50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 5, The West

50 Stories in 50 States: Takes inspired by a motorcycle journey across the USA

Volume 5 - the West

By Kevin B Parsons

Copyright 2014 Kevin B Parsons

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

California

Wyoming

Washington

Alaska

Hawaii

Colorado

Oregon

Idaho

Utah

Nevada

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Introduction

My wife (Quilter Girl) and I embarked on a ‘50 States in 50 Weeks’ motorcycle tour of America, a once-in-a-lifetime dream. We rode across the country on a Honda Gold Wing, towing a pop top tent trailer. During the more mundane sections of the trip (like the rangeland of Wyoming), we talked on the intercoms and came up with short story ideas. Inspired, I wrote a story for every state, which morphed into a five-book series, compiled by regions, with ten states in each volume.

Some of the stories are based on our experiences, some on history, and some probably from indigestion. Warning: these are not necessarily motorcycle stories, nor are they travel stories (although some are), but a look at Americana with each state a background.

We traveled one year straight through, regardless of weather. Washington State gave us an almost continuous barrage of rain, much of Idaho the same. Yet excellent weather in states like California and Utah provided ample opportunity to explore the countryside. Because it rained every day in Hawaii, Quilter Girl passed up myriad rides and stayed in the motel quite a bit. Well, that and burnout, as it was near the end of the adventure.

Enjoy this volume of ‘50 Stories.’

~Kevin B Parsons

Brian Head, Utah

California

We rode through Napa—wine country—and Calistoga to the north and noticed quite a few differences, some better—some worse. Want to be a big time vineyard, you better operate in Napa. But do all wine tasters have to be Beemer/sweater-tied-around-their-shoulders/Gucci purse people? What if you’re off the beaten track? Big challenge. And who wouldn’t want to stomp grapes?

THE GREAT GRAPE STOMP

I’m sorry to do this on such short notice. Alexis raised the screen of her laptop. She settled herself in at the table in the foyer of the hotel. Deadlines and all. Jonathan asked me to start the interview, as he’d be late. He missed his shuttle from the airport.

Too bad. I wanted to meet this Jonathan Fray III, the invisible man who visited my vineyard on numerous occasions. A secret shopper or something. His articles sounded like he knew me.

Not a problem. I loosened my tie. My winning wine, ‘Broken Spoke,’ received the Best New Vintage award the night before. The name reflected our redneck wine approach and yet for some reason I wore a tie this morning. I should have worn my leather vest and Harley t-shirt.

Alexis flipped her brunette hair back and started a recorder. You okay if I record this? I usually record and write my impressions while we talk.

Sure. I could sit and talk with Alexis all day. She seemed friendly and honest, and easy on the eyes. Thoughts of my wife stopped me short. My buddy Justin warned me to watch for the nice ones. They disarm you with their personality and slash you to pieces in print. No. Not Alexis. She started with the simple things—spell my name (William Martin, just call me Bill), the name of my winery (Rolling Arbor Vineyard), the date and so forth. She pointed to my ring.

I see you’re married.

Ah… no. I lost my wife three years ago. Cancer. I twisted the ring on my finger. I just sort of… can’t let go. You know?

She nodded. Wow. I’m sorry. I’m new at this. She wiped a tear from her eye. I’m not supposed to be like this. You know? So much for the heartless journalist.

Listen, why don’t we go to the bar, okay?

Her blue eyes searched mine. Did I mean it? Um, sure. She packed up her things and we headed to the bar. We had arrived before noon, the place deserted. I steered us to the curve of the bar. We could sit beside one another, yet be able to see each other. The bartender walked up, the question in his eye. Diet Pepsi for me. And for the lady? I looked to her.

Diet… you own a vineyard. Your wine won first place. She shook her head. Oh, um, a Bloody Mary please. And a water.

I got a DUI once. The level is so low that it doesn’t take much to fail a Breathalyzer. Oops. That won’t see print, right? Please?

No problem. We resumed the interview—how it feels to win, if I expected to, what friends and family think, and some technical questions on the wine.

Then Alexis asked, How did you get started on this crazy adventure?

Crazy adventure. Great words, I said.

~

I hope this works, I mumbled. Being thirty miles north of Napa, we hoped to be far enough away to attract a different crowd than the crystal wineglass bunch. Honey and I sold our computer engineering business in San Francisco four years earlier, took a huge life turn to the country, and purchased this dying vineyard. Honestly, we couldn’t afford anything more. If it were true that real estate is all about ‘location, location, location,’ we would take this ailing farm from life support right into its grave. The Napa crowd doesn’t go north. Still, we figured we’d be different enough to attract an eclectic crowd. We had no idea how different our crowd would be.

After six months of ownership, we’d made enough mistakes to tank the place, but probably were just too stupid to understand the extent of our nosedive. We failed at being different—instead, copying the best vineyards, labeling our bottles with French-looking text and photos, and branding ourselves like any other winery.

A week before we discovered Honey’s cancer we sat at the kitchen table and regrouped. That’s when the idea of the Grape Stomp took place. Enough of the copycat, bland, snarky, ticky-tacky wines and vineyard. We’d go redneck, lowbrow, and reach real people. I still remember Honey’s eyes as the ideas popped that night over numerous bottles of beer (hers) and red wines (mine). Everything cooked that night. We’d call the vineyard ‘Rolling Arbor Vineyard.’ The festival would be called Stomp. Our signature wine would be ‘Toe Crush.’ We drew sketches of label designs on our laptops and laughed all night.

Honey conceived of the statue and I got afraid. How much would it cost to carve a statue of stone? Couldn’t we make it plastic? She insisted it be made with quality materials, yet humorous.

~

I drove the second little sign into the ground and surveyed my work. ‘Grand Opening’ and ‘Great Grape Stomp.’ The symbol of our gamble stood behind me—a large and low wooden tub—and inside it stood a carved statue of a peasant woman. She looked just like Lucy Ricardo, holding up her skirt and stomping grapes. I wished Honey could see it, give me her honest opinion. I spun the ring on my finger. Did I meet her expectations?

I stood before it, the broom at my side. I’d spent a fortune on it. No changing, no turning back, no hesitation, this simply must work. Honey would have been proud… I hoped. I took a picture of it with my phone and texted, ‘r new mascot’ and sent it to Claire.

~

We met Claire early in the battle, at the cancer institute. The people shared a commonality; a disease bent on killing every patient in the room, while their families held their hands and murmured encouraging words. We sat in the sterile environment and watched the others deteriorate. Was it from the horrible disease that ate the living cells and moved through the organs, or from the poisonous treatment that killed the evil cells and hopefully prevailed over them before destroying the patient? We enjoy tremendous breakthroughs in healthcare and medicine, yet cancer treatment seems the most barbaric method imaginable. Certainly for my Honey, the treatment seemed to just accelerate her condition, as she wasted away and died in four short months. The young girl with eyes lacking any guile walked up to us and stared at Honey.

Is that your real hair?

Honey squirmed in the plastic chair. Yes.

Mine’s a wig. I don’t like it. It makes my head hot. But Mom says I should wear it, ’cause it makes people uncomfortable to see me bald.

Your mom’s probably right.

She scratched her head. It itches, too. Want to see my head without it?

If you’d like to do that.

Claire removed the wig to reveal her bald, white head. I gulped as I watched Honey stare at her future in a person thirty years her junior. We continued to meet Claire once a week, and become friends with a purpose; fighting a disease bent on their deaths. Before long they would compare wigs.