene family to let them know what was going on with Mother Janet, but when it became clear how far the Cancer had spread, and how low (and ultimately zero) her chances of a successful treatment were, I had to override my default “Grandpa Slowpoke” mode of doing things, and get to the point in a fifty cent postcard and a one page letter, as opposed to a fifty some odd page journal, because as it turned out, Mother Janet didn't have that kind of time left, passing just 10 short weeks after her Stage IV diagnosis, on December 03, 2014. My family thanks me for that postcard.

THE MISADVENTURES OF JAN AND TRAVIS

Dear Uncle, Grandmother, And Eugene Family 09-18-14

I am sorry, I am slow in writing this letter. We had a hard time finding a place and getting settled, it took us 10 days to close escrow on the house, so we didn't get moved in until August 22.

Then, Mom set up the back porch/laundry room area so we could bring home Lynx and Bodie, our two tomcats we took in four years ago, and last year, respectively. However, in the process of spending two to three days sanding and painting in the laundry room, she wore herself out a good spell and has not been the same ever since (weak, tired, in pain).

I would have helped her out with that project, but we'd had a horrible fight the day before (over my mentally shutting down and being non-communicative, a problem I'm sure Grandmother is familiar with), and therefore didn't want my help with that project and wore herself out. I guess I wouldn't have been much help anyway, because after that fight, I spent a day and a half bedridden with a horrible depression, unlike any I'd seen since four years ago, when we became homeless, or twelve years ago, when my best friend, Bruce Dean committed suicide. This most recent episode almost had me considering it myself, a place I haven't been in fourteen years, I even considered checking myself into the psych ward at South Lyon Medical Center here in Yerington, but thought better of it as I got better. I've since upped my dosage of St. Jahn's Wort from two 150 mg pills a day to three, and am doing better again. Mom started me on it last December, but more on that later.

Which brings us to our current problem. Last October, in 2013, Mom and I first got the papers from Stebbins & Coffey informing us that Grandpa Norm's California property had been sold, but as you probably already know, we didn't receive that money until this July 11, apart from the $20,000 that was fronted to us in April. More on that later. Back up a bit. In August of 2013, while still enrolled in my Oregon Health Plan and Food Stamps, I saw my inept doctor, Dr. Basil Pittenger at North Bend Medical Center (In Coos Bay) for the last time. Back in May of 2013, worried about my weight, 312 pounds and high blood pressure, my inept doctor switched me from Celexa, which was pretty effective at controlling my depression, albeit with gross side effects, to Efexor, which not only didn't help me lose weight, but my depression, mood swings, temper tantrums, all that got worse, so I lovingly dubbed it “Inefexor”, since the junk didn't work. During that time, Dr. Pittenger had me seeing an in-house therapist, and we clicked and made good progress, but unfortunately she became ill and I couldn't see her anymore, I'll always be grateful to her.

Okay, fast forward to November of 2013, the starter on grandpa's old minivan went out, leaving us stranded in Charleston, which is 10 miles from downtown Coos Bay and 5 miles from Empire, where the nearest grocery store was. This forced us to use the CCAT/Loop Bus to get around. We existed that way until April of this year, 2014, in December, my prescription for “Inefexor” expired and Mom had me go cold turkey (no meds) for two weeks, and big surprise, I felt better with nothing at all, than the “Inefexor”, although it's still better with the St. Jahn's, which is herbal, not synthetic, with little to no side effects. The only drawback is, it takes time to work, so I didn't get fully stabilized until February of 2014. It's not the “quick fix” that so many synthetic meds promise, but the wait is worth it. Anyway, about the bus rides, the nearest stop to our trailer in Barview was a half mile, and the one nearest to the grocery store was also half a mile, so we had to pack 40-50 pounds of groceries in each direction, wrecking both of Mom's shoulders, marking the beginning of her pain.

Okay, so we're up to April of 2014 now. Within a week of getting the front money, we get a notice from EL Edwards, our landlord (they suck) reminding us our lease was up for renewal in June and we would be inspected within a couple weeks. Since we knew we would flunk it (dead vehicle in driveway, two cats we weren't supposed to have, boxes upon boxes packed for storage, which we'd started back in October of 2013, we declined the inspection, which automatically voids your lease when you're on Section 8 housing.

So this leaves us with two months to get ourselves, the dead vehicle, two cats, and what would turn out to be two 10x13 storage units worth of stuff out of there. Mom figured it would take too long to get the van fixed for us to get “out” in time, so she bought two $2,500 vehicles, a 93' Ford F-250 pickup, and a 94' Geo Metro. Okay, at the same time, we were each getting about $2,000 of long overdue dental work done, since Oregon Health Plan does not cover dental stuff, at least the basic plan doesn't. And we were also trying to arrange vaccination and boarding for two cats (I'm sure you remember the irate phone call from Howliday Inn in Winchester Bay).

So toward the end of May 2014, we had the trailer about 80% empty, but we now had three dead vehicles in the driveway, the nice Geo needing about as much repair as it had cost to buy. Big problem, huh? Well, through divine intervention we were saved. Mom was somehow able to charge the battery on the Ford ( a diesel by the way) and we got the rest of the stuff out. However, we still had the van problem. Luckily, God willing, through our nearby neighbors, we were introduced to Ian, a mechanic-for-hire that lived in the neighborhood, who for, $100 for the starter and $100 for the labor, gladly got it rolling again so it could go in the shop (the Geo was already in the shop at this point).

However, there was still another problem. Because we didn't get Lynx in to get vaccinated in time, the boarding house wouldn't take him until June 10, even though we had to be out of the trailer on  the 1st. So we checked into Captain John's Motel in Charleston for 10 days, which was one of only two pet friendly motels in town. Bodie was already boarded at Riverview Kennel in Bandon at this point. Our Innkeeper was what Mom called an “Asian Dragon Lady”, but she was agreeable enough to check us in with Lynx, even though she preferred dogs, since we promised (and mostly kept to) keep him in the bathroom, so he wouldn't mess up the curtains or the bedding, and only let him out briefly, under close watch.

Our other guests were mostly quiet and respectful, but during most of what turned out to be 12 days, right next to us, we had this dysfunctional drunk, stoned couple who screamed, fought like cats and dogs, and thumped the walls (which I used to do during my temper outbursts before I got medicated, but for the grace of God, there go I). In spite of all that blatant racket, we had no hard proof that any actual domestic violence was going on, so we declined to call the police, or involve the motel lady, since we were grateful she let us keep the cat. Eventually, they checked out the day before we left, thank God. On a separate note, my dead friend Bruce's Mom, Vicki had worked at that motel when we were kids (mid 90's), so she probably saw her share of that garbage too.

During our stay at Captain John's, Mom took the Geo to her friend Kara Brown's place in Oakland, OR (about 13 miles north of Roseburg) and dropped off the plants she'd ordered, and came up to see you guys about cat cages. We then checked into the City Center Motel in North Bend for about three days.

The day before we checked in at City Center, Mom got violently ill (bad diarrhea), and the day after, I got violently ill (“rapid-fire” constipation). At the time, I thought nothing of it, since Mom had put us on the gluten-free diet, and had explained that we “might be sick for a bit” while we were “detoxing” from gluten. By the way, I know beyond a doubt that I am most likely gluten sensitive, because during the previous two weeks, my arms, legs, and neck were covered in hives. I looked like a junkie with track marks, even though I had not touched a drug in many years (never liked needles anyway). That was pretty solid proof that me and gluten were a bad fit. I think it was probably that way for Mom too, who said she felt a “lump” in her gut after eating a cookie.

How Mother convinced me to give up gluten was by reading me several expose books about how the food industry pushes processed foods that are chock full of genetically altered, gluten stuffed wheat. I learned that gluten sensitivity, which may affect up to 40% (and growing) of the American Population, contributes to obesity, arthritis, heart disease, diabetes, (I think I was heading in that direction, I noticed about 12 years earlier, when I began having weight issues, I had a tendency to quickly crash to low blood sugar, when not eating consistently every four hours, also known as hypoglycemia, or pre-diabetes), autism (I think as an Asperger's Person, I may well have that in some form or another, Asperger's, ADHD, High Functioning Autism, Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, that is “Not Getting It” Socially, Basic Autism and Schizophrenia, all seem to be inter-related from the intel I've been able to gather, but please don't just take my word for it, consult with professional sources), and certain cancers. The real clincher for me was the remote, but not non-existent possibility that prolonged excess gluten exposure can lead to breast enlargement in males, OUCH!

During our brief stop at City Center, we said our goodbyes to our AA friends at the nearby Alano Club, and Mom got the minivan out of the shop and put the Geo into vehicle storage along with the Ford. We then checked out of what would be our last motel for a month. Of the $20,000 we'd had in April of 2014, we now only had about $800 left by July 13, 2014. Between one “necessary” expense and another, and trying to “go it alone” with “no help, none whatsoever”. Just “No.” You Just Don't Do That, Yet Somehow, We Did Anyway. We had nowhere else left to go at this point, since about $500 of that was earmarked to board the cats at Lone Pine Pet Resort in Roseburg, since nobody in the Coos County area was willing to board them for more than a week at a time, sad but true. Divine Intervention, again.

Mom and I had a few interesting adventures on our way Southeastward to Nevada (Where I must go at once to take care of Mother's Property). At Nesika County Park, I got accused of murdering a girl that wasn't even dead. I later met my “supposed victim”, who had been separated from her dog on the trail and gotten lost. The funny thing is, my “accuser” was a paroled sex offender who was having possessiveness issues with his favorite bartendress at Coach House. He would later be turned in for alcohol, of all things, by his child neglecting white trash buddies from Georgia, just to get the heat off of their backs. Drinking while on parole/probation is a great big “no-no” by the way. So much for loyalty between criminals, huh?

The friendly neighborhood mechanic Ian, had told us he had been a park host at Nesika County Park on the East Millicoma River, when we told him the fact that we would soon run out of money. He referred us to his friend Steven, who was the new park host, and told us to say “Ian sent us”, and Steven would let us stay for free if we ran out of money. Thankfully it never came to that, but we did pay late a couple of times, it came out to $300 for 30 days, at $10 a day. We also still had our food stamps, which would expire next month (No point in renewing if you're moving out of state, right?) We used those to buy simple, not much cooking necessary, gluten-free foods, in town once a week, while topping off the gas tank, getting flashlight batteries, and catching an AA meeting. We had a lot of rice cakes, corn chips, granola bars, and various fruits and veggies, with the occasional bit of meat. I know it sounds really boring, but it actually wasn't all that bad.

Anyway, Nesika County Park turned out to be a colorful hangout of hippies, rednecks, mud truckers, outdoor enthusiasts, and the occasional tweakers (methamphetamine users, “It's Not The Drugs”, as Uncle would say). 27 year old “chubby” Steven and his smallish 52 year old girlfriend Connie, were themselves pot users, him recreational, her medicinal, but they understood our own sobriety walk in AA, having had met a few members in their travels, and therefore, made an effort to keep some of the rowdier campers from trying to push their stuff on us.

Me and Mom ended up sort of playing “relationship counselor” (also known as Dr Phil) to Connie, since their rather unusual, but still friendly relationship was starting to show cracks. Steven had undiagnosed mental health issues (sound familiar?), probably bipolar, and Connie had some guilt and abandonment issues (sound familiar?), since her husband of nearly 30 years had left her for another man, and her other male friend (platonic, we thought) died of alcoholism, and she wasn't able to be physically present for him. We advised that Steven get help for his mental problem (something I cannot do for myself very well) and take care of his ear infection (mold, lots of mold in that campground), and that Connie forgive herself for not “saving” her friend (I cannot forgive myself for “allowing” Mother to silently die from cancer right next to me, as we slept), and to stop blaming herself for being deceived about her husband's homosexuality. Connie thanked us blissfully for being patient enough to listen and talk with her.

During our month long stay at Nesika, we had a couple more misadventures. During the first week, a shaven headed tattooed camper named Elmer came to stay. Well, not but two days later, Elmer was chatting with this gal Mariah (who was married to someone else, thankfully not present at the campground at the time, or things would have been much, much uglier). Well, a couple hours later, Mariah loaned Elmer her book, and hiked a ways upriver. Well, two more hours went by, and Mariah didn't turn up, but her little terrier dog did. Elmer being paranoid and temperamental, of course, assumed the worst, glanced ragefully in my direction, and barked “You know something you autistic freak! I swear, if you did anything to her, I'll rip you a new one!!!” At this point, Steven the park host intervened, and said “Chill dude, or leave the park!” Steven grew up in tha' hoods of St Louis, MO and knew how to lay down the law when need be. Angels in disguise.

Soon, this “woman that I'd done something to” appeared on the scene, and profusely apologized for “causing such a stir”. It turned out that her dog came back to the campground, while she had been looking for the dog in the opposite direction on the river trail. Long story shorter, it turned out that Mariah had been Elmer's bartender at the Coach House in Eastside, and that somehow “made her his”, in spite of her being married. Anyway, Elmer then apologized for blowing his top, which I gracefully accepted, however, I couldn't quite bring myself to fully trust him (or his even rougher associates) after that particular debacle, and it turned out I had good reason not to. Elmer was a convicted sex offender out on parole. He was staying at the park so he could drink and smoke pot (both big “no-no's” for parolees), since he knew that his goose would be instantly cooked if he did that stuff in town.

Over the next three weeks, he had this pattern of “displaying” himself (his swim trunks stayed on, but he always acted as if they could “just suddenly slip off at anytime, without warning”) to the teenage girls in bikinis, while casually following the 40-60 Something MILF's around and pestering them. It ended when Elmer's white trash buddies who'd arrived from Georgia (Flying a Rebel Confederate Flag and always telling the kids to “Lock and Load”, Triple K Ranch, Anyone?) a week into our stay, and got in trouble with Social Services for reckless child endangerment and/or abandonment (The kids' mother had abandoned them at the campground, while the schnockered stepdad allowed them to horseplay on the back of their pickup truck, which was dangerously stacked up about 10 feet high with loosely tied cargo) had decided to turn him in to save their own hides (no honor among thieves or white trash). This was maybe about a week or so before we left the campground, so we had to endure about roughly three and a half weeks total of his crazy antics.

The other misadventure was also about a week or so before we left the campground. We had decided to hike the trail at Golden and Silver Falls State Park. However, the road to the park was closed about three miles out, so we then ended up hiking about three miles in both directions, going to and coming from our minivan where we had parked it, in addition to the roughly one mile long main falls trail, for a grand total of eight miles walked on that muggy summer day up Glenn Creek. Whew, we were beat, Mother maybe more so than expected. This had worn Mother out quite a good spell, and thus she had developed a UTI (Urinary Tract Infection). Connie, the other park host, had been an airline stewardess and a registered nurse in a previous life, and recommended this stuff called Cystex, which was supposed to kill the UTI, while turning the pee orange. Well, it worked for awhile anyway.

On the day before we left the campground, after we had received the estate money a couple days before, we had decided to do a “farewell tour” of Coos Bay by first driving 10 miles up the West Fork of the Millicoma River that morning, hiked about three miles total around the Empire Lakes at John Topits Park in Coos Bay, then spent the rest of the day hiking about five miles total of the complex trail network at the South Slough National Marine Estuary near Charleston, then closed out the evening, before returning to our camp up the Millicoma by visiting a couple of obscure roads in the Barview-Charleston area that we had never really visited before. Needless to say, this action packed busy day, had also sucked the life out of Mother (literally), and our journey had only just begun.

Our next big adventure was in Roseburg, OR, Mother Janet's Hometown. We had went there to seek mechanical assistance in fixing the soon-to-fail water pump on our minivan. Sadly, after a couple days of desperately searching around the Greater Roseburg Area, the thing loudly went “POP!” on a blazing hot 103 or 104 degree day in Central Douglas County, with thick wall-to-wall traffic there on Garden Valley Boulevard. I was strongly expecting to buy it then and there, but The Lord still had other plans for us, at least for that particular day. So we got stranded for a week, specifically eight days, the first two in Sutherlin, OR up to the north a bit, and the other six in the heart of Downtown Roseburg, and had ourselves a couple more wild and crazy adventures while waiting upon Mr “Crazy Fixer-Upper” Dan at The Mobile Tune to work his mechanical magic on our busted water pump.

“Crazy Fixer-Upper” Dan also left us with one everlasting eternal pearl of wisdom, which was, “In tha future, if yo'rs back is ever up ta tha wall, an ya tink ya might need halp with somethin', don't a bother askin' anyone, anyone at all, unless yo're at least nine-tay to nine-tay fiv parcent sures dat de're honest an are givin' ya tha straight stuff, otherwise, you's jes wastin' yo're time an settin' yo're salf up ta git screwed, good and proper like.” It was most definitely relieving to find an honest mechanic with all of those grease monkey bullshitzters out there with their hand in your pocket. In short, I think Crazy Dan was telling us, we can't trust no one but ourselves. Sage wisdom for all travelers.

On July 14, 2014 we departed for Roseburg, OR with three objectives: find a mechanic for our failing water pump, visit our cats at the boarding house, and visit Kara Brown. First, we needed a shower because we stank like roadkill death, because our only bathing option had been mucky river water in the East Fork Millicoma. First, we hit an AA meeting in Roseburg, still stinking like roadkill, half the people there also did because it was so flipping hot for Douglas County (100+ degrees). Then we went to the Roseburg Laundromat on West Harvard Avenue (one of three or four main streets in Roseburg, along with Northeast/Southeast Stephens, the Stewart Parkway, Garden Valley Boulevard, and the Diamond Lake Highway out east, also known as State Route 138) to do some washing of clothes.

There, while wearing my leather vest with no shirt under it, my long hair and beard, and two missing teeth, all that was missing was tattoos (which I now bear on my shoulders, in honor of Mother Janet and Clan Smyth), and a red hot blazing (you're going to educated progressive hell, boy) cigarette dangling from my mouth, basically resembling a rough biker dude, minus the Harley Fat Boy, I was approached by two very square looking Mormon Missionaries from 1957 who asked me if “I'd found Jesus yet?” I told them that I'd found him a long time ago, 24 years earlier, at age 10, and bid them farewell and good night. I was too polite to mention the fact that I had been able to find Him without the need of Bishops, Moroni, or that Special Underwear.

After we finished with our wash, we had looked high and low for a place to eat, but it was now 10 pm, meaning downtown Roseburg had pretty much shut down for the night, and most of the nearby eateries were now closed, so we tossed our laundry in the old Plymouth Minivan, and started cruising up NE Stephens (The old Hwy 99 that runs North-South through the middle of Roseburg), not finding much of anything. We then tried approaching the little town of Winchester, but the little Wilbur Road was closed off for construction, so we were forced into a Northwestward Detour over to Rogers Road, which we followed about 10 miles or so into Sutherlin.

We then drove all the way to the west end of Sutherlin over by the I-5 freeway and found The Apple Peddler, a quaint charming all-night diner. We both got Steak, Eggs, and Hashbrowns, skipping toast, since we were now officially on the gluten-free diet (which I need to get back to after being off of it for a year, it makes me feel more weak, sick, depressed, and less able) and followed up with a dessert of yummy caramel coated apple slices.

My Mom spent awhile chatting with the waitress Rosie, who happened to be about my Mom's age. Mom was telling her all about the rough trip we'd had so far, and she was telling us about how at her late age, she was still working, fighting for disability, and battling cancer all at once. We were like “Whoa!” (only not so much for me now) On that note, we were lucky to land the last room at the nearby Relax Inn, for only $45. It had turned out the Oregon Linemen's Convention (covers power, cable, and phone installers) had chosen those particular days and the particular small town of Sutherlin, OR, population about 7,100 at the time, to gather, and had booked up all the motel rooms.

So the next day, Mom took me to breakfast at the Del Rey Cafe down in Winchester, that we  had been forced to bypass the night before (She'd went there before about a month earlier when dropping off her plants at Kara Brown's place). We ordered Gluten-Free Pancakes, Eggs, Hashbrowns, and Gluten-Free Toast (Which Mom was largely unimpressed with, probably losing her sense of taste), made by a flamingly gay chef (Alton Brown Anyone?) who resembled the late Robin Williams (God rest his soul), who was grumbling about gluten this and gluten that, he was in a rather tight fit of pique that morning. Mom said the pancakes were pretty darn good, but the toast kind of lousy, and I sort of agreed.

Later that day, we went to Oakland to visit Jan's old high school friend, Kara Brown. Jan told her of “our great adventure” in “just trying to get out of Coos Bay”, including our month long camp out, necessitated by our lack of funds for motels. Kara, who had worked her family's farm until her late 20's, the late 1970's, when her father died, and her avaricious brother Kevin, used legal maneuvers to force her to sell and split the equity proceeds, said she hadn't been camping since then, which would be over 35 years, longer than I'd been alive at that point, and truthfully hadn't really missed it all that much.

Meanwhile, Charlie Brown (Yup, that's his name, just like the fabled Peanuts character, even has the smooth noggin head to go with it), was shamelessly soaking up his “personal” air conditioner while watching Bill O'Reilly on Fox News (Yes, now known as “not a very nice guy” anymore, but how are people who aren't on the Internet supposed to know these things?) I know my politics are a bit more conservative (at least then) but even I think he's a bit of an excessive blowhard, I liked Glenn Beck better myself. I also met their kids, Corrine (5 years younger than me, 29) and Clinton (8 years younger than me, 26 probably) for the first time, though Jan had shown me their “little kid” pictures back when I was a teenager in the late 1990's. Kara and Charlie didn't get together until she was about 35, thus the age gap between her kids, and me and Brother Connor.

Corrine, who is another autistic, but somewhere else on the spectrum (she is more of the mile-a- minute kind of talker, I am a bit more slow and ponderous, often to the quick irritation of impatient extroverts), was going on about the joys of juggling a part-time accounting job, along with her classes at Umpqua Community College, dealing with psychotic egotistical “Don't You Dare Contradict Me, Ever” professors (been there, done that), and dealing with the stigmatic label of being a disabled person. She, just like me, had previously applied for SSI, been denied, then had to get “special” people to pull “special” strings to help place her in her “special” job. Her little mile-a-minute spiel went on for a full two hours, of course. Of course, I'm writing a huge letter as usual.

Meanwhile, Clinton, who bears a rather strong likeness to dashing Italian-American indie film and TV veteran, Jeremy Sisto (has the curly brown hair and craggy features) disappeared into what had been his old room to play on his XBOX. I would have loved to have sat down and played with him, or at least watched, having been an old gamer myself (I spent much of my time with Mother playing games for her), but we had to get out to visit the Lone Pine Cat Shelter out on Rifle Range Road in Roseburg by 6 pm, when they closed up for the evening. It was at least a half hour drive from Oakland, and it was now 5:15 pm, so away with us.

On our way out of Kara Brown's Place, Mother Janet chewed me out for being a “self-aggrandizing phony”, for having told Kara that I was “concerned about Mother Janet's Health, and not to push herself too hard with our moving efforts”. I was simply paraphrasing the same words I had told to Mother Janet about a day or two earlier, before Kara was in the picture. However, the issue, Mother Janet asserted, was not the “truthfulness or veracity of my words”, but my “willingness to put my own actions and efforts behind them”. Meaning, Mother Janet still had many packed up years, if not decades of resentment against me for being utterly amoral and selfish, and piggybacking my personal upkeep and well being off of the “fruits of her labor”, and “taking her for granted”, and “not giving proper credit where it was due”. Long story short, if you are unwilling to work on yourself, then that is the textbook definition of classic laziness, and you are being a thief of the person's time who ends up doing your work for you. And someone always does, no exceptions.

We made it out to Lone Pine Pet Resort at about 5:45 pm. Their automatic gate opened, and we were greeted by a tall, slim, 20-something girl with a pleasant smile and reddish auburn hair. She then showed us to our two cats, Bodie and Lynx. Bodie, who was still a bit smallish when I had last seen him about six weeks earlier, had gone up from 10 to 12 pounds, had gained a distinctive “Mroaw!” to his Siamese-y voice, and was now crawling all over me, as he had done when he was a smaller kitten six months before. He had been the biggest of his litter of five, and the first to wean off of the milk we had fed them with the eye dropper, and onto the dry crunchy food. Lynx however, was being his usual aloof anti-social self, hunkering down like a big fat fluffy turtle in his box, although he did let you pet him.

With that errand taken care of, we returned to Relax Inn in Sutherlin for a second night, got a different room for $45, as the crowd from the Oregon Linemen's Convention had died down and shrunk to about half of what it had been the night before, so we had a much greater choice in rooms. We would have stayed in Oakland, but it is a little hamlet of a town of about 800 people, which is devoid of any motels or traveler's lodgings, although they do have their own mechanic (the important thing for such a little place). We then caught an AA Meeting at this beautiful little church at the west edge of Sutherlin, overlooking a sunset over the reddish clay hills that the Roseburg area is known for and some lightly saturated marshland.

After the meeting, I met this 40-something gal who seemed rather anxious and kind of down-and-out (I know the feeling). She said she had been meeting with rather steep difficulty in obtaining unemployment benefits after being forced to walk off her job when her employer had “cornered and attacked” her (code for sexual harassment?). I gave her a few bucks, knowing full and well they were going for a pack of smokes, our common non-inebriating, least immediately socially harmful vice, and wished her well, I do believe in charity after all. I am not one of these judgmental yuppie snobs that flat out refuse to help people in need because “they might go waste it on something stupid” or “enabling them”. You can only act when presented with an opportunity to give at a time when you are financially able, no strings attached, whatsoever. That is how giving ought to be done.

We then grabbed dinner at the nearby Sutherlin Taco Bell (what Uncle calls “Taco Hell”), taking care not to order items wrapped in flour tortillas (which comprise about 3/4 of their menu), which “Taco Hell” is notorious for. Thomas, a blondish 40-something 6'6'' 400 pound restaurant manager, was rather busy grabbing other things, right before our very eyes, mainly female customers and employees, without their permission, of course. He seemed way too “friendly” with Mom, in spite of their 20 year age gap, poured her coffee up close and personal like, and slid his flabby disgusting Play-Doh arm around her, right in front of me. I really strongly desired to pop the sick lard butt motherfucker (no pun intended) in his oily pustulent nose, in spite of our 4 inch and 150 pound gap in size, but I had to take a deep breath and normalize my skyrocket high blood pressure and elect not to send us both to jail, since we were in Roseburg for the purpose of getting our van fixed so we could move, and being incarcerated for assault alongside a bunch of tweakers, wife beaters (plenty to be found in Central Douglas County), and skinheads would not accomplish that objective.

All of this was going on while his lard butt Mom and Sister were blithely and sloppily eating away at their flour tortilla items, which easily amounted to over three times the amount of food that me and Mom got. Tells you something about the addictive properties of gluten, which Big Tobacco pales in comparison to. Their lard butts by the way, were so big that they had to completely suck in their guts in order to fit behind the table. That's quite a sacrifice for your addiction. Thomas did eventually take his arm off when Mom squirmed. We also witnessed an incident of him “caressing” yet another female employee behind the counter.

Then, as we were finishing our drinks, I witnessed a rowdy middle school aged boy, violently pounding upon his late grade school aged little sister, followed by his large, beefy, but not really fat, probably sophomore in high school aged brother, roughly intervening on the little sister's behalf and shoving him away, and them comforting the little sister and wiping her tears away. I then looked right over at Mom, and said, “That little turd.” Mom replied “Latchkey kids, their parents are probably most likely down at the tavern right now getting hammered, and they handed the kids a $20 bill and told them to buzz off and go play in the freeway.” With all of that sordid and tragic affair said and done, we gathered up the food wrappers and drink containers from our table, tossed them in the trash can and went on out the door. As we were piling into the minivan on our way back to the motel, I then asked Mom, “You don't suppose that Thomas fellow is the sexual harasser that we heard about earlier?” Mom said “Maybe.” We then returned to the “Relax Inn” for what would be our second, and by far most “relaxing” sleep we would have for at least the next week.

(Also noting it's not good for siblings or blood relatives to be fighting in the first place, but at least the older brother was ethical enough to intervene against the middle brother's bullying, rather than joining in on it, which people of more dubious morality, or less intelligent and sensitive, however you want to interpret that, like I was at that age, might have been tempted to do, in order to win “social points” with the bully, better to be on the “winning” side and all that rot, even if the “winning” side was morally dead wrong and just plain unethical to boot, what Brother Connor calls “StarScream Syndrome”, in reference to the old Hasler Made TransFormers Animated Series back from the 1980's, whereby “minor league” and mostly irrelevant bad guys, in a bad moment of moral weakness, feel tempted to throw in with the bullies and the “bad crowd” in order to better “fit in” and “be popular”, even though it is a very bad and evil sort of fitting in, with completely amoral and conscience devoid jerks that aren't really inclined to accept them in the first place, but being desperate for friends, and feeling the social pressure to fit in and be popular, even if only with “bad people”, they cave and fold like a cheap suit, part of the sinister social dynamic of teen bullying, which I never want to be any part of again, I am not the same young man as I was as an “ethically challenged” and morally ambiguous teenage troublemaker back in the early 1990's).

The next day, we set out on our original mission objective of locating a mechanic in the greater Roseburg area to get our poor beat up old minivan fixed up and in better condition for interstate travel, which is something that people who have enough disposable income to afford a newer vehicle never have to think of very much, their minds are usually more on budgeting for gas, food, and motel fare, but something that seldom ever gets talked about in middle class society is how difficult it is for people who are used to living poor (Me, with raised hand) to travel very far beyond wherever their hometown is, how we effectively came to be more or less stranded in Coos Bay, OR for the last four years since me and Mother Janet became homeless at the beginning of 2010. You just simply cannot afford to think about traveling or long trips out of town if you're desperately trying hard to stay in your place and not be evicted for lack of rent funds.

I say this extra little bit, not shame poor people for “making bad socially irresponsible choices”, but to better illustrate the fact that the few choices that people do have, are even more limited, this is something me and Father have gone around a bit, he says “Lots Of Choices”, I say “Not So Much”. You can be at a Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream Store, 31 Flavors And All, but at the end of the day, no matter which of the 31 you pick, the universal fact is that that you end up with either Ice Cream, Sherbert, or Frozen Yogurt. It's sort of like being forced to pick (mostly) among Democrats and Republicans on every election cycle. Neither “choice” is very good, and what few organized Third Parties there are always get drowned out by the Mainstream Media and the Partisan Noise Machine, so nobody who has it together enough to vote knows about them, and people just choose “Democrat” or “Republican” because that's what their parents before them, and their parents before them trained them to do, and they get stuck in a mental rut and nothing ever flipping changes. Okay, off the soapbox.

Back to mechanics. First, we tried Swarm's, in the little town of Green, population 7,500, slightly to the south of Roseburg on the old Highway 99, and to the east of the other nearby town of Winston, population 5,500 at the end of State Route 42 that goes to coastal town of Bandon in Coos County, a reputedly Christian owned and operated large scale mechanic's operation. We were really hoping for a 2 to 3 day fix at most, so as to avoid lingering in Central Douglas County any longer than we absolutely had to, so as not to waste our precious few dollars on extra motel fare. It was now around July 16, 2014 and the helpful person at Swarm's regretfully informed us that they had such a big backlog of mechanic jobs (a very common thing for Roseburg, I guess) that they wouldn't even be able to look at our van until July 29, which was about a week too long for us. We then said “Thanks, anyway” and left that place.

Next, we tried this nice looking nerdy mechanic dude over in Winston, on Highway 42, whose somewhat smaller, apparently solo one man operation was in a tiny shop that was across the street from a closed and shuttered Figaro's Pizza Store (I get it, Red State area, no economic growth or progress, everything shut down and falling into decay for lack of money to fix things and keep them open for business) that looked as though it had been shut down at least a year or more, due of course to the Bad National Economy that began with the Housing Bubble Burst in 2007 and the more destructive Stock Market Crash of 2008, which ruined the fortunes of many scores of families, including yours truly.

Since the employees of Figaro's Pizza were no longer around to cuss the guy out for it, he had his personal backlog of fixer-upper vehicles parked in their lot, about 10 or 12 of them, seeing as how no one else worth mentioning was making use of the lot, because his own small lot around his shop already had a personal backlog of about 6 or 8 fixer-upper vehicles. The guy took a long admiring look at Mother's Minivan, which had originally been Grandpa Norman's back in the late 1990's before Grandma Jean died from basically drinking herself to death (Cancer Involved Death) in 1999, at age 73, and had passed it onto Mother Janet, since he was now saddled with his own 99' Ford Ranger Pickup (a good truck if you like Fords), along with what had been Grandma Jean's early 90's models Cadillac and Buick, and his own weird little funky German made NSU Spyder Convertible, dating back to about the late 70's or early 80's, somewhere in that general time period. Grandpa Norman had foolishly splurged on that thing around the time Grandma Jean died, thinking he could quickly and easily bamboozle a “younger, hotter, more socially agreeable” replacement wife into marrying him at his late age of 76. Typical dirty old man thinking, but then again, after 50 years of being Grandma Jean's psychologically harried “Prisoner Of War”, who could blame him?

When the nerdy young fellow was done sizing up the minivan, he quizzed us on “just how many miles” the poor old nag had under her belt, and we said “about 160,000”, his jaw hitting the ground, and hot, steaming crap loading his pants *just kidding on the crap part* He then also asked about the grungy looking gray streaks on the sides of the van, and we confessed, “Yes, we were from Coos Bay on the coast, and it was most likely that damned Aspergillus (Black) Mold” and he was like, “Oh.” He then said that “He really did wish he could work on our vehicle, but that he still had a backlog of about 10 days of mechanic jobs, about 15 vehicles worth”, which judging both his cluttered personal lot and the Figaro's lot, definitely wasn't “Joshing” (no offense to people named Joshua) us. He was friendly enough to recommend 5-Star Auto, closer to Downtown Roseburg, to us, but also warned they could possibly be a bit more expensive on account of the faster turnaround time. As for the Black Mold, that was most likely the same stuff that had caused our park host, Steven's Ear Infection, back at Nesika County Park on the East Fork Millicoma.

So are you now getting the idea that a whole of wayward traveler's such as ourselves, seem to break down for whatever reason, in Roseburg, OR, Mother Janet's Old Hometown? Mom had decided to try some mechanic shops in Downtown Roseburg, but along the way, had wanted to show me the “outlying boonie” areas of Lookingglass and Melrose, out at the western fringes of the Greater Roseburg Area, where she and Kara had grown up back in the 1960's, and how now it had become so built up and fancy during the economic boom period of the late 1980's/early 1990's (lots of free flowing timber dollars had rolled into Roseburg, as had rolled into Coos Bay, where we were living, about 5-10 years earlier, but Coos Bay, always being “behind” the economic learning curve of the larger towns on the I-5 Corridor, was already slipping into decline at this point) that “poor common folk” such as us and Kara's family could no longer really afford to live there anymore, at least not as easily as it had been to settle there in the 1960's and 1970's. Thus forcing most people into the harsh position of either earning more or spending less, and if there are no jobs or social support systems available, that usually means spending less. Such is the price of “so-called” progress.

We then followed Harvard Avenue, going eastward toward the Stewart Parkway, where we turned Northeast. On one side, was a sprawl of somewhat fancy apartment buildings complete with basketball and tennis courts, and on the other side, was a humongous, monolithic, White House Style VA (Veteran's Administration) Hospital, accompanied by a fancy 5-star golf course (Our taxpayer dollars hard at work, go figure), a second privately owned golf course, and the nearby VA Cemetery, which holds the tombs of probably at least 2,000 of our finest, bravest men and women in uniform, who either “made the ultimate sacrifice”, or otherwise went before us. The VA Hospital is also where quite a good deal of our alcoholic veterans get sent for detox and treatment, but sadly, few if any seem to be able to come out of there emotionally and spiritually grounded enough to keep sober and stay out for anything more than a few months at a time, so mostly it seems to serve as a “30 day spin-dry”. Such is the way of advanced alcoholism. So basically, if you want a quick slice of Roseburg history and culture in a nutshell, take a drive down the Stewart Parkway.

Okay, so then we pull up toward Garden Valley Boulevard, which is against a beautiful backdrop of dry hills dotted with Madrona Trees. I look over to the Walgreen's Store on the right hand side of the intersection with Stewart Parkway, and saw that the temperature on their digital sign read “103 degrees” and I thought to myself “Oh my fucking God, this is Hell On Earth Day!” By the way, no place here in Northern Nevada got past 98 or 99 degrees this summer, at least in the short time we've been here (Correction: we later learned that in early June, as we were running out of money, and had to ditch our motel for the campground, that Carson City, NV had reached a record shattering 115 degrees for one afternoon) and a few degrees here or there makes all the difference in the world at the upper (and lower) end of things, maybe more so on the upper. Too much heat will kill you outright, but when it's cold, up to a certain point, there are still certain things you can do to keep warm and alive.

Then the unthinkable and inconceivable happened. CRACK! GROAN! POP! That was without a doubt, the dreaded sound of our water pump going out. I saw that the temperature gauge was sitting smack on “H” for “Hot”. Then we saw the Wells Fargo Bank off to the left. Divine Providence yet again. However, to get there, we had to complete our originally planned turn leftward through the intersection of Stewart Parkway and Garden Valley Boulevard. It was now late afternoon, about 4 pm,  Garden Valley Boulevard now completely packed in with impatient pushy type “A” (for Asshole), typical of Roseburg, or any other medium to large sized freeway town. Needless to say, this was a bit of a “system shock” to Mother Janet's scaredy-cat conservative driving style from the slower going, much less populated coast area, which was not a good fit for the “aggressive populous progressives” that are more used to getting their own way that populate all the Western Valley towns in Oregon.

Mother then made the uncharacteristically quick and decisive (score points to type “A” people who are deciders and makers of things, can you say ego, rather than naively passive-aggressive, which “decidedly” infuriates people who are type “A”) fateful decision to pull us quickly through the intersection. Until that specific point, I had never previously been so scared in my life (or for it), and I've had people pull knives and guns on me before, and have other men who were less smart, but more aggressive than me, offer to “make me gay”. I then closed my eyes, and said to myself “Dear Lord, if you're going to take me now, please do it quick.” Mother spotted an opening in the left lane, after limping along westward with a busted radiator for about a block, and went for it, wheeling us into the next lot over from the Wells Fargo Bank. Thankfully, it was not yet our time to die today.

However, we also got to go to lots of AA meetings and eat plenty of Chinese and Mexican food, very yummy, and a good deal of it gluten-free. Mom and I went gluten-free before we left town, namely to help me with obesity, blood pressure, and autism. I think it also helped her feel somewhat less bloated and stopped up all the time. By the way, I have now dropped about 40 pounds from my all-time high of 312 pounds back in March of 2013, and my terrible blood pressure and arthritis have greatly improved. I highly recommend Chi's Chinese Restaurant on NE Stephens St in Roseburg, and there's this good Mexican Place (I forgot the name) not but two blocks away from the “Hole In The Ground Club”.

The writer of this material must also note that he and his mother had a horrible fight upon heading back to our motel from the Denny's near Downtown Roseburg, shortly before we went to cross the Umpqua River Bridge near I-5, no less.

Apparently, Mother Janet had taken exception to me being a “Grand Poo-Bah” who was “inherently selfish and greedy, and wanted to eat up all the food, and not do any of the paying for it, all the while not giving any thanks, or credit for the one who did pay for it.” Needless to say, the writer of this material was instantly infuriated and outraged, at these very truthful and accurate allegations, and told Mother Janet to “Fuck Off, And Leave Me Alone!”. To which was met, “What Did You Say To Me?!?”. I then replied, “Look, I'm sorry for being a pig, and I'm sorry for not giving credit where it was due.” To which Mother replied, “All right, you seem to have acknowledged your shortcoming and seem to be sincere (a very BIG deal for Mother, if you're not honest with her, she gets mad VERY quickly). Okay, let's put this debacle behind us, and cross the bridge that's in front of us.” to which I said, “Alright.”

I was a bit disturbed by this particular fight, even worse than the one we'd had a couple days before, since until the time we had hit the road, we had been getting along well before that. Suffice to say, this was a stark example of how the author's short sighted, impatient, and selfish behavior often passively causes other people to be mad at him (whether they are self-honest enough to admit that fact or not), then I “counterpunch” them with my own hyped-up disproportionate retaliatory strike, and either provoke the other person into wanting to kick my ass, or run away from me. In either case, I come off as a total tyrant, bully, and an asshole, and nobody wants to be my friend, and everyone hates me, and then I hate them right back for their own defiance and impudence. It's a vicious cycle. But now I understand, people can't bring themselves to like me, because they can't bring themselves to trust me, because of my selfish streak, mean temper, and lack of empathy, feeling, or regard for the boundaries (and rights) of others. I am my own worst enemy.

Yes, Roseburg AA is great! There's not a real huge choice in meetings for a town of it's size (about population 21,000 for Roseburg itself, 7,100 for Sutherlin, and 5,500 for Winston), but the people here seemed very honest, dedicated, and community minded, much like the rest of the good folks we have met here in Roseburg.

Which now brings me to the “other folks” of Roseburg, the sick people without any recovery program. By the way, I heard about the “revolving door of addicts” at Douglas County Jail, we would later find this to be true. One night, we came back to our cheap, trashy, roach motel at the south end of Roseburg (juxtaposed between a pot shop, an occult witch shop, several bars, and a dusty old pornography store on Hwy 99 on the way to Green), the Travel Inn, and settled into our room, after an exhausting two mile walk in both directions from Downtown Roseburg in punishing 100 degree heat, and not but five minutes later, we heard screaming and yelling, followed by “POP!” and “CRACK!” I thought there were actual real guns going off, and I promptly told Mom to kill the lights and hit the floor. Another five minutes then passed, and we heard our “other” little Asian Dragon Lady Innkeeper (not unlike the one we'd had at Captain John's back in Coos Bay, but maybe just a bit older and wiser), fiercely cussing up a blue storm at our skeezy and ratty little tweaker neighbors.

We bolstered up our courage and dared to venture outside. The Dragon Lady then asked us what happened, and we told her that he had only been back for a short time and heard what we thought had been gunshots. What had actually happened was this sleazy disgusting looking little whitebread pimp/meth dealer dude, who quite frankly, looked like a reject from Hee-Haw, had a nasty and bitter falling out (nothing I haven't had a few of myself) with his female conquest of the night, and had thrown her out of the motel room and locked her out from her stuff.

She, being somewhat spun on meth, and understandably upset, had punched out the window with her bare unprotected arms (worse than unprotected sex in most cases, in terms of short term survival), and had slashed up her arm pretty badly (Can you say Cherry Falls?). She was, of course, staggering around all over the place profusely dripping blood, while arguing with the Dragon Lady (a pointless exercise in futility) and giving her statement to a group of five Roseburg Policemen, led by a smallish young blonde fellow who greatly resembled the Ricky Schroeder character from NYPD Blue.

At this point, the poor young lady had spilled nearly a gallon of blood on the Travel Inn parking lot while idiotically arguing with people who weren't listening (the textbook classic case of insanity) and was starting to become physically weak and falter in her stance. Mom sharply spoke up (something she could do, when she had to) and encouraged strongly for the young lady to keep the cut arm elevated and maintain pressure on the tourniquet. Mom also encouraged strongly for the nearest Roseburg Police Officer who wasn't directly involved in the investigation, to summon the Fire-Paramedics, which arrived 15 minutes later (surprised the poor little flower hadn't wilted and keeled over at that point).

They carted young “Bloody Alice” off to Mercy Hospital in Roseburg, where she would likely be arrested upon receiving medical treatment for her cuts, which were simply messy, probably ordered to spend a couple days in jail, and make reparations for the window. And what happens with Hee-Haw dude? The Dragon Lady Innkeeper has RPD kick him out of there, since in spite of his general ass-holi-ness, they still technically had nothing they could arrest him for, even though he was an obvious pimping dealing lowlife. Stupid craphead was right back in there the next day getting spun with his inbred buddies. Whoever said life was fair? If you want fair, they have one of those in your County every summer. Next case, please.

A couple nights later, we were coming back from another meeting at The Hole In The Ground Club, and to change things up in our routine a bit, we followed the nearby Pine Street home instead of the usual Stephens, since that involves passing three bars, a tattoo parlor, and one of those semi-legal head shops. We passed a wide variety of older houses, some big, some small, some plain looking, some stylish, some well kept, some falling down rat traps, dating from about 1915 to 1945. As we were nearing our motel at the south end of Roseburg, we saw a terrified looking young man sprint, like a deer in a thunderstorm, out of a two story duplex, and pile into his white sports car and speed off. Then we heard a different man shouting loudly at a sobbing woman “If I (anything that starts with “If I” is seldom if ever good, this is your “oh, crap” moment) ever see you with him again, I'm gonna give you a bullet you fucking bitch!”

We determined that the voice had come from the upstairs of the building. Without thinking twice or hesitating, or regard for her own personal safety, Mother approached the house. I shuddered in my boots for a second, typical spineless dickless little girl I was, but quickly decided that I was no good son if I allowed my mother to march into certain danger alone, so I followed her anyway. Much to our disappointment, the front door was locked. We then tried the next door neighbor, who said that he knew “there was something hinky going on” in the next house over, but didn't want to get involved out of concern for the well being of his young son.

Since we had no cell phone, having just come into an inheritance from four years of “living on the edge” abject dirt poverty, the man suggested that we try the nearby J & J Market, a convenience store that was directly around the block from us, and slightly diagonal and across from our motel on SE Stephens St/Highway 99. So we went over there, I nervously wait outside puffing a cigarette (us nervous nellies do like our nicotine, it is an effective stress buster, but unfortunately you get 7,000 known toxins and 70 scientifically proven carcinogens on every puff, a bad trade of short term comfort for long term sickness, but who said life was fair?) while Mom got Charlie, the good-natured 50-something Chinese Shopkeeper to dial Roseburg Police on our behalf.

So we anxiously waited in the parking lot behind the J & J Market for another five minutes. We were soon met by a different young officer of the RPD (Starting to sound like the plot of Resident Evil), who so far as we could tell, had not been one of the five that had been sent to the “Bloody Alice, Broken Window” scene at our motel a couple nights earlier. He basically asked us “What The Hell Was Going On?” but not quite in that exact tone, so we filled him in on what had transpired in the duplex house we were now looking at the backside of, from the back parking lot of J & J Market. He and his men, three other squad cars, then decided to do a full patrol sweep of the house, scanning for any threats (are you threatening me, heh-heh, I am Cornholio, I need Tee-Pee for my, oh nevermind), then announced themselves on the bullhorn “ROSEBURG POLICE!!!”

After another nerve racking silence of about five minutes (what is it about five minutes anyway, maybe a good random estimate of the average person's boredom threshold and patience level, sort of low in some certain people I know) the light in the upstairs duplex finally turned on, and the woman opened the door up for the coppers to come in. They then spent approximately the next 15-20 minutes conversing with the woman.

Apparently, the abusing scumbag had fled the scene during the time we were going to the J & J Market to summon help, perhaps one of those things that it would be pointless to feel guilty or stupid for not having had a cell phone, since the crazed man was going to do what he was going to do, regardless of anything we did or didn't do. Also, she was still too spooked to file any charges, so legally speaking, RPD's hands were again tied and there was nothing they could do. I guess they gave her a business card for Domestic Violence Support Services and agreed to “keep her place under surveillance” for the next two weeks or something like that. Oh well, we tried, really gave it our best, at least we saved her life for one night, and that's all any human being is capable of doing.

The next day, our minivan was finally fixed up and ready to go, so we packed up our things from the motel room, a lot of them, and got ready to go, bidding the Dragon Lady a fond farewell. She had noted “I was a good son”, being of a similar age to Mother, and having a son about a few years younger than I, who although not a complete and utter miscreant, was still a bit of a do-nothing and a neer-do-well. Suffice to say, the “adults” in our lives always seem to be making harsh and unfair demands of us, but in most cases, such as Mother's and the Dragon Lady's, they are tough on us because they don't want to see us fail and suffer in the same ways that they did. Then we went out the Lone Pine Pet Resort out on Rifle Range Road and collected our big, smelly, fussy, screaming tomcats, Bodie (1 year old Black-Siamese Mix) and Lynx (5 year old Persian-Tabby Mix) and finally said “Hasta La Vista” to the Greater Roseburg Area, after having been stuck there for eight days.

We then drove out eastward on State Highway 138, the Diamond Lake Highway, passing through the little town of Glide, after about 10-12 miles, followed by Steamboat, which was little more than a fly fisherman's haven and tourist trap spot, after about another 15-20 miles, seeing the beauty that is the North Fork Umpqua River, complete with tight turns, fast rapids, and churning mini waterfalls. As we were climbing, then descending through the Cascade Range, we actually passed right through, not around, several small rainstorms, though we didn't begrudge the rain much, our filthy (and moldy) minivan sure needed washing anyway, since Roseburg, OR is like many small towns in the American West, a hot, dusty railroad town.

After we had passed the turnoffs to Diamond Lake, and then the “National Park Famous” Crater Lake (I think I've only been to it maybe once or twice in my life, but I think I went during the dead heat of summer, when the skies were literally crystal azure blue, not a cloud anywhere, and when you go on a day like that, it scared the total fucking shit out of me, since you can see clear down to the 2,148 foot bottom, and unfortunately, I've had a few personal near-misses with drowning, as well as being prone to drowning nightmares, having been raised by a tsunami-phobic mother, and having endured 1-2 months of living with a badly leaking ceiling in my room, shortly before the State forced us out of my Grandfather Norman's House back in the fall of 2009. It is the deepest lake in the United States, and tenth deepest in the world.), roughly 85 miles total, eastward from Roseburg, we pulled off and took a break.

There, we saw endless stands of Ponderosa Pines, sitting atop that reddish clay-rich dirt that dominates much of the Southern Oregon Landscape, and along both sides of Highway 138, were these  little bands of purple colored volcanic rocks, and I thought to myself, “Weird, Amazing!” It then occurred to me that nature is God's Gift to us and it's our Divine Directive not to abuse it. We then got back into the minivan and continued the last 15 miles or so, up to the junction where State Highway 138 terminates at the junction with the US Highway 97 that connects Klamath Falls with the Bend-Redmond-Prineville area and the little pass through truck stop of Biggs Junction on I-84 and the Columbia River in the north (I believe me and Father overnighted there back when I was fifteen, in 1995), then turning our vehicle southward.

We headed southward, while passing rolling hills covered in more Ponderosa Pines, sagebrush, and other dune grass, which then flattened out into a semi-desert with Ponderosa Pines still scattered about. We then passed the turn off to the little town of Chiloquin (population 724) and the bright flashy Kla-Mo-Ya Casino (Glad I don't gamble, as policy, a horrible addiction, played a major role in the divorce with Mother's Second Husband, Michael Edward Williams) and soon, we were passing the Upper Klamath Lake, a nationally designated bird sanctuary area, which does seem much like the Red Sea in The Bible, given it's immense size and general brackiness, or saltiness.

On the left side of the road from the lake was a series of barren, round topped mountains, which fenced in patches of low lying mucky farmland with hay and alfalfa fields. Of course, at this point it was getting dark, and the mosquitoes and gnats were out in full force. By the time we finally reached Klamath Falls, our poor old freshly rain washed minivan was now completely and utterly plastered in little dead bug carcasses.

We now begun navigating our way through the winding Northwestern Reaches of Klamath Falls Proper, population 21,000, trying to find the “Downtown” of the place, not an easy task for any traveler, as the physical area of the town takes up one with a population of about three times that figure, splitting outward into several forks, being constrained between a mountain range and the much larger Upper Klamath Lake in the north, and the smaller Lower Klamath Lake, the famous for hiking, Klamath Falls Falls (Yes that's a double word, but this one is excepted) leading into the Klamath River in the south, more rolling hills with Ponderosa Pines in the west, and desert-like marshland to the east, also adjoining with it's still, as of 2017, unincorporated sister township of Altamont, OR, population 19,000 (Altamont residents take their mail under Klamath Falls Addresses), to the northeast of Klamath Falls Proper, thus bringing the total population of Klamath-Altamont to 40,000 total. Ah, now I get it, you get two towns for the price of one, much like Minden-Gardnerville, NV. See, you learn something new everyday, I was confused about that one for the longest time. That's why the place “seems” bigger than it actually is, is that there's two towns. Here is a fascinating article on the Klamath-Altamont controversy from 2004: http://www.heraldandnews.com/news/top_stories/klamath-falls-population-doubles/article_aff23b8a-63b4-5af1-8a93-bcb7e7cbe96a.html

So yes, back on topic, and to the point, I both personally and professionally struggle with this particular shortcoming, we were winding our way through the Northwestern “Arm” of Klamath Falls, also known as K-Falls, trying to join up the US Highway 97 that we were on with the Oregon State Route 140, going east, and seeking out the famed Black Bear Diner (if you happen to be near one, you gotta go, it's awesome), where we had eaten seven years before in 2007, presently trying to fill our lurching empty stomach pit in 2014. We ordered up another round of steak, eggs, and hashbrowns, as well as a strawberry milkshake for me. On a somewhat disturbing side note, Mother told me that the “Food was really awesome”, but added that “she wasn't able to taste it very well”. That did seem kind of odd to me, but hey, we were on great adventure and a roll to boot.

We then temporarily doubled back westward for a mile on Highway 140 to seek out an “all-night” gas station, since it was after 10 pm, and we were the “last customers” at Black Bear for the evening, and located a Chevron on the south side of 140, where we got tanked up, and found a nice young man to use Windex and a Wiper to strip all those god awful disgusting mosquito and gnat carcasses from our windshield. We then got back on 140, and followed eastward until we were about 2 miles out from the eastern edge of Klamath Falls Proper. There, we turned south onto Oregon State Route 39, which only remains that way for 15 miles, until it crosses the state line, and becomes California State Route 139, passing the unincorporated township of Henley and the incorporated town of Merrill, population 832, an agricultural hamlet famous for their yearly Potato Festival.

Having now crossed into California, we quickly came upon the little town of Tulelake, or Tule Lake, population 1,010. It is notable for having a local duck feather pillow stuffing business, a little bitty motel, the Ellis Inn and a darker bit of history, the area played host to two internment camps during the FDR Administration in World War II, one camp was for the housing of German and Italian POW's, the other, which will stick in the eye of Liberals and the Politically Correct, was for the Internment of Japanese-American citizens, as public Japanese hysteria, especially in the Western States, was off the charts, and the people who had the ear of the policymakers felt “it was best to separate the general population from the people we were at war with”. Anyway, yes, a very harsh, horrible, immoral, and despicable policy, I wasn't around then, but from a “Military-National Security” perspective, I do understand exactly why that horrible and unpopular policy was done, even if the writer of this material doesn't necessarily personally agree with it. So that's all on Tulelake, CA.

We continued Southeastward through more desert-like marshland along Highway 139 until we reached the sleepy little town of Canby, CA (We also have one of those in Oregon, up near Portland), population 315, elevation 4,314, basically a “Post Office-Junction” stop where California State Route 139 bends Southwestward and meets up with California State Route 299 going eastward to the bigger (but still a “small red state place” by Eugene, OR standards) of Alturas, CA, population 2,615, elevation 4,370, seventeen miles away.

The Modoc County Area in Northeastern California is quite something to look at in the daytime, but of course we were doing this at night (trying to reach a certain location in Northern Nevada by morning), so we weren't seeing much, just our memories of the same trip we took in that area seven years ago in 2007, which had consisted of a hodgepodge of marshland, Ponderosa Pine forest, and high desert scrubland. There was also a nationally designated bird sanctuary in this area as well. At this time, about 2 am in the morning, the typically quiet sleepy town of Alturas, CA was even deader than usual. Not even a bar or tavern was open at this wee hour. Bad news if you're an active alcoholic in dire need of a quick drinky-poo.

If boredom makes you jump out of your skin, don't come to Alturas, CA (or anyplace like it) at 2 in the morning, go the nice Downtown of a proper “big place” like Eugene or Reno, and get yourself accosted by predatory, morally and ethically unbound street denizens (who dare to wear the “title” of human beings) looking to mug, rape, and knife in the shadows instead. That'll fix up your boredom problem right quick, I guarantee it. That is one plus side of living in the “small place” red state, is statistically being far less likely to be preyed upon by other humans (who are angry, impulsive, unpredictable, and emotional creatures), should the need ever arise to depart your lodgings after business hours, though in these high altitude places that are isolated, you may (though still statistically very improbable at best) have to contend with bears and cougars, so you might want to invoke your Second Amendment Right to bear (get it, bear) arms, provided you are able to physically and mentally do so responsibly. Just saying, you know?

We turned south onto US Highway 395 (Which connects Northeastern California and Central-Eastern Oregon with the Reno-Carson City Area of Western Nevada, it's a storied and interesting road to say the least) and began the lonely 105 mile (no gas stations whatsoever, zero, none, zilch, good we tanked up at K-Falls for this very reason). It was a mix of desert, dry pasture land, and pine/juniper forest, dotted with tiny towns, more like villages, with populations of less than 100 people (Now that's hella small by Eugene, OR standards). Much of Northern California is like this, the 18 million “Cool People” of their 36 million residents all live in or near Los Angeles.

About 40 miles into this, we took a break. Realizing we were now at 5,000 feet elevation (much bigly thinner atmosphere here) on US Highway 395, I saw a great big flowing display of beautiful stars (Where Mother Janet and Clan Smyth await me to join them). They flowed together just as if someone had painted it upon my bedroom ceiling, I don't know if you recall that weird crazy florescent glow-in-the-dark paint when you were a kid, but it was just like that. I was again, just like a kid in a candy store at 34 years of age.

After passing about 3 or 4 more nameless and largely forgettable (like my old book title) sub-100 people “small places” along US Highway 395, we started down some hills and winding curves, and off to the east, we saw a couple of very large high-tech futuristic looking buildings with a lot of bright night lights around them. My best guess is that building was a very large power station that served the entire US Highway 395 area that ran from Alturas to Susanville. We also passed turnoffs to an Army National Guard base and the semi-notorious High Desert State Prison, formerly known as Johnsonville State Prison.

Upon reaching Susanville, CA, population, 15,543, elevation, 4,186, Mother Janet and I had yet another fight, about the third one in a week. With my ultra-conservative mentality (and formerly politics), I persuaded Mother Janet (not any easy chore, as she is very immovable by manipulation or emotional needling herself, you can't even sell the woman a toothpick or a paper clip, not an open customer) to divert off of our present course on 395 by about 15 miles, as I was very concerned about our rather low gas level of a couple needles below an eighth of a tank, rather than her plan of forcing her way ahead to Reno, NV and tanking up there.

By her own admission (as well as my own personal tastes), she didn't like “big cities”, and wasn't “confident in her own ability to quickly locate a filling station in Reno, and get back on the road before “getting trapped in the city”. Yet she still wanted to push ahead anyway. Seemed like a bit of a reckless call to me, but the actual source of this fight was the fact that by the time we had wasted half an hour to forty-five minutes diverting to Susanville, and finding an all-night self-serve station, I was unable to get their flipping bank card reader to work after a ten minute struggle.

We pressed onward to Milford, CA (No MILF jokes please) population 167, elevation 4,222, where we did find a Union 76 station, with a working card reader, and we tanked up. Mother Janet was less mad at me, and we were temporarily both happier. Milford was about 20 miles Southeastward from Susanville, so yes we would have made it if we'd stayed the course, but I was fearful and afraid and had no way of knowing that in advance. Still, 60 miles from Susanville to Reno on less than an eighth of a tank still seemed like a “horrible and unreasonable” risk to me.

We then soon crossed into Bordertown, NV, basically what the name is, a tiny border town that is a bit of a truck stop place, with a small casino, convenience store, and a gas station. I get it, Nevada, bright flashy lights, gambling, exciting right? Not with Mother's dark personal history on the subject, which for her sake, I also shared her dim assessment on gambling. Where we did disagree was the matter of legality. I was for, she was against. Not because I love gambling, I personally despise how it's basically a back door tax on the poor and the desperate, and destroys many families, I don't think some of the operators are the best of people, but the horrible alternative is to keep it illegal and underground in the black market, where various organized crime syndicates without fail, will always move to fill that void. Nature abhors a power vacuum.

Having (wisely) before reaching Reno, NV, having found a filling station beforehand, we were then able to give Reno, and I-80 that partially merges with US Highway 395, a nice smooth sailing quick pass through in less than half an hour, thus skillfully avoiding the “big city trap”. It was awesome. We quickly saw the Wal-Mart and strip mall (not strip club, they have those there too) areas fade away to the bright flashy nonsense that makes up the Downtown, then before we knew it, we were sailing on out of the boring industrial and residential area of Sparks, and we were “outta” Washoe Valley.

Then we saw the sunrise break over the Humboldt River (which is the defining feature for the vast majority of I-80 in Nevada) as we pressed onward to Fernley, NV, which was where we needed to pitch the minivan southward onto the “Alternative” Nevada State Route 95 for our destination, a boarding house for our poor screaming, smelly tomcats. Here, we collected yet another steak and egg type meal at Wigwam Casino (yes Mother Janet and I hate casinos, but they're the only reliable source for decent traveler food when you're in a hurry). This time we had a polite disagreement on the food quality, which wasn't the best, I'll admit. I said a little bit “crummy”, she said “awful, disgusting”. I was seriously beginning to wonder about her losing her sense of taste, because we had used to be all about the food, that was a central part of what had forever bound us as a Mother-Son Team.

We reached Silver Springs, NV after following “Alternative” Nevada State Route 95 for about 15 miles or so, having passed the Quik Stop convenience store and Fernley High School's Football Stadium, and seeing a lot of the high desert beauty of Nevada at it's finest, rolling hills, open space, whirling sagebrush, a lot less gray clouds in the sky. Definitely a stark reversal from the endless pollen-allergy chokeout that is Western Oregon, speaking as a highly allergic, and sensitive fair skinned person.

Which brings me to the topic of sun safety, and Skin Cancer, also known as Melanoma, which took the life of my Grandfather Ralph Salisbury's esteemed pupil and famed TV screenplay engineer of A-Team, Renegade, and Silk Stalkings fame, Stephen J. Cannell (1941-2010). Mother Janet was also very quick to drub this lesson into me as well. If you're in Nevada (or any other high altitude place) where there's extra Ultraviolet Ray Exposure, you wear hats, sunglasses, long sleeve lightweight shirts,  and plenty of at least 30 SPF (Preferably 50 SPF), even in, and especially summertime. Because Skin Cancer is a one hit, one size fits all, affair. It's an equal opportunity offender that will barbecue pretty much anybody and everybody, regardless of race, skin type, or family history of Cancer.

We finally, finally, landed in Yerington, NV, at about 7 am, some 7 years after Mother Janet and I had visited here, “fallen in love” with the place, and made plans to move here “someday”, when we were done with caring for my Grandfather Norman, who by 2007, had been either directly in our care or a nursing home for two years, due to Alzheimer's, Diabetes, and Parkinson's, so therefore, between 2007 and 2014, we had either been caring for him (Norman passed in 2011) or waiting on his complex, controversial, and politically charged Estate in California to Settle from 2010 forward, after the State of Oregon booted us out of his house we had been living (with his permission, but nothing in writing, and legally ruled “incompetent” from being in a nursing home, so we had no relative or tenant rights to stay there, according to the Conservators assigned to his Estate), waiting on the colossally slow Estate Proceedings (That involved Oregon and California) to settle, meanwhile being mired in deep abject poverty and unable to travel much beyond our town and still be able to stay in our Public Housing.

Mother began by pulling off near the edge of town and finding a “bush to water”. Mother had to deal with this “leak” problem about 3-4 times during our run down California 139/US 395. Bladder Trouble, we'll just leave it at that, but it is a problem a lot of ladies my Mom's age (64) are stuck with, so naturally, I could not and did not think anything material or relevant of it.

Then we tried parking Bodie and Lynx (poor little things were completely fit to be tied after being stuck in a, thankfully not hot, car for 12 hours, we had to just grab them and go, and not meander about it) at the first “Pet Hotel”, we were sadly turned away, as it was run by a militant feminist “pet nazi” who absolutely under no circumstance would board our unfixed male cats, even though their individual kennels were distinctly compartmentalized, self-contained, and secure.

Thankfully, there was a smaller, more desperate for business “Pet Hotel” in town, that had plenty of secure space available, to separate our “feisty boys” from any females that might be there. Luckily, for our sake, it presently seemed to be mostly for dogs anyway. Yes, the whole Introvert=Cat Person/Extrovert=Dog Person seems to be the score of it, kind of old and tiring. You see, cats are “takers” of love, and Introverts want the chance to give some love, from being tired of Extrovert bullies kicking them around and taking them for granted all day. Extroverts, on the other hand, are often needy and emotionally insecure themselves, and feel a hot burning need for constant public approval, adulation, and to be the constant center of attention, and dogs are a lot better for that purpose, since they are “givers” of love, and make the Extrovert feel like “It's all about them”, which sadly, I once saw that same sound byte applied in a Casino Advertisement.

I suppose you might tell I'm a little biased against Extroverts, as they seem to have far less of an ethical problem with lying for purely selfish purposes, maybe a harsh and unfair accusation on my part, but Mother Janet got plumb tired of having the men in her life openly lie to her and flip her the bird while doing so, “Nanner, nanner, I can lie whenever I want, it's protected by my First Amendment Rights, make me tell the truth, you weak and stupid whelp”, and since I was the “last man” in her life, she sure as hell wouldn't have it from me.

I think her fierce determination to not yield on this matter has paid off to date, as I was a horrible, bordering pathological case as a teenager, bad behaviors=need for cover-up, yet still a rank amateur at actually being able to fool “and make them believe” as Adolf Hitler was able to. Hitler and Josef Stalin were kind of Introverts, there were some other political despots of the Extrovert type, such as Benito Mussolini. I suppose in their defense, Extroverts often fear being deceived and backstabbed by Introverts because of their more quiet, calm, and deliberate nature, so “if they're quiet and thinking, it must mean they're planning to screw me, right?” many befuddled Extroverts think. Would be nice if the two halves of the brain and the two halves of the American Political Apparatus meshed more peaceably. To each their own.

Well, enough of that pointless, distracting pop psychology/intellectual tangent that has no factual relevance with my story, on with the journey. After parking the cats, we spent about 2-3 days parked at the Copper Inn in Yerington, but had to leave, because it was now July 23, 2014, and Yerington's famed Night In The Country Music Festival was to be held that weekend, and Copper and both of the other Yerington Motels were booked solid. We decided to pass the weekend by doing a whirlwind tour of Eastern and Northern Nevada, to properly get a “real life, not pictures on the Internet feel for the place” before choosing on a town and a property to settle on. This was supposed to be for the rest of our lives, so we had to think and deliberate carefully.

We began by setting our sights upon Fallon, NV, the site of the fabled Top Gun Naval Air Station. I of course, foolishly started singing the dumb old “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin, from the classic 1986 film with Tom Cruise, Kelly McGillis, and Val Kilmer (now 31 years ago, time sure does fly, no pun intended). Mother of course, playfully slugged at my shoulder, and threatened to call me “Mr. Cruise” if I didn't lay off, so I zipped it, since to me, going through the rest of my time on this Earth labeled as a poster boy for Dianetics, was a fate worse than Death. I then crushed out my cigarette and took a lap from my Gatorade (Warning: System Toxicity Critical=Cancer=Die Early And Slowly). I was living proof that even at coming on 16 years clean & sober, human beings really are attracted to things that are bad for them. It is The Devil's World as Mother Janet says, a sentiment that even atheist and agnostic types might find some common ground on.

We collected our breakfast at the “Taco Hell” on US Highway 50, sort of erroneously dubbed “The Loneliest Highway In America”, but it's not really, then sailing on eastward out of Fallon. We actually did end up wrestling with at least a moderate amount of traffic on some parts of it. Our goal had been to do something productive while waiting on The Night Of The Country Festival back in Yerington to pass, by doing a proper tour of the state, to be 100% sure we wanted to settle in the Lake Lahontan/Mason Valley area of Western Nevada. You know, the scientific approach, weigh your options, factor in facts and information, eliminate the possibilities, then decide, don't rush full on into a purely emotional based decision without doing your homework, also known as lapping up the dipshit kool-aid (something the author of this material did shamelessly for the longest time, without any rhyme, reason, or ethical consideration).

We came upon Austin, NV, after about 80 miles of first going through the “flat”, which is rather less flat than the imagination and Popular Hollywood Stereotypes of Nevada would tell you that it is (confirmation bias=low information voters), then winding up through some hills and curves. We passed the old Stoke's Castle Hotel, up on the right, sort of overlooking Austin, built by Anson Phelps Stokes (1838-1913), in the year 1897, who was a banker and railroad and mining developer, that had built it as a summer home for his family, modeling it on what he had seen and idolized in the Roman Campagna in Italy.

Unfortunately, for all his troubles, the castle only saw a couple summers of use by his family, before they sought greener economic pastures elsewhere (a common human habit, you go where the money and jobs are, or end up freezing and starving) and it was left abandoned for 58 years, until rebought by Stoke's family cousin, Molly Maggee Knudsen in 1956. “The Castle” was eventually listed on the National Register Of Historic Places in 2003. It is currently held by HW Trapnell of Dunsmuir, CA (A small railroad town near Lake Shasta in Northern, CA, that me and Mother Janet had passed by in the Amtrak train during one of our trips in 2007) and Austin, NV. Enough on history, for now.

Austin, NV actually seemed to be surprisingly active, for a bitty town of about 200 people. They actually had a Post Office, a Tavern, a couple of convenience stores, and this will surprise you, two motels, and the beloved Toiyabe Cafe, named for the Toiyabe Mountain Range that Austin, NV sits in. Of course, you could make the case that the current uptick of human activity in Austin, NV was on account of a traveling caravan of bicyclists, perhaps some of which had made use of the local motels, as well as a couple of passing “hordes” of Vietnam Veteran Bikers (on Harley Motorbikes). We now set course for Eureka, NV.

The first 20 of the 60 total miles of the stretch from Austin to Eureka was a rather big sweeping curve turning southward, down winding hills dotted with sagebrush and juniper. Then the next 30 miles, leading into the final 10 miles going to Eureka, was mostly flat and straight, going on a slight rise elevation wise, and angling a bit Northeastward on the map, followed by a sharp turn and dip southward, going into Eureka itself. During that 30 mile straight stretch, Mother Janet found herself pulling off onto the shoulder frequently, to allow aggressive tailgaters (folks with type “A”, for “Asshole”, entitlement issues from California maybe?) to pass, rather than making the more socially popular, but likely foolish move of trying to placate their fragile egos by going faster. That is why the author of this material is very unexcited and fearful of driving at present writing, in spite of little kids thinking “he's a big fat loser”, in spite of intense pressure from family to “get a license already” after being “without” for 20 years (at this late age of 37).

Eureka, NV is what you call a clever “tourist trap” of a town of about 600 people (as of 2010, though is now estimated to be closer to 1,000), being the only town of any real size in the 200 total miles between Fallon and Ely on US Highway 50. It's got an old fashioned style brick Post Office and a lot of old-timey, old-west kind of storefronts. Once upon a time, during the 1880's, it had been a bustling mining mecca of about 10,000 people (which is closer to the size of town I'm from, Coos Bay, OR) but as was typical of a mining town, once the ore was gone, so were the jobs and the people, don't you just really love modern industrialized society? I think on some terms, American Humans still are a bit of a hunter-gatherer society (which preceded the Agricultural Age), only they hunt and gather dollar bills and paper paychecks, since there's no more buffalo meat to hunt or wild berries to gather. Eureka, also at a rather high elevation of 6,485 feet, has summers that are often in the 80's during the day, and the 40's at night, as a result of high elevation. It is also quite the popular spot for local campers and fly fishermen, as well as the “jump off” point for both the Ruby Valley and Monitor Valley Scenic Highways. We then set forth for Ely, NV, about another 60 miles eastward from Eureka.

We rolled on southward out of the strange little bottle neck valley that Eureka sits in, then started a somewhat squiggly, but still generally straight rise back up some hills of that fabled orange-y yellow Nevada dirt, dotted in more pines and junipers. As we cleared the rise in the mountains and began descending in an almost straight shot toward Ely, Mother Janet and I decided to take about a 10-15 minute side junket to the little town of Ruth, NV, for another history lesson.

Ruth, NV, with a present day population of 440, began in 1903 as a settlement for the workers of the White Pine Copper Mining Company. Three years later, in 1906, the Northern Nevada Railway project was launched, thus driving a spike in local copper production at Ruth. Six years later in 1912, a bad explosion in the mine took the lives of ten people. Some would say “boo hoo, what an awful tragedy” while others would say “suck it up buttercup, mining's a big risk, but the rewards are great”. The author of this material does not wish to insensitively denigrate the memory of the people who were killed, or their families, if he has not already done so, but he was merely trying to illustrate the simple and abject fact, however insensitive it might be, that throughout human history, that economic insecurity has been a hard driving force in a lot of wild reckless risk taking behavior, all in the name of acquiring more Benjamins to better keep a roof over one's head and food in their families bellies, under most dire and desperate circumstances.

More on the subject of mining labor being abused by, and having bargaining rights stripped by company management, Ruth became the site of a hotly contested labor dispute, in 1919, when no fewer than 150 miners walked off the job in demand of better wages. Such nerve of those men, didn't they know to mind their manners and their tongue, and know their place in society, and always obey company management without question? Kidding. The author of this material has not much love for these predatory vulture capitalists that always do far more to wreck the communities that they claim to build up, than what they initially promise to investors and stockholders when scrounging for start-up funds. The peak of Ruth's population was about at 2,300 people in 1928, the year the Great Depression (the old one, not the new one of 2008) began. In 1933, after the Great Depression officially ended, Nevada Consolidated Copper Company (which had previously gobbled up White Pine Coppper Company) was then bought out by Kennecott Copper Corporation. The mines in Ruth would slug on at a slow tick, never really being completely closed, but not really being profitable enough to support the community for the next 22 years. This hellish economic limbo finally ended in 1955, when the settlement houses were bought up by the John W Galbreath Company, who then turned around and sold the company houses to the miners that had been renting them.

In turn, apparently they actually had moved these rather small houses (it can be done, but is generally very difficult, sometimes dangerous, and always expensive) two miles to the north to make way for the expansion of the Deep Ruth Mine, which would remain open at a moderately sustainable pace until closing it's doors in 1978, thus leading to the decline of the town itself, and the closure of their grade school in 1986 (I recall getting displaced to a different school as a kindergartener for that same reason, back in 1986, a little town called Lakeside, OR, that was starting to backslide on their timber industry). BHP Nevada Railroad would then attempt to re-open the mine for three short years, starting in 1996, but being forced to fold in 1999. It was then taken over by the Quadra FNX Mining Corporation in 2004, and remains open to this day. On a couple of interesting side notes, Ruth, NV was the inspiration for Stephen King's novel Desperation, and was known to have been dosed with a small amount of rads in the 1950's, during the Atomic Weapons Testing Program, run from the 1950's-1990's by the Atomic Energy Commission (Under management by US Department Of Energy), at the Area 51 test site down in Nye County, everything from about 1962 to 1963 forced underground because of public outcry over worker risk and safety.

With that history lesson over, we pressed forth into Ely, NV in search of a late lunch and some more supplies for the road. After getting some lunch at a Chinese restaurant, we collected some supplies at this crummy little discount department store, where I had this crazy nazi shopkeeper lady actually accuse me of trying to steal a batch of old (15-20 years old) and overpriced ($10 each) DVD's. She actually physically kept following around my shopping cart like a hound dog, and would not stop until I handed them over to her for her personal safekeeping at the check stand. Such hostile paranoia. I suppose because I never smile, don't make eye contact, never initiate small talk, don't shave or shower (not because I enjoy being filthy, but because I am too far out of it mentally to remember to care for myself in that way), and have a rotten scummy attitude, I suppose people in general are inclined to be scared of, and not like or trust me very much, automatically assume the worst, and treat me as a liar and a criminal, even my own family, if only I could bring myself to care emotionally, but hard to do if you suffer from depression and/or lack of ethics and empathy. If only I could care.

Moving along, we tanked up at a Union 76 Station (much needed after a 200 mile straight run with no fill-ups) and set course for the Utah bordertown of Baker, NV and Garrison, UT, with the goal of previewing, but not doing a full visit of, the new Great Basin National Park near the Nevada-Utah State Border. Anyhow, we really did sort of want to see Great Basin National Park, but didn't feel we could afford the time or the energy, as we were trying to stay on track for getting back to our spot we were planning on moving to back in Western Nevada. However, we did follow Nevada State Route 487 along the backside of Wheeler Peak, the central defining feature of the park, and got ourselves a good gist and scope of what was there, without having to commit ourselves for an all day trip, with 2 hours driving in and out each way, which was the kind of big time waste we were trying to avoid. We stopped at Baker, NV to drink some Powerade (yes, I know, very good for us, I think it was making us sick, too much magnesium, potassium, and chemical dyes), and check our map.

Mother Janet then took a bold risk, at least for her, and ventured into Utah, also known as Deseret or Mormonland, having been somewhat wary of LDS Fundamentalist types, as back in 1984, when she was at the tail end of visiting sci-fi conventions in the Southwest, and still trying to get herself published (a very hard thing to do in her day, and the day of Roger Zelazny back in the 1960's), she had a couple of those LDS Fundamentalist types follow her all the way home to Lakeside, OR from a convention in Denver, CO, some 1,350 miles apart (that's some dedication, about 21 hours, or 2-3 days total drive time, just to expand their harem by 1), with the dark and sinister objective of abducting her for their little cult, even with a 4 year old me and 10 year old Brother Connor there. Suffice to say, Mother Janet was somewhat unfairly suspicious of Mormons after that, as was the author of this material. For what it was worth, we didn't care about fair or accurate, so much as protecting ourselves and covering our behinds. If that needlessly hurt, offended, irritated, or made to be angry, I am sorry. To all the good men and women of the LDS, who are not part of the fundamentalist cult, I am sorry, I apologize for the both of us, from the bottom of my heart.

Anyway, the original purpose of cutting into Utah was so that we could take a slightly different route to get back to the US Highway 93 that ran through Ely, where we had previously come from, try to mix things up a bit. So we continued following Nevada State Route 487 Southeastward from Baker, about 6 miles over the Utah State Line where it becomes Utah State Route 21 temporarily before entering Garrison, UT. We then turned northward onto Utah State Route 159, taking note of distant mountains and bright green, fresh sagebrush, going about 6 miles back north again to the combined US Highway 50 and US Highway 6 Route (Highway 6 winds it's way clear down to Tonopah, NV, about 170 miles Southwest from Ely, a drive intended to be two and a half hours, that Mother Janet and I once did in slightly over an hour, about half that time, in pursuit of an AA meeting in Ely that had been canceled due to lack of interest, or basically the whole town relapsing, back in 2007, disappointing, to put in all that effort for nothing, yet somehow, that effort kept us sober, that's what counts), then we turned westward back onto the US 50-6 and back into Nevada. It was now a bit after 5 pm, but the air was starting to get a bit hazy, due to some planned Forest Service slash burns and other unplanned fires, as well as Nevada's famed Dust Devils, which are basically micro tornadoes that are full of desert sand and dust. We then followed the US Route 50-6 back in a Northwestward arc around Windy Peak and the tiny community of Osceola (not to be mixed up with the one in Florida), and rejoined the US Highway 93, going south, at Major's Place, a little before 6 pm, with about two more hours of daylight to go.

Our goal for that evening was the town of Pioche, NV, a quaint little mountain foothill “straight off of a postcard” historical village of about 1,000 residents. We had just wanted to see it before it got totally dark, we had no designs on staying there, as we did not expect to be able to find quick or affordable lodgings there, being a bit of an isolated little “tourist trap” of a town. Pioche, NV was about 70 miles south of Major's Place on US Highway 93, about 90 miles total south from Ely, so we had roughly about two hours to reasonably cover 70 miles before darkness set in.

We negotiated those 70 miles southward with the sun breaking away on the mountains to the west and green sagebrush filled open rangeland to the east. It was nothing short of a fabulous Nevada Sunsetter scene, worthy of many stylish Saloon decorating Old West paintings, perhaps would both be more artful and socially tasteful than sallow faced pimpled bordello prostitutes and scarred up vicious looking battle hardened gunslingers and outlaws, which is what you usually get in one of those Old West saloons (although I'll admit that maybe I'm unfairly reverse culturally stereotyped, coming from a family of educated progressives from the Midwest, who care little for primitive Western and Southern people who aren't educated, cultured, or civilly respectful, also known as stinking white savages in Red Republican war paint).

Moving along, here's a quick history refresher on Pioche, Nevada. Pioche, which sits at an elevation of 6,060 feet, began in 1864, as the American Civil War was nearing it's climax, when local white settlers here had tried in vain to make use of the natural mountain backdrop to establish a silver mining industry here, but their efforts were beset by the local Native American peoples (go figure, you go trying to use someone else's land for selfish imperialistic colonial purposes, without either asking permission or offering any sort of financial compensation, and the Natives get kind of restless and pissed off, go figure), so the settlers were forced to withdraw for four years until 1868, when the US Army intervened and drove them off. “Economic Progress, Get It? Always Forward, Never Back, Even If It's Right On The Backs Of The Weak, Unprotected, And Underprivileged.” Capital Abhors Labor For It's Very Existence. It Cannot Personally Stand It, But Needs It For It's Own Survival, Thus Is “Forced” Into An Abusive “Love-Hate” Relationship With It. Companies Matter. People, Not So Much. If You Can Simply Bring Yourself To Disregard People As Policy, You Can Go Big Places In The Corporate World.

Anyhow, in 1869, when the Army finally “properly pacified” the town for the poor white capitalists, it was dubbed Pioche for the name of it's number one private benefactor, Francois Louis Alfred Pioche (Born 1818 in Paris, Died Unknown), a French born, former San Francisco, CA resident who was an investor and land speculator. Pioche was highly rumored to be in a homosexual relationship with his business partner, LL Robinson, at a time when the hysteria and open hostility toward “mortally sinful men of a certain sexual persuasion” could quickly and easily be met with a zealously religious and murdering lynch mob, or also a witch trial followed by burning of “gays as kindling” along with the “witches” tied at the stake, though this practice had been much more common during the actual Salem Witch Trial Days, some 150 years earlier in the late 1600's. Apparently, that's all gay men were worth in that particular social context, was “not even worth the rope and stake” of tying a “real witch”. So the history of Pioche's Death and Personal Life, seem to have been lost. There lies a man who was good at securing his Privacy, not out of personal choice, but necessity for his own survival. (Not-So-Secret Update: In spite of owning several high end properties in the San Francisco Bay Area, Francois LA Pioche committed suicide by gun in 1872 when he realized he had overextended his credit beyond the point of no return and had no means of paying it off, a lesson to be learned about the reckless borrowing on modern day credit cards).

Pioche had also earned a well deserved reputation as one of the bloodiest, if not the bloodiest town of the Old West, as there were no less than 72 confirmed killings by gunshot until the first “natural death” was recorded (an alcohol induced liver cancer perhaps?). The legend was then forever cemented in history by the creation of the Boot Hill Cemetery, also a town in the Wild Arms 3 Video Game by Sony (2002), which Mother Janet and I were playing recently. It's remoteness and isolation in a long narrow mountain valley in Far Eastern Nevada made Pioche both an easy target for Native American raiding parties and a ready playground for local outlaws and redneck ruffians to freely run amok with little interference from law enforcement. Much like some parts of Nevada presently still are.

On an interesting side note, US Highway 93 was routed around the edge of Pioche, with Nevada State Route 321 now being the main corridor, maybe perhaps to discourage local outlaws and redneck ruffians going rip roaring drunk and too fast on 93 from tearing up the town. “Yee-Haw! Vroom, Vroom, Vroom!”. Why? Because they can. Also, former US Republican President Herbert Hoover (for which the Las Vegas Dam is named) overnighted at the historic (but no longer in business as a hotel) Mountain View Hotel, while serving as President in 1930. Just as former US Republican President And General Ulysses S Grant once decamped at Grant's Pass (Or Grant's Ass, Oh By The Way, Does Anybody Know Trump's Gastroenterologist That Gave Him A Glowing Review, In Spite Of A Steady Diet Of Taco Bowls, Burgers, And Pizzas?) Oregon during the Civil War while visiting the Western Union Army Detachment, thus giving a name for that funky spot on I-5 that suddenly and violently bends eastward on the Rogue River (and yes, a LOT of people have died crashing their cars there). On a final note, Pioche is also the County Seat of Lincoln County.

So as darkness now faded over Pioche, we came upon Panaca, NV, population 960, elevation 4,729, or rather the turnoff to it on Nevada State Route 319. Panaca, NV had originally began in 1864, the same year that Nevada gained statehood. It was originally a Mormon Settlement that had been part of Washington County in Utah, before the 1866 Congress had redistricted (now known as gerrymandering) Panaca into Nevada territory, so as to better draw a straight line on their border. Panaca comes from the Paiute Tribe word “pan-nuk-ker”, which is money, wealth, and metals. William Hamblin, the local LDS Missionary assigned to the Paiute Tribe there in Lincoln County, staked and claimed the nearby Pannacker Ledge as a silver mine.

Unlike the silver mine at Pioche, this one was not a war zone, or a hotly and violently contested claim like so many others were, as the relatively nascent Mormon Church under Brigham Young, was very shrewd both politically and business wise, and unlike regular dumb greedy white settlers, they were quick to figure out that if they used their religion to pacify the local Native tribes, rather than making war with them, they could forge a strategic alliance with them, and use them judiciously to form solid defensive lines against outsiders and competing business interests.

In older times, Panaca operated a Coke Oven to supply charcoal for the ore smelters in nearby Buillionville, which dried up and died, like so many other Old West Ghost Towns that were based solely around mining, but in modern times they are basically an agricultural town. It is also notable that they are a dry town (no alcohol sales allowed, much like a certain small religious town near Salem in Oregon, called Monmouth, though their city council finally voted down 148 long years of prohibition in 2002, business reasons I guess, there will always be a certain segment of the population that will kick and fuss without their liquor, same goes for the evil cancer causing brown weed known as tobacco) and they and Boulder City, near Las Vegas, are the only two towns in all of Nevada that have a legal moratorium on gambling, in spite of it being the State of Nevada's modern central industry. No sin will be legally sanctioned in this town, however one might argue, whatever happens behind closed doors is nobody's business (so long as it doesn't involve minors or parties that haven't consented, including, but not limited to livestock).

Moving along, we sought out Caliente, NV, population 1,141, elevation 4,406, about 10 miles south from there, to hopefully quickly acquire lodgings for the evening, so that we could get a decently early start the next day, as we were planning on dipping about another 45 miles Southwest, before turning around and doubling back toward Ely on a different route, you know, in the name of variety and mixing things up.

We rolled in a little after 8 pm, and found the Mull's Midway Motel, which was about down to their last two rooms (lucky us), as them and the other two motels in Caliente, the Shady Motel, and the Rainbow Canyon Motel were well booked up in advance of a hot air balloon festival being held in Mesquite, NV that weekend, even though Mesquite was 140 miles, or about a two and a half hour drive away down on I-15. It should be duly noted that Country Music and Hot Air Balloons are a very big fucking deal in Nevada, and don't you forget it.

The layout of our motel room at Mull's Midway Motel seemed a little odd, as they usually have both beds together in one spot, for the sake of building economics and convenience, but in this one, Mom's bed was up toward the front door, then there was a little storage cabinet followed up by a little kitchenette area (with it's own small TV), then past that was my bed, in a separate room, which then led to a walk-in closet, and then the bathroom, with my sleeping area having it's own cabinet and small TV set. Now was that an odd and funky layout or what?

As the town was the kind of place that shuts right down along with the sun, all the restaurants were shut, but we were still hungry. Luckily, Mom was able to locate a convenience store/deli type place that was open a bit later into the evening, and brought me back a basket of fried chicken, shrimp and french fries (yes high cholesterol recipe for heart attack city). Then I watched a little bit of Fox News (just before they completely lost their fucking minds with the rise of Trumpism), indulged in some nice ripe pesticide laced menthol cigarettes, out in the car of course, I was a responsible smoker, though a lot of them are lazy, selfish, rebellious, defiant and don't seem to care much about other people (ignorant of sensitivities in others, may I please step on your toes a little harder till they crack?), and crashed. Was I awful and politically incorrect or what? Or maybe just a stupid, undisciplined hedonistic pig who likes things that are bad for him. If only the latter, welcome to about 80% of the rest of America.

Anyhow, the next morning we got our usual “Old West” traveler's fare, steak and eggs at the Knotty Pine Restaurant, one of about three or four local options for eateries, including that other place down the street where Mother Janet had found me that tasty cholesterol trap the night before. We saw a young, working class father depositing some quarters in the slot machine behind us (better get used to it, the klink-klink, boom-boom, flash-flash, and bling-bling are commonplace in Nevada restaurants and convenience stores), hopefully not all of the family's rent or heating money. After we filled our personal “tanks” (I think I again ordered a milkshake or sundae type item, breakfast of champions, sure beats a Bloody Mary, and much less likely to get you arrested), we tanked up the minivan at the nearby Sinclair Station, as well as getting replacement sunglasses for the ones we accidentally wrecked the day before (a lot of shit gets lost and/or broken while traveling, when pressed for time, caution and prudence are often sacrificed for expediency, no matter how careful we might be while living at home).

A few quick notes of history on Caliente before leaving, it was named that word, which is Spanish for the nearby Caliente (Hot) Hot Springs. At the height of the Roaring 1920's (Three one term Republican Presidents in a row, including Hoover Dam's own Herbert Hoover), when their train depot was built in 1923, the town's population had grown to over 5,000 residents, but had collapsed clear back to about 970 by 1940, followed by their all-time low of 792 by 1950, the year Mother Janet was born. The train depot no longer serves trains, but is now used to house some Government Offices and a Historical Museum, the seat of Lincoln County being back in Pioche (Boot Hill) to the north.

On a bit more of a controversial note, yes, I just love being the turd in the punch bowl, “Well, I'll Just Say”, Caliente is home to a Youth Detention Center, which according to the NV.GOV site, is used just as much for correction and rehabilitation as for incarceration, where inmates practice journaling (a too awesome skill) and cognitive modification therapy before being released, as opposed to punching license plates, peeling potatoes, making bricks, or some other humility building boring tedious shit work. Also, Caliente was an epicenter of scandal involving the disturbing and immensely perverse case involving Warren Jeffs (of the notorious old Mormon Jeffs family) and the FLDS (Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints) Church when the case broke the news waves back in 2005. The former Hot Springs Motel, which of course was owned and operated by local FLDS Members, was the site of several forced, as in NOT consensual, “he saw, so he begat, and therefore claimed” marriages between older men and underaged (pre-teen in some cases) girls.

The case was effectively “slam dunked” in 2011, when sickened jurors heard audiotape of Jeffs consummating (raping) his 12 year old bride, as well as forcibly fondling a couple of Mormon Altar Boys in the bathroom. He was ultimately charged, tried and convicted on sex abuse charges in Nevada, Arizona, Utah, and also Texas, where an FLDS enclave containing more child brides was raided by Law Enforcement, sentenced to 20 years plus (not to) Life Imprisonment, as well as receiving charges for using his leadership role as president of the FLDS to embezzle large sums of cash and high ticket gifts from his followers, and then persuading his poorer and more cash-strapped followers to engage in Food Stamp and Welfare Fraud, to replace what he stole from them, all because it was “God's Will” to steal Government Benefits in the name of The Church. It's crooked, deceitful, greedy, short sighted crap like this that unfairly gives all Red State people a bad name with the Liberals and Democrat Elites that live in the coastal states.

Moving right on along, with new sunglasses, bottles of Powerade, and a full gas tank in hand, we set course for Alamo, NV, about 40 miles Southwest from Caliente on US Highway 93. Alamo, NV, population 1,080, elevation 3,449. Alamo is also the Spanish Word for the Poplar Tree, which is known to be present in the area. Alamo, NV, not to be confused with the more historically and pop culture popular site in Texas where legendary pioneer and statesman Davy Crockett (1788-1838) fell in battle at age 50. What a glorious and honorable way for it to all end, sure beats Cancer with a stick.

The author of this material grew up with rednecks who also sought to end him in this fashion for being a sissy boy wuss. Why? Because he made them very mad and annoyed by simply existing. Where I grew up, when I grew up, if you were a young lad, if someone or something annoyed you, pissed you off, or otherwise made you feel bad, you were automatically entitled to beat it up and throw it away, regardless of the law, rules, or social consequences. Nature, and humanity, apparently, abhor weakness, regardless of the reason. Survival of only the fittest and strongest, smart ain't got nothing to do with it. Lord Of The Flies, Buzz, Buzz.

As for Alamo itself, basically a ranching community, spread kind of sparsely across the Pahranagat Valley. The elevation here, being about 2,500 whole feet lower, makes it a bit drier and hotter here, more typical of the Las Vegas/Mesquite/Littlefield, AZ/St George, UT run we took on the I-15 during our Great Southwest Adventure of 2001, where we hit California (the Sierra Part), Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico, and returned by way of Wyoming (passed Grand Teton National Park), a tiny Southwest corner of Montana (which was basically all Yellowstone National Park), and Idaho, making sure to ditch I-84 before reaching Boise, as Mother Janet simply DID NOT like big cities, nor does the author of this material. It has it's own Sinclair Gas Station, complete with the cute little turtle on the sign. Somewhat reminds me a bit of Myrtle Point, OR, where the author of this material spent about six months as a six year old in 1986, while Mother Janet served as assistant editor at the Myrtle Point Herald.

After passing that Sinclair Station by a mile or so, we found a spot with an amply wide shoulder to pull off, and reversed course back northward, passing back through Ash Springs and Crystal Springs again (minor nothingburger, by Eugene, OR standards, ghost towns). We then turned northward onto Nevada State Route 318, bypassing the famed “Extraterrestrial Highway”, also known as Nevada State Route 375, heading Southwest to Rachel (Yes, the fabled little hamlet of Area 51 fame, which was also the fictional backdrop of the Blacksite Area 51 game by Midway, that the author played back in 2007, on XBOX 360), Warm Springs, and Tonopah. If we hadn't had prior plans to go north, it would have made sense to return to Yerington this way, but we did, have prior plans, and we did not, go back that way, that was. Maybe next time, assuming there will be a next time. It is foolish and arrogant to assume something as abstract and distant as that. We live in a nuclear age, a whole world can be undone with a button push.

We pressed northward on Nevada State Route 318, passing through Hiko, NV, population 120, elevation 3,869, about 6 miles north from the Crystal Springs junction with Nevada State Route 375 and US Highway 93. Hiko is a small agrarian community, nestled in the Tonopah Basin, which is a transitional area between the Mojave Desert and Great Basin Regions, which once upon a time, during it's silver mining heyday of the 1860's, had been the County Seat of Lincoln County, before being replaced by Pioche, it's present day seat, in 1871, oddly the the year before Francois LA Pioche killed himself for financial reasons. Not much remains of the old town, other than it's original cemetery, the old ore processing mill, and a derelict brick building that had been their General Store.

We then proceeded about 80 long, desolate miles northward on Nevada State Route 318, it was good that we had tanked up on gas in Caliente that morning, for that reason, this actually seemed to us, way more “desolate” than “America's Loneliest” US Highway 50 was. After weaving through some low-slung, rocky, and tumbleweed filled canyons after passing Hiko earlier, as well as spending about 15-20 minutes stuck behind some slow moving semi-trucks and Winnebagos (this much waiting would kill Uncle, but in my experience, about eighty percent of life is waiting, and the other twenty percent action, not the other way around, those who cannot wait are just fit to be tied), the terrain started to open up again, and after a series of alternating drops and rises, we eventually crossed from Lincoln County back into White Pine County, the County with Ely in it, where we had been the day before.

About halfway through this 80 mile jog, we stopped at the Wayne E Kirch Wildlife Management Area, near Shingle Peak to the east, which lucky for us, just so happened to have restrooms, as we were starting to be in need at that point. Since it seemed to be “the only place with a restroom” in that whole 80 mile stretch, we had to wait our turn, in spite of there being three or four different sets of restrooms. As we waited our turn, I indulged in some more Powerade and Menthol Cigarettes (Shame, Shame) and watched a passing assortment of young couples, families with kids, and grubby looking truckers (I “are” a grubby person too, not judging), as well as taking note of a scary and vicious looking Rattlesnake Warning Sign, taking care to not go sticking my hands into wastebaskets or around corners for hoots and giggles, as well as seeing an actual real Nevada Dust Devil (small dirt tornado) brewing on the western horizon.

After negotiating the second stretch of 40 miles, where the tumbleweed canyons had finally given way to rolling high desert hills of pinion pine and juniper, we came upon Lund, NV, population 280, elevation 5,580, about 10 miles south from the junction with US Highway 6, which merges with US Highway 50 going into Utah. Lund was named for Anthon H Lund (1844-1921), a Danish Immigrant who came to the US when he was 12, with his maternal grandmother, as his mother had died when he was young, and his father was previously occupied in a War in Germany, somehow ended up being adopted and raised by the Latter Day Saints Church, and went from being a simple telegraph operator for Brigham Young in Salt Lake City, to becoming a high level Priest and Councilor in the Church.

Much to his credit, Anthon Lund was one of the few high level Mormon men to keep a singular, monogamous wife, at a time when polygamy (the controversial, and now illegal practice of taking multiple, or also known as plural wives) was the norm and official Church policy. The land that comprises the town of Lund was granted to the Church by the US Government in exchange for their property seizures in the 1887 Edmunds-Tucker Act, which sought to ban the practice of polygamy and reclaim some lands that had been taken either by fraud, or open warfare with the US Army, during the territory skirmishes that had happened during the early expansionist phase of the Church under Brigham Young, some 20 years earlier. The Latter Day Saints Church still maintains a full Ward (a community unit) in Lund, as of present writing.

After driving slowly (and carefully) through the tiny hamlet of Lund, obeying their posted 25 mile per hour traffic limit, as Mother Janet still retained a touch of her old “Mormonphobia” from her incident of nearly being abducted by a couple of Fundamentalist Mormon Missionaries back in Lakeside in 1984, and did not wish for us to be stopped or accosted by any “Weird Fundamentalist” Mormon Policemen, we put Lund into our rear view mirror and did not look back.

We made way to return to Ely, NV, following Nevada State Route 318 the last 10 miles from Lund, and merging eastward onto US Highway 6, winding our way up and down some more rolling high desert hills of pinion pine and juniper, and passing a couple of old sun faded billboards for the local brothels in Ely. We dropped into Ely long enough to eat, and we tanked up at a Union 76 Station, then got back onto US Highway 93, going northward to McGill, NV, about 10 miles north of Ely.

McGill, NV, population 1,148, elevation 6,204, began as a cattle ranch, in the Steptoe Valley, established by John Cowger who acquired water rights there in 1872. In 1886, Cowger was bought out by land speculators William Lyons and William McGill, and in 1891, a Post Office was built there, the place now known as McGill Ranch. In 1906, the regional copper mining company, Nevada Consolidated Copper and the local copper mining company, Cumberland and Ely Mining Corporation formed a strategic partnership to make use of the local water source as a coolant for their planned smelter operation, thus forming the Steptoe Valley Smelting and Mining Company.

That year, about 9 miles of aqueducts were built to pipe water from Duck Creek into the smelter, and the smelter construction was completed in 1908. The town was initially called “Smelter” for the smelter operation, before taking the name McGill, for the McGill Ranch that it had been built on. Copper Production in McGill went into full boom mode starting in 1910, when the town grew from about 1,000 residents, up to 2,000, then from 2,000 to about 3,000 in 1920. In 1932, with Copper Production beginning to lag a bit and lose steam, the Steptoe Valley Smelting and Mining Company operation was bought out by Kennecott Utah Mining Corporation, along with the rest of Nevada Consolidated Copper that had owned it.

The population and Copper Production would mostly hold steady at a small trickle for the next 50 years, until 1983, when the bottom fell out of the copper market and ore quality also took a sharp nosedive, Kennecott Utah Mining Corporation made the tactical decision to both close and demolish the mine, so as to not waste any more company time or resources in continuing to work a mine that had long since played out. As the Kennecott Mine was largely the main employer in McGill, about two-thirds of the 3,000 packed up and left when their jobs were gone, bringing McGill's population back to it's present level, and thus returning it back to it's more agricultural roots.

With McGill, and another chunk of history behind us, we continued northward up US Highway 93. The area here was much like the mountain ringed, sagebrush filled rangeland we had traversed on our way down to Pioche, the night before, but being further north, there was somewhat less dirt and more greenery and in spite of being August, some rather small foggy unmelted snow caps in the mountains there. On the west side of US Highway 93, was Northern Nevada's fabled Ruby Mountain Range, something Mother Janet and I had seen briefly from the other direction in Elko, back on our 2007 visit.

Cherry Creek, NV population 72, elevation 6,130, about 30 miles north of McGill, in Steptoe Valley, on US Highway 93, for all intents and purposes, could presently be classified as a Ghost Town though it was being kept as a State Park when we stopped briefly to visit, as a bit of a “make-up exercise” for not visiting the Great Basin National Park the day before. It sits on White Pine County Road 21, which had formerly been Nevada State Route 489, and formerly Nevada State Route 35, until about 1993, when the State abdicated maintenance jurisdiction of the road to White Pine County. Cherry Creek is about 8 miles west from US Highway 93.

The reason I even stop to mention Cherry Creek, NV, is that as small as it might be today, it had once been something much larger and greater 150 years ago. Cherry Creek is nestled into the foothills of the Cherry Creek Range to the west and faces the Schell Creek Range to the east, which are the defining borders of the long, narrow Steptoe Valley. The old Pony Express route used to run through Egan Canyon, a few miles south of Cherry Creek. In the early 1860's, early settlers found the area to be ripe with multiple gold and silver deposits. The community was officially founded in 1872, when two prospectors from the nearby Egan Canyon, staked claim to the “Tea Cup” Deposits, which were rich with both gold and silver, the population grew to 400 residents by the next year. However, by the next year after that, 1874, a lot of the original claims from just two years before were already beginning to dry up, and a lot of the mines and ore processing mills went with them, though the town managed to slog along on life support for about six years, until hitting it's second, and very humongous boom in the year 1880.

By 1882, having located several million dollar's worth gold and silver deposits, the population of the town had mysteriously exploded to 7,800 residents, which was nearly twenty times it's original figure of 400, although historical and census records kept at the time (this was also about the time the Government began it's modern day practice of census taking and population tracking) had suggested about 6,000, or about three-fourths of that number were temporary transient (not a nice word, but that's what they were) mine workers that had come in from out-of-state, not local people. Even so, a rather sizable coterie of side businesses, including no fewer than 20 saloons, several restaurants, a livery stable, a blacksmith's shop, a Wells Fargo Telegraph Station, and a stagecoach line running west to Toana over in Elko County, had cropped up in the wake of this new big mining boom.

However in 1883, just one short year later, the town once again hit a major hardship with a second and more momentous economic crash. This new momentous economic crash proved to be a swift and decisive death blow to both the town's population levels and it's core economic resources, which had been mining and little else, all the previously mentioned side businesses had been solely dependent on there being mining activity in the area, so naturally, when the mining went, so did the side businesses, as the miners were basically their only customers. The second, and most decisive collapse of Cherry Creek was capped off in 1888, when a fire had broken out and gutted most of the downtown area and it's businesses.

By the time the next Census was taken in 1890, the town's population was logged at being a mere 350 residents, actually 50 heads less than what had been Cherry Creek's starting figure in 1872, just 18 years before. The reason I even stop to mention, what are otherwise boring population figures for Cherry Creek, is to best illustrate the typical “boom and bust” cycle of mining towns, how the populations of those places are even more ethereal and volatile than other forms of resource extraction based economy, such as timber, fishing, and agriculture, with fossil fuels running maybe a close second to mining, as far as being a “here today, gone tomorrow” flash in the pan type of industry.

Rebuilding efforts in Cherry Creek were again slowed by two more minor fires in the business district in 1901 and 1904. However, the next year in 1905, Cherry Creek once again was spurred by a bit of renewal and regrowth, when new gold and silver deposits were discovered, but they were very small and few between, and only at best comparable to the little boom of 1872, as opposed to the much bigger one that came in 1880. Cherry Creek would patiently slug along at a snail's pace for about another 40 years until the post World War II years of the late 1940's, maintaining a few hundred residents, and very small, but steady ore production.

Cherry Creek has been in steady decline in the seventy years since, though it still once in a blue moon will continue to stir the interest of the local mining companies, but it is now clear at this point in time that ore production will most likely not again reach 1880's levels in my lifetime. It's total production level since 1872 is estimated to be around $20 million dollars, but the bulk of that activity occurred around the two big boom years of 1872 and 1880, with the minor “trickle down” (I hate trickle down economics) starting in 1905. Up until as recently as 2010, the old Barrel Saloon remained open as the “local watering hole”, however it too had to adjust with the slowing times, and finally folded after having been around for about 130 years. A museum, an old single room schoolhouse, and the long shuttered Cherry Creek Barrel Saloon are still open for tourism (so far as I know in 2014), and maintained by the Nevada State Park System.

Now moving along toward Currie, NV. We went about 15 miles Northeast from the Cherry Creek turnoff on the main US Highway 93, until reaching our first junction, where we stayed with the  main US Highway 93, going Northwest, bypassing the alternative US Highway 93 that was a more direct route to the ghost town of Cobre and West Wendover on the Utah border off to the Northeast. From there, we went 12 miles north to Currie, in which time, the terrain became a lot more wide open after having left the Steptoe Valley at the junction.

As for Currie, there's not a whole lot to say about it, other than that it presently holds about 20 total residents, two of it's former residents who now live in Utah, happen to own the little rundown downtown area, and are looking to sell, but it's somewhat of a “closed deal”, and you won't find it on Zillow or Trulia. Though the town sure seems dead, and probably should be classified a ghost town like Cobre (Spanish for Copper) on the Alt 93, it still has a Northern Nevada Railway Depot (and highway crossing, with signals and crossbars), Currie Elementary School, in operation by Elko County School District, a Nevada Department Of Transportation building and the Lear Ranch.

Currie was named for a rancher by the name of Joseph Currie, who built his ranch there in 1885. The big heyday of Currie, and the ghost town of Cobre on the Alt 93, was from about 1906 to 1941 when the rail line served roughly 4.6 million passengers, when the McGill-Ely area copper mining operation first hit pay dirt in 1906. However, when Kennecott Utah shuttered and demolished the Ely mine in 1983, the McGill smelter went with it, then service to Cobre, whose Post Office had shut after 50 years of service in 1956 stopped, then service to Currie was terminated, literally the next day. Suffice to say, mining seems to be a very big fucking deal in Nevada, at least the northern part of it. Without it, nothing else much seems to be able to go.

Moving along, we passed the first turnoff going west, then took the second one, the first being Nevada State Route 229, which turned south and joined up with Nevada State Route 767, which led to Ruby Valley and Shanty Town, the second one that we took west, being Nevada State Route 232, then we managed to spot the famous Hole In The Mountain natural landmark in the Ruby Mountains from   Nevada State Route 232, about 3 miles out from it. Hole In The Mountain is a spot at 11,311 feet in the East Humboldt Range, near the Elko-Wells area, where there is what appears to be a hollowed out “window” or hole in the actual mountain peak. Supposedly, it can also be seen from about 10-12 miles away from the I-80 Freeway in the north, but not recommended to attempt while driving unless one wants to meet with a fiery wreck at a high Freeway speed (75 miles per hour in Nevada).

We then followed Nevada State Route 232 back to US Highway 93, passing the Ruby Mountain Brewing Company (an item perhaps of interest to Willamette Valley area Microbrew Fanatics, but of zero interest to me and Mother Janet, as we had many years of recovery behind us) and Chimney Rock, before crossing the railroad tracks again and following the final 6 miles into Wells, NV, where we once again encountered serious car trouble upon entering. There was a loud groaning sound in the steering column on the dashboard, and suddenly without warning, we had no more Power Steering, and a big long stretch of I-80 Freeway ahead of us in order to get back to the Yerington/Silver Springs/Fallon area, where our property we wanted to buy awaited us.

Mother Janet and I made the quick and dicey decision to press on to Elko, NV, after tanking up at a gas station in Wells, as they were a busy little truck stop town of only 1,000 people, whereas Elko had about 16,000, this was one of those times we figured it would pay to “go where there was people”, even though we had spent the better part of 14 years living as anti-social hermits in near total isolation, and went against our default nature. We had also figured that if we tried getting our thing fixed in little dibby Wells, that we could well end up waiting a week or longer on our fix, due to the bad combination of it both being a tiny town and a busy truck stop whose mechanic services probably served scores of commercial truckers each week, so we sort of figured we most likely wouldn't even be able to get our minivan looked at for several days at least, which was the same problem we had run into back in Roseburg, OR.

Gritting our teeth, and turning westward onto the I-80 Freeway, with a refilled gasoline tank and a now busted and empty power steering fluid tank and the wimpy worthless steering wheel to go with it, we pushed the last 60 miles onto Elko, NV, with the sun starting to dip toward the western horizon, it was now 6 pm. As we nervously tried to keep the car running straight on the freeway, we took in the nothing short of fabulous sights we had remembered before on our 2007 trip, the wide open Humboldt River Valley with the Ruby Mountains to the south, strangely ripe little bits of green river-fed grass to accompany the sagebrush and tumbleweed, along with loose scatterings of pinion pines. For Nevada, it sure as heck reminded us a lot of Western Oregon with that big display of greenery. The High Desert (and frosty snowy winters that go with it) is sure a far cry from the Low Desert of the Mojave, which is how most popular stereotypes and Hollywood Myths view the desert. Let me tell you right now, it isn't all like that. We passed Alazon, Deeth, Halleck, Elburz, Osino and Ryndon as we completed our hairy power steering-less course to Elko.

We sought out an exit on the west side of town, hoping to land us near the downtown area (and near the Alano Club so we could catch some meetings while we were stuck) without having to do too much extra driving, so that we could park the car as soon as possible, for the sake of our and other people's safety. We entered in on the very western edge of Elko, passing a McDonald's and a Taco Bell, and the beginnings of their Industrial Area. We passed by a couple motels that appeared to be either overbooked or overpriced ($99 a night) before finding one that was just about right downtown near the Elko Post Office and Library, the Centre Motel, run by a kind friendly Indian (East Indian, not Native American) proprietor for $72 a night, which was about $20 more than we would have liked, but certainly better than $99, and less “Nevada Tacky” looking than the Thunderbird next door, which had a pool that we didn't really care about, since we weren't big swimmers anyway.

After settling into our room, which oddly was a corner room on the lower floor, backed right into a hill, so we surmised being that well sheltered, the room would be well insulated from the heat in the summer, and would keep warm in the winter, but of course might be difficult to escape from in the event of a fire. Luckily, Travis was a good and respectful motel guest and took his Menthol Cigarettes either out to the car (before it got put in the shop) or the parking lot, which was plenty roomy, so long as it wasn't overbooked, we sought out some dinner before making our agenda for the next day. We went to the Stockman's Casino And Restaurant (Now owned and run by the Ramada Hotel Chain), about 2-3 blocks from Centre Motel, and loaded up on a Caesar Steak Salad. Once again Mother Janet bellyached and complained (which wasn't usually her style, she was more often the “suck it up buttercup” and “quit your whining” type) about lousy casino food, and this time I sort of agreed with her. The bits of steak seemed kind of old, stale and recycled, as did the baked potato that came with the salad. Of course, that didn't stop us from going back twice more during the four days we were stranded there, as it was relatively cheap for restaurant food and very close by to our motel and convenient.

We then returned to our room at Centre Motel, and crashed for the night. We got up at about 10 am and went and got our second meal at the Stockman, the usual Steak & Eggs, which were less than impressive, as expected, then walked past the Library and Post Office, and sought out the Alano Club, about 6-8 blocks Southeast from there, skirting past the ill-reputed “Brothel Block”, near the railroad tracks and the river, which had about 3-4 working brothels there, largely featuring “young, fresh-faced Asian girls”, sorta makes one wonder a bit about their “street legal” status when the establishment makes such a big deal about them being “young”, along with a small roach looking motel that we surmised the “girls”, however old they were, used to entertain the clients. There are plenty of years in your life to indulge in that sort of thing, they don't all have to be between 18 and 21. Anyway, we went about 4 more blocks past that to the east to find the Alano Club, our noon meeting, and much needed spiritual nourishment.

After the meeting, which was good and refreshing, we wandered yet another 3-4 blocks east from there to find a nice good natured mechanic, who lucky for us said he could probably get us up and running in 3 days for about $400, which was a boon for us, since we were hoping to not be stranded for too much longer than that, we went back to Centre Motel, by way of Roy's Market, which was something of a hybrid between a convenience store and a full supermarket, collecting some more bottles of Powerade and some Ice Cream Bars, then Mother Janet left me at the room with the TV and the magazines we had been hauling around with us, after we emptied our junk from the minivan, so we'd have access to it while it was in the shop, and she took it away.

We had a few bizarre, crazy, and interesting encounters during our time in Elko. On our first night, on the main drag, Idaho Street, we saw some crazy, possibly drunk or gacked out on meth dude that was blasting loud head banger music from loudspeakers that were attached to his motorcycle, so loudly that it “raped” our ears, it was that bad. Then the next night, on our way back to Centre Motel from our meeting, we witnessed a rather ill tempered (oh no, I don't know anyone like that) redneck driver in some classy old Cadillac or T-Bird, wasn't done “Texas Style” with the Longhorn Cattle Skull on the hood, but could have just as easily been done that way, who viciously tried to run the driver in front of them off the road because they were impatient and mad at them for stopping to let us cross the street. A little chill went through our blood, as we later realized, if the good natured “Slowpoke” hadn't intervened on our behalf, she vicious psycho redneck would have been the one in front, with nothing stopping them from running us down, simply because we pissed them off by slowing them down.

We had also witnessed a couple of rather bad fights nearly break out among the AA crowd there in Elko. In one instance, a couple of “Big Wheel Spiritual Guru” types (AA does have those), got into a yelling and dick wagging match, which eventually dissipated and lost energy. In another, a sleazy young con man, who still reeked of alcohol, and had been inappropriately pushing himself at the ladies, got in the face of, and tried picking a fight with another young fellow, who was emotionally hurting, and sore from his divorce with his longtime wife, and being somewhat quick tempered himself, he very nearly took the bait, and struck the drunk little scam artist shitbag, but luckily he had a more cool headed friend on hand, to hold him back from striking the dude, who in my opinion, probably deserved to be hit, he was being a total disrespectful, irritating, annoying jackass, but legally speaking, once you hit somebody, provoked or not, unless they hit you first, it becomes assault, and you run the risk of going to jail. I am not a lawyer, but that is my best “street smart” read on physical encounters with aggressors.

Then on the last day before we left, after we had our minivan fixed up, and back on the road, we also had another big chest thumping “I'll fuck you up, f_gg_t.” type of psycho redneck (complete with Triple “K” Ranch and Confederate Rebel Flags) rip right out of a bank parking lot, and nearly clobber us head on (head ons can be very bad, even at low speeds, if the electric spark in your headlights or car battery ignite the gasoline, if your gas tank gets ruptured), with his big 3/4 ton Silver Dodge Ram Pickup. How my poor old 64 year old mother and I became “f_gg_ts” that needed to be run over, is way beyond me, but I surmise that's about where his crazy cuckoo mind was at.

We also had a couple of bizarre and awkward social encounters during our stay there. We had met one young couple from Salt Lake City, we surmised, probably Mormon, though we did not know for a fact; not everybody from Utah or Idaho is Mormon, but at least the slight majority probably are, since it is where the religion finally took hold and spread, once the Mormon Pilgrims came westward on their two step journey from New York, then Illinois, in the early days with founder Joseph Smith. Anyway, they were rather quick to explain to us that “ELKO” stood for “EVIL LAND KEEP OUT”, and were trying to resettle up in Twin Falls, ID with the young lady's folks, since they were somewhat fearful for their safety, and were fed up with the “greed, political corruption, and rampant crime” that had overrun Elko, NV.

We also had a nice fellow, maybe about 5-10 years younger, who took us out to lunch at The Coffee Cup, which is a nice homey little family style cafe, where he fed us a bit of the back story on why Elko had become so hostile and crazy in the last seven years, since we had visited before, when we had left there with the rather pleasant, relaxing, and charming perspective on the place, having romanticized the splendidly beautiful Ruby Mountains and Humboldt River Valley. Just comes to show, and you can quote me on this “Looks are often deceiving, and no matter how much intel on a town you gather from library books or the Internet, the only way you ever really know a town is to put your own personal boots on the ground and spend some time there.”

Anyway, “foolish, ignorant, non-cultured, non-politically correct” Travis made a bad verbal faux pas with this gentleman, when he referred to a couple of Mormon Missionaries as “Mormons” causing the poor fellow to wince, tighten up, and become a bit uncomfortable. Apparently, Travis did not know that they usually prefer to simply be called “LDS”, rather than Mormon, just as some Democrats (perhaps maybe the more honest ones with integrity) would rather be called “Progressive”, than “Liberal”, since there are some unfortunate social contexts, in which calling a spade a spade, or shit sandwich a shit sandwich might not be the best social strategy, honesty without compassion is brutality, but on the other hand, the Author's Mother was very vehement and rigid on people “not lying or being phonies”, or “sugarcoating a critical truth” under the guise of political correctness, politeness, or sparing one's tender ego (this applies to the ladies as much as men, they have egos too). Hopefully, Travis learned his lesson from this scathing embarrassment and will keep his mouth shut and let others lead the conversation when he is engaged in social contexts that are unfamiliar to him. But he won't stop being honest solely on account of your feelings, either.

So yes, on our way out of Elko, Mother Janet and I had a tasty Lamb Chop dinner at the Star Basque Restaurant in Downtown Elko. Mother Janet was rather fascinated by Basque (French-Spanish People of Andorra, in Southern Europe), as her grandfather, on her father's side, Harold Pinot Smyth (1900-1959, died of a heart attack shoveling six feet of snow, during a Seattle winter, at demanding wife Ruth's behest) had been Basque. We enjoyed the meal, and it was a very educational and emotionally enriching experience for us. We also paid a visit to the Northeastern Nevada Historical Museum at the east end of Elko, where we took in a lot of the old Cowboy and Miner exhibits, and the like, and Travis loaded up on a couple pounds of volcanic rock samples from their gift shop. We were grateful to have had this particular experience, as back in our 2007 trip, we had really wanted to visit the Humboldt County Museum over in Winnemucca, NV, about 120 miles to the west of Elko on I-80, but we had been shut out due to bad timing. We then took our minivan back to Centre Motel, for one last night's stay, and rounded up our things from the room as we had done back in Roseburg, OR. I also later read in Elko's Newspaper, that there had been a violent stabbing incident in the Stockman's Casino, just one day after we had eaten there, chilling. So far as the Author knows, that victim hadn't died at press time, but he did not follow up on that case. Moving onward, forward, and finally, finally out of Elko, NV, after four too-long stressful days. Next place please.

We began our much awaited exodus of Elko, by following Nevada State Route 535, which is basically just the westernmost portion of Idaho St in Downtown Elko, that comes off of the I-80 Freeway, east to South Fifth Street, then following it south over the bridge and the security fence along the Humboldt River and over the Humboldt River, onto Nevada State Route 227, the Lamioille Highway, and into Spring Creek, NV, population 12,361, elevation 5,659.

Spring Creek, NV began back in the 1970's, not 1870's, by oil baron CV Wood of McCullough Oil Company, it and the town of Datyon near Silver Springs on US Highway 50, are both relatively new “bedroom communities” that grew from older towns as the entire State Of Nevada became more developed with the big Casino Industry Boom that began in the late 1950's/early 1960's, yes back when the Mafia, The Democratic Party Of Nevada, and good old Frank Sinatra and the famed “Rat Pack” ran the Nevada Gambling Scene. It sits in a relatively flat open valley area between the Elko Hills to the Northwest and the Ruby Mountains to the Southeast. To the Southwest is Huntington Valley and the South Fork of the Humboldt River, directly to the north is the Main Branch of the Humboldt River.

The community was originally developed in three distinct, yet interconnected sections. The western section, at the base of Elko Hills, is comprised of Spring Creek Post Office, a shopping center plaza, or just call it strip mall, and we're good, and a supermarket. The combined grade school/middle school/high school campus, grades 1-12 (the school campus in Silver Springs on US Highway 50, seemed to have about this same approximate arrangement from what I observed there, all the schools literally facing and within a stone's throw of one another) is about one mile east from there.

The central section of the community is about yet another mile east from where the main school campuses are is comprised of a park and an artificial marina style lake, the Spring Creek Marina, and an 18-hole golf course, with a clubhouse. Near to that, is an outdoor sports complex, and a second grade school (the town doubled in size from 5,000 to 10,000 residents between 1990 and 2000, probably necessitating a need for a second grade school). The southern section of the community appears from what I can tell, to be a mostly residential kind of area built largely around an indoor sports complex, known as “The Horse Palace”, and is more or less fitted flush with the foothills of the Ruby Mountains.

Desiring to avoid the traffic hassle and busy social hoopla of Downtown Spring Creek, Mother Janet elected to bypass the downtown area, Mother Janet, by definition, was a hermit, as am I, and simply did not like crowds, big cities, or busy places, too much extra drama, distraction, and chaos, it's safe to say we aren't Extroverts. More simply put, private, not public people, but I am willing to temporarily suspend my shyness and Introversion to share my story with you in writing, so please consider the great bargain I offer you today.

Anyway, Mom did the “End Around”, (which more Extrovert type people denounce as “chickenshit” and “cowardly”) rather than the Direct Approach and sailed about 4 miles past the Nevada State Route 227/228 Junction in the western section of Spring Creek, and meandered Southeast onto Pleasant Valley Road, which skirts the southern edge of the southern section of Spring Creek and charts a direct path around the Ruby Mountain Foothills, complete with all the curves and squiggles. We neatly came out at the eastern edge of the central section of Spring Creek, and turned east onto Nevada State Route 227, then going another mile and a half to Lamoille, NV.

Lamoille, NV, population 105, elevation 5,889, is basically considered the official “gateway to the Ruby Mountains”. Mother Janet and I had, of course, long since decided against settling here, as the property prices, we felt were too far out of our range, since the only place we had seen available when we looked, commanded a price tag in excess of $300,000, which was about three times beyond what we could reasonably afford on Grandpa Norm's inheritance. Perhaps the National Forest Service Scenic Byway, leading into the famed Helicopter Ski Lift tourist trap area artificially skewed the value well beyond our reach, which tends to happen in popular ski places, such as Sisters OR, Grass Valley CA, Lake Tahoe, CA, Aspen and Telluride, CO (I do recall some stuck up snobby lady thumbing her nose at my plaid shorts I was wearing there back on our 2001 trip, it is quite amazing what an excess of income and wealth can do to some people's attitudes, spoil them faster than a wet, soggy, slug ridden compost heap, something Mother Janet was familiar with as an avid gardener, what the fuck was the big deal anyway, they were just plaid shorts, albeit with some tiny paint stains on them, perhaps because they were old and cheap, and didn't have the “fresh store bought” new short look to them. Needless to say that person kind of ruined Telluride for me, if there were any nice people there, I sure didn't meet them that day.)

A fast history briefer on Lamoille, NV. Apparently, a group of passing immigrants on the great California Trail, originating in the Nebraska area of the Great Plains, and ending in California, had found the grass on the main trail, better known as the Fort Hall Route, which more directly followed the concourse of the Humboldt river, to have been overgrazed by previous travelers, and didn't have enough grass to feed their wagon pulling oxen, so they turned a bit south, and found a parallel side trail, also used by the local Shoshone Indian Tribe, beginning at the Starr Valley near Wells and Deeth to the east, skirted the base of both the small East Humboldt Range (Where Hole In The Mountain Is), and the Ruby Mountains to the south of them, curving Southwest. These Immigrants found a large grassy valley, the Lamoille Valley, spanning from Elko Mountain and the Elko Hills in the Northwest, to the East Humboldt Range and the Ruby Mountains, in the east and south.

In the year 1865, the same year US Republican President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth, and the Civil War came to an end, two of these Immigrants, John Walker and Thomas Waterman, having made a long arduous trek clear from the Northeastern United States, landed here and rested their oxen, and being rather travel weary (it happens even to the best of us, life on the road is both physically and mentally draining for a human being), decided to make a go of staying here. Waterman dubbed the place “Lamoille”, as an homage to his native Vermont. Walker built the old Cottonwood Hotel, the General Store and Blacksmithy in 1868, the settlement itself taking the temporary nickname “The Crossroads”.

The pair would continue operating “The Crossroads” as a resting area, wagon fixing station (think 1860's mechanic shop), and supply depot for the remainder of their natural lives (so far as the Author knows). Later, the old Cottonwood gave way to the 20-room Lamoille Hotel, and a Milk Creamery, Flour Mill, and Saloon/Dance Hall were built here, but over time, these buildings also fell to rack and ruin, and were lost in the pages of history. All that remains of the old town is the fabled Church of the Crossroads, which was built in 1907, and remains in service today. In the present tense, there are local US Post Office services, and Pine Lodge Dinner House, and O'Carroll's Bar And Grill, to refuel your tummy if you're in Lamoille and starving. That's about it for Lamoille, a very beautiful pristine natural place, very reminiscent of a Swiss Hamlet in the Alps of Europe, but literally “too rich for our poor Coos Bay blood”.

Mother Janet and I, having had a fast historical and cultural refresher on Lamoille, then retraced our steps, back along Pleasant Valley Road, coming out on Nevada State Route 228, about 2 miles south of the official city line of Spring Creek. We turned left, or south, from our current position, and set course for Jiggs, NV, roughly 17 miles south from our position, at the far end of Nevada State Route 228. It was now about 2 pm.

Along the way, we passed the South Fork Humboldt Reservoir State Park off to the right, a beautiful large man made reservoir (about 20 times the size of Spring Creek Marina, back in town, which we'd skipped in the interest of keeping a good pace) and local water sports (no piss jokes please) recreation area, which somewhat reminded me of Floras Lake, near Port Orford, OR, back on the South Oregon Coast where we had come from, which that spot, back there, had been a popular destination for windsurfers.

About two more miles on the right, was the entrance to the Te-Moak Shoshone Indian Reservation Area, nestled against the Ruby Mountains, with the tiny community, about 50 people, of Lee, NV, founded in 1941, sitting dead center of it, about three miles off of the 228. As we were not card carrying tribal members, and had no official business there, we dared not pass. About this Lee, NV, it must not be mixed up with another Lee, NV, which is officially listed as a ghost town, near the California Border in the Mojave Region down in Nye County.

After another five miles or so, of soaking in the sights of rolling pinion pine/juniper hills, and the up-and-down road that went with it, on the left, we passed the Lee-Jiggs Campground, on the right, we had also passed the Zunino-Jiggs Reservoir Area, which also comes with a campground, this one we did not see passing in either direction, it's about one-tenth the size of the South Fork Humboldt Reservoir that we had seen earlier, and roughly twice the size of the Spring Creek Marina back in town that we'd skipped before.

As for Jiggs itself, it sits roughly 30 miles south of Elko. It had once upon a time, been a year round camping spot for Shoshone Indians that were gathering pinion pine nuts for their tribe. The process of actually naming the community, which never really grew into what could be classified as an actual town, was kind of weird. It had previously had the names, Mound Valley, Skelton (Reminiscent of the Red Skelton Comedian/Clown Fellow), and Hylton, but unfortunately, all these names for the place seemed to all being used at once, and the local residents were utterly and completely unable to decide on one of the three, so much for a Democratic Process.

As the US Post Office had plans to build a new station there on December 08, 1918, a group of area ranchers drummed up a short list of names, presumably excluding the original three, since no one was able choose among those ones, the seemingly odd, yet catchy name Jiggs came up, in reference to a currently running newspaper comic strip character who was the husband of Maggie, in the “Bringing Up Father” series. The name mysteriously somehow was able to stick, in spite of previous contentious disagreement.

Jiggs was featured in a 1965 TV Advertisement for the classically popular hippie vehicle, the Volkswagen Bus, in which the Ad showed the entire town at the time, which was 9 people, and a dog, all fitting into the bus. Nevada Governors Edward Carville and Louis R Bradley, as well as famed Cowboy Poet Bruce Douglas “Waddie” Mitchell all can truthfully claim to have once hung their hat in tiny Jiggs (which is even tinier than rhyming Biggs, OR, a truck stop on the Columbia River Gorge, which had 30 officially listed residents, when me and Father made use of their Best Western back in 1995).

Jiggs was also the fictional base of operations for the “King Fisher” series, created by Dentist and Western Novelist, Pearl Zane Grey (1872-1939). Jiggs' officially listed Census Population as of the year 2000, was listed at 2 residents. That's right, 2. Less than half a hand's count. All that remains of Jiggs today is a dusty old bar, which still seems to be in use, a long discarded single-room schoolhouse, and a State of Nevada historical marker, honoring Army Officer, Politician, and Adventurer, John C Fremont (1813-1890), who had discovered the area in 1845. Well that's it for Jiggs, time for me and Mother Janet to “Jig on outta there.”

Having spent roughly an hour in our weird junket to Jiggs, it was now about 3 pm. We went about retracing our steps back up Nevada State Route 228 and Nevada State Route 227, taking care to “skirt the edge of” Spring Creek, and not get “sucked into the center” of it once more, and followed the 227 back over the hill and across the bridge into Downtown Elko. We then followed Nevada State Route 535, also known as West Idaho Street, about 3 miles westward past the Elko Municipal Airport and back onto the I-80 freeway, managing to cover this roughly 25 miles distance in about half an hour. Then we pressed forth to Carlin, NV, about another 16 miles west, taking in some more of the famous Humboldt River Valley high desert greenery.

We exited south at Exit 282 onto Nevada State Route 221, which quickly turned westward onto Chestnut Street, also known as the old I-80 Freeway, probably before local residents probably complained of the noise and disruption level of freeway traffic and petitioned the State of Nevada to reroute it farther north and away from the town center. Anyway, we followed Chestnut to Twelfth Street, then turned south, then west onto Bush Street (Please, no President Bush Senior or Junior jokes here, I've heard them all, from the totally inane, boring, and witless, to the X-rated pornographic). With that, our fast whirlwind tour of Carlin, NV began in earnest. It is also of brief note that Mother Janet's Second Husband, Michael Edward Williams, had lived and worked here as a Gold Miner back in the 1980's during his first marriage.

Carlin, NV, population 2,368, elevation 4,905, (Nothing to do with famed and acclaimed HBO Comedian George Carlin, 1937-2008), sits roughly 20 miles west of Elko, NV, along the I-80 Freeway Corridor. The town earned it's name from Civil War General William Passmore Carlin, also dubbing the slogan “Where the train stops, and the gold rush begins.” Northwest of it sits the famed Carlin Trend, one of the richest and most productive gold mining areas of Northern Nevada, including the Barrick-Goldstrike site, which employs many people in Wells, Elko, and Carlin, along with several others, which form an oddly shaped curve, when located on a gold miner's map. The Newmont-Battle Mountain Gold Corporation, the second place competitor to Barrick also has an operation here at the Gold Quarry site.

The well known, but albeit controversial Shoshone Medicine Man, John “Rolling Thunder” Pope (1916-1997) made his home here, having come from Oklahoma, which anybody who knows anything, would know that back in the early 1800's, the US Army forcibly “resettled” the bulk of the Eastern States Native Tribes there, briefly working as a brake operator (a rather important job) for the Railroad Company, before becoming both a spiritual and legal advisor to the local Shoshone Tribes. Where the controversy comes in, is that Rolling Thunder was never able to fully verify his Cherokee Heritage from Oklahoma, but the author of this material is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, being possibly distantly removed from that Heritage himself. Seems like less of a fake Native to me than student activist Rachel Dolezal seems like a fake African-American. If I've culturally offended, I apologize for that, but that is my personal opinion.

Also, on the note of trains, the City Of San Francisco Passenger Train had a major derailment off of a bridge near Carlin on August 12, 1939, taking the lives of 24 people and rendering 121 anywhere from slightly to seriously injured. The authorities investigating the crash strongly suspected human caused sabotage, but to this day, have never been able to puzzle out the “who, how, or why” of it, and probably never will, given that it's now been close to 80 years since the incident took place. The train in question was under joint control and management by Chicago and North Western Railway, Southern Pacific (I recall seeing their trains roll by on the tracks, where me and the Smyth Family lived near Lakeside, OR, as a kid), and Union Pacific. Needless to say, a horrible and exacting toll on all the people and families involved.

With our whirlwind tour of Carlin concluded, Mother Janet and I took in the sights of the gas stations, convenience stores, and mom-and-pop type family diners that dotted the main drag along Bush Street before blowing on out of Carlin. Speaking of blowing, or perhaps I should not, we came out onto Nevada State Route 278, coming Southwest, about a mile and a half from Downtown Carlin. On the right, we passed Sharon's Bar & Brothel, which is an older, less well-used establishment, on the left, we passed the more popular and better advertised Dovetail Ranch. Then we went back north to the I-80 Freeway.

We continued westward toward the turnoff to Nevada State Route 306, about 15 miles west from Carlin, looking for some other crazy tiny little town called Beowawe, NV, it was now about 4 pm. We drove about 5 miles south on Nevada State Route 306, seeing a weird mix of floodplain type of farmland, interspersed with sandy hills dotted in sagebrush. We had dropped down about 1,000 feet in elevation, so the overall landscape was back to being somewhat more barren and less greenery than we had seen in the area around Elko.

After taking a brief rest stop, we encountered yet another farm/ranch kind of place that was kind of green, and surrounded by fencing, which further in, had some reddish looking barn buildings, you know, like a farm,but then after that, off to the west, we saw a dirt road that ran parallel with some railroad tracks. We followed this dirt road for about a mile or so, then turned back, after encountering a gate that had been placed by Union Pacific Railroad, and finding that the road literally dead ended right there, and didn't want to get our poor crummy old minivan stuck there, as those kind of vehicles are infamous for low undercarriage clearance, the only thing being worse are those dumb little low rider pickups that the “gangstas” in the cities trot around in.

Our particular minivan, having caught and scraped on Grandmother's steep and rounded driveway when we had come back to Eugene to collect some things we'd stored in her basement when the State had tossed us from my Grandpa Norm's house three years earlier in his Medical Conservatorship Proceedings, something that simply does not happen to families in Europe, because they have Single Payer Health Care there, so the Government has neither the financial incentive, nor the recourse to legally eject the relatives of a deceased person from their house, in order to balance the books with the Medical Providers, since no debt is ever created in the first place. We had also tried going up another dead end road, near the New Gold Nevada Incorporated Offices, that wound it's way up a hill, overlooking the green farmland below, which as it turned out, was being directly fed by the Humboldt River, one of those, you don't know what you're looking at until five minutes after it's gone things. Growing weary of wasting too much time on dead-ends, we returned to Nevada State Route 306, and ultimately the I-80 Freeway. It was now about 4:30 pm.

We followed the I-80 Freeway about 4 more miles west, found another exit that said Beowawe, we took it and turned south again, and saw it put us onto another, somewhat winding, curving dirt road, which followed the direct concourse of the Humboldt River Valley, here the Humboldt had diverged a bit from the the I-80 Freeway, as the terrain got rougher and bumpier, along with the drop in elevation. We passed through the nice green little valley, seeing an assortment of mobile homes, trailers, and simple “A” frame houses, appropriate for High Desert Snowfalls in the winter, some of these places with the telltale redneck survivalist razor wire fence around, with all the junked cars, TV's, laundry machines, and couches, a few may have had the mean, snappy, “have you for dinner if you so much as sneeze or fart anywhere in my direction” dogs, we elected to not investigate too closely.

After about 4 miles, we strangely, from the other side of the river, had seen that same first dead-end go nowhere road with the gate, that had previously stymied us, then we found that this other road, when followed 2 more miles, dumped us back out onto Nevada State Route 306, going back north, into Beowawe, which was in fact, what we had been looking for all along, but stupidly, apparently had grown confused, impatient, stupid, and frustrated (the human emotional condition, even for folks as intelligent as me and Mother Janet, and all our love of scouting maps), and had simply not gone far enough down Nevada State Route 306, the first time we had turned off there. Was that weird and annoying, or what?

Anyway, here comes yet another Travis refresher course on Beowawe, before we go. It turns out that the real reason we could not “find” Beowawe, is because it's not a “real town”, or even a ghost town, as it is often erroneously referred to in travel guides and Internet Map Sites, but an industrial area. As you might have previously guessed from the New Gold Nevada Incorporated Offices, that we had unknowingly passed earlier, it is another gold mining area, but also a former hotbed of Geothermal Geysers, which was more recently harnessed into a Geothermal Energy Plant, which we finally actually saw in plain sight and passed coming at Beowawe coming from the south.

“Beowawe”, is a Paiute Native American Word, for a “gate”. To a casual observer, or layman, the way the hills curve around the valley we had passed earlier, resemble a natural “gate”. The “town”, if there ever was one, was founded in 1868, when the Central Pacific Railroad built their line through there. A few miles east from there, on Pioneer Pass Road is the “Maiden's Grave”, found at the Gravelly Ford site known by immigrants on the old California Trail. A tall cross in the Beowawe Cemetery commemorates the burial of Lucinda Duncan, who perished at Gravelly Ford, in 1863, while traveling the California Trail. Central Pacific Railroad had first noticed the grave near the Humboldt River, when Union Pacific Railroad took that line over in 1906, they relocated the grave to Beowawe Cemetery up the hill from the river, so that they could properly reroute the track in that spot.

The town had hit both it's population and economic peak of 60 residents in 1881, ironically about the same time Cherry Creek, near US Highway 93 experienced a much, much grander, yet still very temporary boom, with a church, school, post office, and general store, having been built in the intervening 13 years. In 1909, with much misplaced premature optimism (don't quiz the author's opinion on positive thinkers) a simple electric power plant was built, but by seven years later, in 1916, the bread crumbs that were still remaining from the old mining boom of 40 years earlier had pretty well withered to nothing, and blew out of there with the high desert wind, along with the bulk of the few remaining residents. No gold, no money, no food, no heating oil, nothing to survive on, out of there. Such is the way of life for the Nevada Miner.

As previously noted, private corporate energy interests have now given the area a bit of a second revival, but do not find it in their best business interests to reopen the area as a civilian settlement. Beowawe now hosts both a Geothermal Power Plant and a Propane Tank Farm, perhaps used to supply propane gas energy and heating companies such as Amerigas and Bimor. In the 1930's, some 20 years after the town had effectively died out, and on the upswing of recovery from the Great Depression, some private companies began surveying the area's geyser hotbed, with photos of the geyser activity, but no serious worthwhile energy studies began in earnest until about 1959.

Flash forward about 25 years to 1986, the modern day Geothermal Plant went online, but as a result of that human activity, two of the geysers went dry and stopped producing steam on the surface, the steam has to go somewhere right, heat rises. Into the plant, clean energy, presto and voila! The Beowawe Plant does resemble somewhat the facility at Fly Geyser, about 20 miles due north of Gerlach in Washoe County of Northwest Nevada (Home of the many years old, infamous, wild and crazy, sex and drugs hedonist's gathering, known as the Burning Man Festival, held every summer), in that both were man-made geysers, but the similarity ends there. The Beowawe Plant was specifically built to be a clean energy operation, Fly Geyser, not the case. The other difference is in the water chemistry, Fly Geyser produces much more Travertine (Yay, a mineral named after me, not.) Deposits, Travertine is liquid Limestone Vapor which leaches and deposits on the surface, if Limestone is present, and the steam geyser wells aren't airtight and solidly capped, which seems to be the case at Fly Geyser. Enough of “Apples To Oranges” comparisons, and onto Battle Mountain for some grub, it's getting late, and we're starving.

We doubled back the 5 miles up to Nevada State Route 306, and returned to the westbound I-80 Freeway at once, and continued westward past the little town places of Rixies and Argenta, noting the further reduced elevation and lack of greenery, between less winter snowfall, and much less direct water feeding from the Humboldt River, with the rockier and rougher terrain, covering about 30 miles in as many minutes. We exited I-80 at Exit 233, onto Nevada State Route 304, which is Hill Top Road merged with Front Street, the main drag of Battle Mountain, and arrived at Ming's Dynasty Chinese Diner, with grumbling stomachs in tow, trying to mentally blot out a very horrific and tragic accident scene that we had seen about halfway there, where the driver of a mid-sized pickup truck had run himself under (maybe drunk and/or going too fast) the back end of a semi truck. We surmised that he most likely had become deader than a doorknob strawberry jam, as they were still using both a forklift and a winch (not wench) to pry the wreck of the pickup, whose driver side was 100 percent mashed in steering column driven through the back window, body previously removed, but still plenty of blood and little bits of skin left on the seat. Dead, Dead, Dead. Pure Carnage. Isn't life in Nevada exciting? It was now about 5:45 pm.

Battle Mountain, NV, population 3,635, elevation 4,511, even after all these years, is still officially an unincorporated township, yet still has a functioning government and is the acting County Seat of Lander County (Austin, NV, which we passed through earlier, also is part of this county, back down at it's southern end). Originally, it was the home base of the Northern Paiute and Shoshone Tribes. The area was first discovered by pioneering fur trappers back in the 1820's and 1830's. By 1845, it had developed into a stopping off point for westward bound immigrants on the California Trail. According to the local lore of the area, the name “Battle Mountain” implied exactly that, the Native Americans and the passing white settlers initially, were in very violent disagreement over who socially and legally held a valid claim to the area, and many clashes and fights erupted on this very issue. A wise man, who happened to be of Native Blood, once stated “The basic problem of a fight, is nobody ever wins.” Take that one to the bank, people.

In the year 1866, Copper Ore was found in the area, and mining activity began. In response to this, Central Pacific Railroad established a station in the area to provide logistical and infastructure for the mining activity. Four years later, in 1870, Central Pacific Railroad relocated their Argenta Station directly to Battle Mountain to better provide logistical support for the mine. From this station, the township grew, and Gold Ore was now being discovered along with the Copper Ore. The Nevada Legislature, in 1874, overrode the Governor's veto, and approved a secondary rail line to link up Battle Mountain with the town of Austin, down south. Nevada Central Railroad won the contract for this line, it's secondary purpose, being to support the transport of Silver Ore that was being mined in the Austin area. This rail line would remain in service until it's abandonment in 1938.

US Republican President US Grant made a stop here during his 1879 Western States Speaking Tour. US Democrat President Woodrow Wilson established Battle Mountain Indian Colony by Executive Order in 1917. Nevada's Red Scare Miners held a ten day strike at Battle Mountain Copper Mines in 1919. In 1979, the year before the author of this material was born, the Nevada Supreme Court ruled to establish the seat of Lander County at Battle Mountain. Chiefs Frank Temote and Frank Brady rejected the Government's offer of a payoff, under the terms of the 1863 Treaty Of Ruby Valley, on December 11, 1992. In 2008, a 6.5 magnitude earthquake hit Wells, NV. This unfortunately was able to cause severe structural damage to one of Battle Mountain's oldest historical buildings, the Lemaire Building, which required it being condemned in the interest of public safety.

In modern times, on the subject of sports, and world records, Battle Mountain hosts an annual bike race on a long, straight, flat stretch of Nevada State Route 305 just outside town. The event draws teams from all over the world as they attempt to build and pedal the fastest bicycles on earth. The event is known as the "World Human Powered Speed Challenge". On September 14, 2013, Sebastiaan Bowier from the Netherlands established himself as "the fastest man alive" by pedaling a streamlined bicycle at 83.13 mph (133.78 km/h) over a 200-meter distance. Bowier's run eclipsed the prior record of 82.8 mph (133.3 km/h) set on September 18, 2009 by Sam Whittingham. Mr. Whittingham's record run in 2009 won the .decimach prize for going one tenth the speed of sound (with adjustments for slope and elevation). In 2009, Barbara Buatois, a French woman, became the "Fastest Woman Alive" by setting the world woman's bicycle speed record at 75.69 mph (121.81 km/h). Also annually held on that same stretch of road is the "Pony Express", an open road event from Battle Mountain to Austin and back. It is the longest open road race in the country, averaging a total of 130 miles (210 km). The race consists of cars from the 1960s-era muscle cars to the most modern sports cars.

Some famous Battle Mountain residents are: Joyce Collins, jazz pianist, singer, and educator; Mary Dann and Carrie Dann, (Crescent Valley) Western Shoshone activists for cultural and spiritual rights and land rights; James H. Ledlie, Union officer in the Civil War whom Ulysses S. Grant called "the greatest coward of the war"; John Marvel, rancher and legislator; Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle, of which a portion takes place in Battle Mountain, and former gossip columnist for MSNBC.com. In local notoriety and news of the weird, are the following items of interest. In December 2001, the Washington Post published an article by Gene Weingarten titled "Why Not The Worst?" that popularly titled Battle Mountain as the "Armpit of America." The town used the unofficial title as a publicity opportunity, and hosted an annual "Armpit Festival" from 2002–2005, which was sponsored by Old Spice and awarded deodorant-themed prizes to participants. On January 2, 2009, The New York Times released an article entitled "A Nevada Town Escapes the Slump, Thanks to Gold". The article regards the national economic depression and discusses Battle Mountain's economy .A meteorite fall was reported on 22 Aug 2012 on Battle Mountain at coordinates 40.66813°N 117.18913°W. It is classified as an ordinary chondrite. Twenty-three fragments with a mass of 2.9 kg had been collected by 3 Oct 2012. "Thanks to Gold," miners were hostile towards efforts to collect fragments, but a 1.4-pound (630-gram) fragment of the Battle Mountain meteorite is currently undergoing analysis at JPL (Jet Propulsion Laboratory) in Pasadena, CA.

History and Culture lesson over, having eaten, and choked down our Barbecue Pork Dinner with some Pepsi, in relative silence, trying hard to not puke, maybe even harder for Mother Janet, with her ever creeping nausea, over the aftermath of the pure carnage we had seen on I-80, we wasted little time and made due haste in exiting Battle Mountain, and setting course for Winemucca, hoping to reach our planned destination of Lovelock, before it got too late into the evening to get ourselves checked into a motel there. We followed West Front Street back to Exit 229, got onto I-80 westbound again and made way. It was now about 6:45 pm.

We passed through Winemucca at about 7:30 pm, having passed the “small places” of Golconda and Valmy, which were probably instrumental in the local Gold Mining History of the Winemucca Area. We saw that like Ely, they had their own billboards up for their brothels, these ones were in better condition, fresher paint, and not as heavily sun damaged, a common Nevada problem. Being nearly twice the size of Ely, probably more dollars in the collective town budget for maintenance and upkeep. Also more added incentive to maintain a “professional” appearance, being on I-80, a National Freeway, as opposed to a lesser known State or Federal Highway. Location, Location, Location. Speaking of the sun, it was now dipping on the western horizon yet again, burning daylight, and now pressing onward to Imlay, NV.

Imlay is an unincorporated town in Pershing County, Nevada, United States. It has an elementary school, a general store, a post office, and a trading post. As of the 2010 census, the population was 171. It is a nearly abandoned railroad town, named for a nearby mine or for the civil engineer who surveyed the town circa 1907. Its most notable feature is a series of strange buildings called Thunder Mountain Monument. These structures were built as a monument to Native American culture by a World War II veteran who called himself Thunder. Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know? public radio show featured Imlay as the "Town of the Week" on its December 5, 2009, show. They mentioned Thunder Mountain Monument as one of the premier draws to the area. Imlay is located in northern Pershing County, Nevada, along Interstate 80, with access from Exit 145. The town is 34 miles (55 km) west of Winnemucca and 40 miles (64 km) northeast of Lovelock. The Humboldt River flows past 2 miles (3 km) to the north, near its inlet into Rye Patch Reservoir. According to the US Census Bureau, the census-designated place of Imlay has an area of 34.5 square miles (89.4 km2), all land.

US Democrat President Franklin Delano Roosevelt paid a visit here in 1938, before his Polio illness restrained his Presidential Duties, and ultimately claimed his life in 1945, at the climax of World War II, forcing Vice President Harry Truman to fill his shoes. From the Rear Platform of his Special Train Imlay, Nevada on July 13, 1938, about 3:00 PM: “I am glad to hear the Governor call it desert -- it is desert -- it is pretty good desert. It is good to be back again in Nevada and get a chance to see things again. It seems to me they look a lot better than they did a few years ago and as you know, your Government in Washington knows that this State is on the map which is something. Some administrations didn't know it was on the map. And, I have been very glad that your State administration, from your Governor down, work so well with all of us on the other side of the continent. We have had real cooperation from the State Government. We have not had any dissention or cross words, and when all of us decided things had to be done, they have been done. You people know I am water conscious -- although not a strict prohibitionist – When I was down on the Ohio River the other day I told them I would catch bigger fish than grew in the Ohio, though I don't think I will get anything that tastes better to eat than Nevada trout -- the Senator gave me some Nevada trout for lunch -- it was delicious. It is good to see you all and I hope to get back here again some day. I hope some day to come in an automobile and stay longer and get to know you better. It is good to see you.” And that is all he spoke, before his train rolled on.

It was now a bit after 9 pm, and dark in Lovelock, NV. I think Mother Janet had to ring the doorbell at the office to summon the motel helper person at the Super 10 (no, not the national Super 8 chain), which was one of four traveler's motels in Lovelock, in addition to the old Lovelock Inn that was nearer to their downtown area that was at the opposite (southern) end of town from us. We got in (to the Inn, never mind), spent about an hour or so decompressing from a hard day's travel, we had basically covered the whole Northwestern Arc of the I-80 corridor in a single day, with four goofy weird side junkets, having originally departed from Elko about nine hours earlier, then we had a much earned and needed crash.

We also saw there was a Book Of Mormon in the nightstand, as opposed to the usual Gideon Bible (the Gideons are a Christian Society, which distribute the Good Book to motels across the US and elsewhere), clearly signifying and removing any doubt that I was in LDS Country, and should can any critical sounding noise I might otherwise make on the religion, coming from a mixed family background of various flavors of Protestantism, with some Catholics deeper in the tree, falling on both sides of the political isle, gosh, I might be something called an “American”, you think, other than to quote Mark Twain, who noted that when sleeping through one of the services he attended, that he counted the phrase “And it came to pass” about 200 times. We dragged it out of there at about 8 am the next morning, did a quick 10 minute tour of the western flank of Lovelock, passing Pershing County High School (Pershing County, taking it's name for the embattled and honored World War I General John “Black Jack” Joseph Pershing, whose wife and three daughters were tragically lost in a housefire, his six year old son Francis, the sole survivor, while he was deployed at the front in Europe in 1915), the Hospital, the Safeway Store, and the Shop-N-Go, before wheeling into their famed Cowpoke Cafe, collecting a Spanish Omelet with a side of Bacon, and exiting Lovelock (And Orenthal James Simpson's Minimum Security Prison Cell, we did NOT leave him a birthday cake with a nail file in it, in case you was asking, John Walsh and Nancy Grace) around 9:45 am.

After rolling on out of Lovelock, we were hoping (in vain) to try to catch a noon AA meeting at Fallon, but wanted to do one last weird “sidetrip”, that is not taking the most popular, main, or direct travel route, which was Mother Janet's typical way of doing things, which earned her the monikers “weird, wild, random, reckless, and unpredictable” maybe not the most popular approach for people who like plans, choices, control, and predictability, which seems to be the vast majority of people nowadays. People have a tendency to want to only put their faith in what they themselves can control, but not so much the things that they cannot. But then this presents the question, what exactly do you do with the 97% of life that you cannot control? Note that I did say 97%, and not 100%, as we are directly responsible for that last 3%, which will never go away. We only control the 3 foot circle that surrounds us, hence the magic number “3”.

Anyway, we exited Lovelock by way of Cornell Avenue, which turned into East Frontage Road, also known as the old US Highway 95 (main, not alternate), which had been “The Way” north and south before the I-80 Freeway was built, much as Mother Janet typically preferred using our old Highway 99 (The Lorraine Highway) when traveling between Coos Bay and Eugene, in spite of being born in 1950, Mother Janet was very “Old School” in her approach to life, whether it be politics, religion, “just exactly how much trust you should extend to a total stranger”, her methodology, her planning, and also how much “Intervention” should be applied to save oneself in a medical situation, or to avoid poverty. Faith based economics and medicine. Unfortunately, for Mother Janet, this drew just a lilt of skepticism, anger, confusion, and frustration from my more progressive and educated relatives, as she unwittingly demonstrated the “appearance” that she simply didn't care as if it looked like she was encouraging me and Brother Connor to “turn our brains off”, “suspend all critical thinking”, “be blindly led off of an intellectual cliff”, and “blindly lap up” all the corporate and theocratic “Red Republican Kool-Aid” being offered by Mother Janet and her parents, even though if you actually knew them as people, they really weren't all that corporate, or religious. People like labels, broad brush categorization, generalization, boxes, borders, compartments, walls, and things they can control.

We followed East Frontage Road, about 15 miles south from Lovelock, paralleling the I-80 Freeway, until reaching Miriam Road, and going through an underpass to the west, then south, where we had followed West Frontage Road, for about 1 mile, until reaching a fenced off area with “No Trespassing” sign (a VERY common sight in Nevada, they are kind of big on the old Conservative theme of “private property” here, but in this day and age of terrorism and mass shooters, if you don't know who someone is, and they refuse to say, then you are left little choice but to assume the worst of them and try to drive them out, I only know this having been at the wrong end of those exchanges a few times, being shy, introverted, or mute is not an excuse, you need to have ID on you when out in public, though I am still old enough to remember when people had more trust to give, and were far less anal retentive about it, but the comes 9-11, Al Qaeda, and now ISIS, however “real” or “not real” those threats are in terms of National Security, they are enough to keep Law Enforcement, Security Personnel, Military, and private right wing civilians highly motivated and on High Alert at all times, so one would do very well to not make them anymore agitated, afraid, or pissed off than is absolutely necessary), and then getting on I-80 Westbound from there (I-80 is more cleanly divided in this area). We then went about 3 miles westward to the Main US Highway 95 turnoff, to the south, turned there, and made use of the Fallon Rest Area, while the author of this material had more Powerade and Menthol Cigarettes, shame on that boy, he goin' to hell.

We arrived in Fallon, for the second time, at about 11:30 am, made our way to the Nugget Casino and Restaurant near downtown Fallon, about where US Highway 50 and US Highway 95 (Main) cross paths, parked the minivan on the shady side of the building, goes without saying in Nevada, as it was the typical ninety something degrees on this summer day. We waited (a common theme for Me and Mother Janet, but some may argue, and rightfully so, that only bad things happen to people who wait, because they are not decisive and aggressive in controlling their situation, thus bringing up the question of when to control, and when not to).

Unfortunately, for us, we waited about and hour, and nobody showed up to unlock the meeting door, because we were operating on bad and outdated information from our schedule, and would only learn a couple weeks later from someone in Yerington that the meeting had been moved to another building near the Cattle Yard in the middle of the residential area on the south side of town. We were screwed, yet again, on account of piss poor planning, and low information. Again, brings up the question of how much ignorance is voluntary versus involuntary. There are some people in the world who actually do want to know less, because it literally hurts their brain and makes their emotions uncomfortable to know the truth. A human brain simply does not have the storage capacity for raw information that a computer does. Do you try to fix them by “informing” them, or do you let sleeping dogs lie (a common failing of the alcoholic and the codependent, wanting to be liked by others, and not have them be mad at you by being “too honest all at once” with them?) Ethics. Truth. Honesty. Tact. Social Kindness. So much complexity, so little time.

With that time wasted, we set course for Schurz, NV. It was now about 1 pm on August 04, 2014, our whirlwind tour of Northern and Eastern Nevada, now officially coming to a close, no more fun and games, it was time to get down to the business of scouting where we were going to live, and scouting properties. Our long side adventure through the “whole” of Nevada had taken up 8 days, having left Yerington, around July 26, 2014, about three days after we had arrived, having been forced out on account of lack of motel rooms. We arrived at Schurz, around 2 pm, a small little Paiute Indian town of about 700 people, 40 miles due south of Fallon and turned west and up and over the mountains going on the Alternative US Highway 95 back to Yerington.

On the way to Schurz, we had passed the Weber Reservoir off to the west, a popular fishing and recreation spot for locals in Lyon and Mineral Counties, as well as seeing Nevada's trademark shadow cloud effect play out on the hills there, being higher elevation there than Western Oregon, the clouds were nearer to the ground itself, producing a much more instantaneous and immediate shadowing effect on the ground, than what is casually observed in Western Oregon. Back in Elko, we had also noticed that unlike Oregon, where once it rains, it's pretty much wet all day, and in some cases, for a week at a time, here in Nevada, they have quick flash in the pan style of rains, meaning, because of the aridity (dryness) it could be dumping buckets in the present tense, and you would not know it half an hour later, because the ground literally dries that quickly with that much consistent heat and aridity. Mother Janet, found this favorable for doing outdoor laundry, being a poor person, since it's very easy to burn through ten bucks you don't have doing the drying part at a laundromat.

We finally arrived back in Yerington, NV at around 3 pm. Copper Inn (the cheap place), once again had a room for us, and we made use, with plans to rest and recuperate for a day or two, catch some more AA meetings here, and make use of the wi-fi internet connection at the Lyon County Public Library and the Zillow website to start gathering intel on some properties. After those three days had passed, we drummed up a list of about 10 or 12 different places that were within our tight budget, tanked up the minivan, and began our search at Silver Springs, which was yet another place, that “wasn't really an official town”, but still a community that a large gathering of people still called home.

We had a bit of a mishap at Silver Springs on that day. After, having spent several hours, scouting properties on the eastern side of Silver Springs, which as an unincorporated town, has about 5,000 residents living there, but if the lots were more divided up, and the downtown development were more advanced than it is, you know, more Willamette Valley like, then it would easily house about 20,000-25,000 residents. All that aside, the mishap being, after having viewed about three different properties, we got ourselves stuck on the damned railroad tracks. Mother Janet, in her heavy-handedness and overeagerness, which I made no attempt whatsoever to talk her down from, I too thought it to be a worthy risk, tried to force the low clearance minivan over the tracks which were piled up with sand build up at the crossing area, and we got our front end hooked on the track, and the back end stalled out in the sand. We lacked cellphones, because we did not either believe in them or want them, the microwave emissions may cause brain tumors, and we had just come from being very, very dirt poor, and could not afford them, either. No phone, no help, no nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Just Lump It.

Since we were on our own, with nobody helping us, whatsoever, a typical situation for me and Mother Janet, we started scouting for houses that weren't all fenced off with shotgun wielding rednecks and mean snappy dogs behind them, which are a hard thing to find on the outer fringes of Silver Springs, after Mother Janet had literally ordered me out of the vehicle (could have been a drill sergeant in another lifetime), and started unloading some of our more valuable cargo, agreeing to reconvene there in about 10 minutes, if we hadn't found anybody, which we did not. Luckily, for Mother Janet, on that day, which she did not know, it was a Sunday, and the trains were not running. Also, church happened to be in session, at least it was at their First Baptist Church, the Latter Day Saints had already had their morning service and were shut up for that day.

I started walking the roughly one mile from where we were stuck, to that First Baptist Church, had a cigarette, very bad I know this very much, but I did it anyway because of emotional stress, why else do people do it? Trade years off the end of your life for a few less stressful hours today, but today is the part that matters most, but for legal and moral reasons, a choice that should not be allowed to minors. Sometimes your choices should be taken away for your own good and that of others. Freedom and Liberty do not come without responsibility, it just cannot and will not work that way. Less choices, less chaos, less confusion. Needless to say, I spent a lot of my youth “having my choices” taken away, because I was angry, mean, hated people in general, especially the fascists in my lives known as authority figures. Especially Family. You have to reach a certain age, which is later for some than others, that people have rules and laws because they are basically afraid themselves, and if they don't define a boundary or a line in the sand, it will get crossed repeatedly. The Law, which seems to be purely rational and logical on the surface of it, actually comes from human emotional nature and emotional needs.

Speaking of sand, we were still stuck. After arriving at the First Baptist Church, and standing sheepishly, speechless, and exhausted for about 5 minutes at the entryway, I popped my head into the Sanctuary and saw they were still in service, so I closed the door and waited a bit more, someone came out to me after a minute or so, and I explained that we were stuck on the tracks, and I needed to borrow a phone to get someone to get us unstuck. I waited a bit more, someone else came out with their phone, and dialed me Lyon County Sheriff's, and relayed that they had someone stuck on the tracks about a mile from the Church. I thanked them heartily, praised Jesus, and left there. As I was about halfway back to the spot where Mother Janet and our minivan were, Deputy Wright picked me up and took me back to her, he had managed to link up his vehicle with hers (high tension cable, I don't know if a winch was involved) and pull her loose from the tracks. Mother Janet was already repacking our removed cargo when Deputy Wright dropped me off. We thanked the Good Deputy, and Jesus along with him, and started dragging our sorry and badly scraped undercarriage back to Yerington, preparing ourselves for yet another annoying delay in our plans, and another repair bill.

This next repair cost us about 3 more days and about $100. We waited this one out at the (former) Victoria Rose Inn, as Copper Inn had booked up again before we set out for Silver Springs. It was for the best, as this other Inn was only about half as far from the mechanic's shop as the Copper Inn would have been, a shorter walk. We checked out of there the next day at 10 am, with plans to go scout six more properties in Fallon, stay a night there, and return to Yerington. It was now August 11, 2014. Our time in Fallon, for the third time, proved to be even rougher and more difficult than before. When we rolled in around 11 am, we were low on oil, so we had to stop at an auto shop at the outer edge of town, buy a quart, and refill. Then, Mom got pulled over for speeding 20 mph past the limit, which whenever that happened, was a traumatic and embarrassing experience for both of us, because she would try to be friendly and diplomatic with them (cops), but sometimes to the point of being overly sycophantic and apologetic, and some of the worst ones would perceive that as weakness, attack, become arrogant and angry and be total and complete dicks.

I being a young, moody, withdrawn male with lax grooming and hygiene did not build a very good case for properly sucking up and impressing them as being honest and trustworthy, their perceptions of me only seemed to confirm their fears, instead of allay them. Also, nowadays, the law enforcement apparatus has become much more decidedly right wing and militaristic, because 9-11, terror, America, and are more tuned into the alpha male bully jock mentality than ever before, meaning their natural and feral instincts (think sharks and alligators) are more tuned into thinking that people who look and act different from them are enemy combatants, as opposed to ordinary people going about their business. It would help more if I shaved, got a buzz cut, a firm crushing handshake, and a phony shitty car salesman smile. However, that person is not me and will never be, sorry Grandmother. Suffice to say, I have been told by some strangers that I come off as a creep and a psychopath because I don't communicate verbally or express facial emotions like a (normal) Extroverted Person, because I am not a normal Extroverted Person. You can argue, persuade, or be angry at that all you like, but I accept that as a static and unchanging fact, even if you cannot.

All that aside, back on the subject of being pulled over, embarrassing and terrifying as all that was, what was worse, was when we went our noon meeting, Mom spent nearly the whole thing (about 1 hour) on her back, on the floor, at the back of the room (away from where the people usually sit, maybe not wanting to be seen). I dismissed it as her old fainting stuff that she always had from the stories she had told me of her time as a kid, and being prone to fainting spells, but now in hindsight of the diagnosis, it was definitely something worse, and seems to be far less confusing now.

We checked out and returned to Yerington the next day. After about two days of nervous and tense discussions, we “decided” upon Yerington, having previously scouted three houses there, to live, as we needed to get our cats out of “kitty storage” and put them somewhere more permanent, as they had been under lock and key, ever since we departed from our Coos Bay, OR trailer, for the last time, on June 01, 2014, a total of six weeks, and needed to come to terms with the fact that they can't live that way forever. Mother Janet signed the escrow papers at Roberson Realty on August 14, 2014. By Nevada Real Estate Law, we had to wait eight days for our check to pass, and the deal to close.

We moved in on August 22, 2014, having had the first of our final three fights only a day or two later, when she got RED HOT MAD at my refusal to help her with the sanding and painting of the back laundry room floor, yes I was hot and tired, and freaked out, but that was NO EXCUSE for NOT DOING MY WORK!!! Yes, people have a right to be ANGRY if they're counting on (and trusting) you to help them, when they are in need, and you choose not to, for whatever the reason, whether it be simple laziness, fear, social anxiety or physical discomfort. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR REASONS ARE! If results are what matter, feelings have to be put aside, until the job is done. Period. Anyway, the purpose of sanding and painting the back laundry room floor was to make a place for our cats to get acclimated to the new house, because the floorboards were old, barren, and worn down. On a side note, we mended fences enough to visit the Lyon County Fair, which had reminded Mother Janet of the Coos County Fair, where she had entered her nature photos back in 1995.

We had our second of the final three fights, when we were preparing for a meeting, about a week ago, and she asked if I was finished using the bathroom to clean up and prepare myself. In my usual extreme silence, shyness, introversion, passive-aggression, whatever it is that's wrong with me that makes people not want to like, trust, respect, or not be mad at me, I sat in stone cold silence for 15 minutes until she finally boiled over and asked “WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM, SAY SOMETHING”, a fierce grilling I had also received from a “Wicked Stepmother” figure, back when I was eight years old, only minus the swear words, but about at that decibel level, when I was visiting at my Father's house as part of the custody arrangement he had with Mother Janet, back in 1988. For what it's worth, the “Wicked Stepmother” figure was trying her best to establish order and rule of law in her household, and I was passively obstructing her, but being eight years old, I possessed neither the intellectual or emotional faculties to understand that at the time. This time, however, I was 34 years old, and did possess those skills and had NO EXCUSE, Mother Janet had thoroughly annoyed me with her constant pestering with the question, and instead of complying, I simply shut down and said nothing, rather than opening my mouth and annoying her back and risking a MINOR fight, but my INACTION resulted in a MAJOR fight instead. This second really horrible fight, resulted in a brutal and crippling depression on my end, and I was literally so far down and sad, emotionally, that I was bedridden on the couch for the next two days, LITERALLY. I do have depression. THAT BAD.

The third fight came, about three or four days ago, when we were moving a heavy 300 pound wooden wishing well, from the front to the back yard, as Mother Janet had redevelopment plans for that front yard. We had to move the thing, by towing it with the minivan, and a crummy old rope, just as Deputy Wright had done for us on the railroad tracks back in Silver Springs. This last fight arose from, once again, my refusal to help. This time I had dared to argue with and contradict her on not being able to fit a plank board that was warped from weather exposure and had rounded off edges, into an open square (rectangular) slot on the little rooftop of the wishing well, which had come loose during our feeble and hasty towing operation. The next night, we had a minor disagreement, but still one worth reporting, nonetheless, this is the most fair, truthful, and accurate accounting of events that I can muster, here, about my being insincere and phony in my promises to better respect her in the future, as well as my assertions that she needed me and needed my help, since I had been of little to no help at all. She had also once said to me, about three or four years ago, that if “I were infinitely wealthy, that I would hire a helper to wipe my ass for me, because I was too bothered, inconvenienced, and impatient to do it for myself”, in other words, spoiled beyond belief.

Then, today, Mother Janet came out of her room, all sweating like a horse, and panting like a dog. Literally. Unable to move or speak, or breathe, or relax, she staggered over to her “Astronaut” Chair (modified) lawn chair, which she had bought about a couple weeks earlier, at the True Value hardware store, in hopes of getting her profuse swelling in her right leg to go down back to manageable levels, but no abatement of swelling present. She staggered over to it, very much like a reeking zombie undead person (this one's for you, Uncle), flopped into it, hard, but gingerly, in a bit of a controlled pratfall. There, she lay back, with weakened, terrified, donut glazed eyes, eyes that had only recently been fierce and sharp, as a hawk or bird of prey. Gazing and gasping. After about three hours of near complete silence, something she had only recently attacked me for, she weakly uttered “Barnett Clinic”, something one of the visiting 12-step ladies had mentioned. There we went tonight, and the doctor said “Metastatic”. What does that word mean? What is happening to my mama? She gave me, about a week ago, a junior Guardians Of The Galaxy Novel, from Scolari's Supermarket, in lieu of our plans to see the actual film in Carson City. In it, as a small boy, the Peter Quill character's Mother perishes from Cancer and all he has to remember her by is her Walkman with her 80's mix tape. Was Mother Janet trying to tell me something? I could have known. I should have known. Why can I not stop it, why, why, why?

-THE END OF MOTHER JANET AND FIFTY PAGES OF TORTURE

Post Script: My mother, Janet Claire Smyth, Original Author of Counterstrike: Heaven Sent, lost her 10 week battle with Stage IV Metastatic Ovarian Cancer, Aged 64 years, 4 months, and 29 days, passing away with 24 years, 5 months, and 29 days of continuous unbroken sobriety, save for doctor prescribed opioids that were medically necessary, and given for her pain control, once the cancer proved to be untreatable, at 9 am on the morning of December 03, 2014. For more information on the life, adventures, and passing of my mother, Janet Claire Smyth, Original Author of Counterstrike: Heaven Sent, please read her Obituary on page  , her Eulogy on page  , her op-ed piece for Myrtle Point Herald on page  , and my own essay, Why I Support Single Payer Health Care on page . Thank you for reading thus far, and God Bless You.