TRAVELING MAN ON THE LOOSE

One traveling man says he wouldn’t cross the street if he didn’t have to.

Another says crossing the street is no problem, but he’s not going far after that.

That’s enough travel for them.

It’s enough for me, too. I understand the reluctant traveler.

Growing up in North Bend, Oregon, Hwy 101 was hyperspace compared to my street.

Sixteen year old boys who drove to Eugene for a ‘college party’ were kings of the class.

The plan:

Tell parents you were going hunting, or fishing, something that occupies a large chunk of time, then call later and say you’re spending the night at your buddy’s house.

Once the coast was clear, they picked up friends, and followed another car-load of delinquents north on 101, east on 38 out of  Reedsport, then dropped the hammer on I-5 north to Eugene.

On the way back in the dark the front car drove with the lights on, the trail car with lights off, and changed places along the way.

Sounded fun, but I never made that trip.

It was a believable story, but it wouldn’t work with my parents.

College party? My Mom guarded the parking lot of Southwestern Oregon Community College when she suspected I might sneak off to a college dance.

And do what?

She wasn’t above dragging her kids off in public; I was above getting dragged off, so I went home when the wild ones hit the big time at sixteen.

Then everyone grew up.

 

World Blog Travel

Yesterday I had visitors to boomerpdx from places I’m happy to welcome in, including China, Russia, Iraq, Israel, Spain, Czechia, and Australia.

You can visit without worrying about my mom dragging you off.

I’m glad to see you, but I’ll warn you: this place isn’t a party.

Four hundred and thirty posts tagged with ‘party’ might say otherwise, but it’s a serious page.

My work here doesn’t turn a blind eye to harsh realities with click-bait topics and half-hearted conviction.

I don’t expect my readers to neglect their responsibilities for boomerpdx. That’s my job.

What do I neglect?

I know how to use a vacuum, how to clean windows, the usual, so I don’t live in a cloudy dust bowl of a house.

But that’s just my opinion.

I’m also married to someone with no desire to live in a musty, clammy, house.

Together we manage day to day. She’s a boomerpdx fan, so I’ve got that going for me.

If she knew the secret thrill of seeing readers from China, Russia, Iraq, Israel, Spain, Czechia, and Australia she’d start her own blog and invite everyone to visit with plans to visit them.

The world isn’t too big for her, but ask her about space travel and you’ll get a big, “No thanks.”

We’re together on that one.

 

Friendly Travel Warning For New People

I was in an English town with two bars, (taverns, pubs, beer stops,) on corners opposite each other.

They were not friendly to one another.

I went inside one low-ceiling place, drank a beer, and called it good for my foreign exchange experience, thank you very much.

Who knew what shenanigans they bestowed on a newcomer with no idea of the local customs.

Wear the wrong color and here comes soccer hooligan asking you to explain yourself.

I knew enough to keep to myself and enjoy the atmosphere without a head-butt.

 

In a similar moment, driving around North Carolina at night, my wife said we ought to stop at a local place.

Ordinarily, I’d stop. Everything’s an adventure, don’t be a drag-ass, and so on.

Not this time.

We were on a two lane road in the countryside passing two doublewide trailers with huge parking lots side by side.

The signs said they were two separate bars, music blaring, and no way I was stopping.

I’ve seen Walking Tall, saw the big stick, and have no interest going anyplace where it’s used.

An axe handle belongs to an axe head, not on the rifle racks in a parking lot full of pick-up trucks on a dark southern road.

I explained my reasoning to no avail. I also didn’t stop.

 

A well traveled traveling man, or woman, is not looking for problems, they’re just trying to get from here to there collecting wonderful memories along the way.

Maybe a few pictures.

When you’re raised right you have certain standards when it comes to seeing new sights.

 

 

Every bridge, no matter where, I compare to this one, thinking the same thing: It’s a gateway to a bigger world.

I’ve driven it, run across it, rode a motorcycle down it, cut wood under it, had driftwood wars beside it.

Every bridge has traffic to and from. It’s up to you to know which way you want to go.

 

PS: Stay sharp, traveling man, you’ve got many miles to go before you’re done.

PSS: That goes for you, too.