Friends are found and friends are made and complete strangers sometimes become instant comrades. What’s the saying about strangers? “They are just friends that you haven’t yet met“. So true this is with my foray into ‘find-friends-in-Phoenix‘ social life, determined I was to not be so isolated again or constantly living and working in ‘survival mode’. It doesn’t take more than a few regular brunches and munches to see familiar faces and hear familiar names, sometimes remembered, often confused, to start to feel that you belong. Alas, some of them have the slightest suspicion now why my blog is titled “Crabapple in Paradise” as my guard is let down, my too-much-personality, too-many-opinions are revealed and my true self disclosed.
So was it with the end of the Fun Run. Enough time past, jokes told, stories retold, faux pas’ made and regretted, that separation and departure time was experienced with reluctance. The plan was to honor the weekend and the ancient route by a return home along 66 from Kingman through Selligman in a slow wagon train of classic car followed by an old station wagon and another, something modern, something borrowed and something … well Tickey of course. A gentle ride along gentle rises and gentle drops and constant mountains and endless grasslands. The occasional signs, (original billboards I am told), evenly spaced interrupted sentences that catch you and hold you until the final punch line. Like the ones seen in Hackberry … “Big Mistake … Many Make … Rely on Horn … Instead of Brakes“.
And with many a long journey taken, hot roads and countless miles, there are troubles and travails. Our Ford Galaxy, though tires anew, shed a rubber clump that resounded throughout, clunk, clunk, clunk and clunk to an ever listening ear. “How many car enthusiasts does it take to change a tire?” Just one. Just one to jack, just one to fetch a rag to save the bumper, just one to wrench the wheel nuts and just nine to cluck and fuss and enjoy the adventure.
A brief stop for lunch in Selligman, the bended knee of our route before heading South through Prescott, at a favorite, casual eatery, the Snowcap, where the counter service abuse is disguised as humor and the food thrown as sport. An odd, obtuse and long time tradition. One not really understood and hopefully, short-lived.
But, even wagon trains reach their station and it was soon time for me to find my own road home breaking from the group in Prescott to exit for Prescott Valley to visit an Aunt and her son from my many years past. Adieu Shamwaris, modern-day Tontos, comrades and friend. Until the next car adventure.