82 miles out of Vegas I finally stopped to stretch; when I returned to 93 a guy in an unmarked silver pickup was taking pictures for the benefit of his cohort downstream, resulting in at

least half a dozen speeding stops between there and Kingman.  I got gas, took 40 east for eighteen miles and then cut south on 93 hoping for enchiladas in Wickieup but no luck so onwards through various mountainous zones of two and four lane traffic in the descent to

Wickenburg where after nasty construction delays on the outskirts I still found none so

snacked from the ice chest and continued into deepest Arizona, eventually reaching I-17S which

 subsequently connected to the seemingly endless looping of the 101 and, eventually,

Scottsdale and my minimal motel, the Rodeway, with time for a small collapse before joining

family for dinner at pizzeria Virtù the night before the reason we were all there, son Bryan’s 50th birthday. Starters definitely eliminated the enchilada cravings, the rhapsodically described pizzas as well as multiple glasses of a curiously thin nero d’avola were quite enjoyable and, in lieu of my more sophisticated siblings’ grappa, a sweet barchetto d’acqui made for an excellent

and light finish to the party before the true party guys took off for Old Town bars while us Old Folks went over to Adralyn and Nick’s where I was given a tour before retiring.

Saturday most of us were back for what everyone agreed turned out to be some pretty mediocre sandwiches, soggy salads and the episode of Star Wars where, as The Force Awakened,

Harrison Ford finally negotiated his release from The Franchise on their great room TV [brother Kirk, grandniece Gabriella, above] while preparations for the Real Event, hosted by our nephew

Nick and wife Adralyn for young, or not so young, Bryan that evening continued intensely

in the background.  Said Event kicked off around six thirty with a seemingly infinite supply of espresso martinis after which I, wino, segued to pinot despite the extremely well-stocked bar favored by most, everyone also well supplied with delectable comestibles from beginning

to end while for me personally the most impressive aspect were the number of people who

showed up from all over and all, as they say, “walks of life” to honor the legendary B. Moore, whom all seemed certain would likewise show up for them whenever wherever and as needed.

I was truly moved by that and also, some hours in, by the stories, testimonials, toasts and even

the birthday cupcake which preceded the afterparty afterwards in a private room

at The Beverly which I attended only claustrophobically briefly before fleeing*, albeit somewhat

sleeplessly [that espresso martini?], to the quiet comforts of the Rodeway until Sunday

when pretty much first thing one was on one’s way out of town to who knows where,

a where which initially turned out

to be about a hundred miles of freeway west beyond a trailered

Falcon Ranchero, some towering busses

and a much needed rest stop

to exit 45,

thence north through aromatic feedlot country to Vicksburg

and the sketchier settlements beyond to Bouse [rhymes with “mouse”, or “house”] for colorful

company and two bland eggs at the Coachman’s Cafe.  After breakfast the land emptied out to desert for twenty miles or so until Parker’s fast foods, strip malls, muffler shops, gas stations

and what remained of the Colorado River which turned into

California, at which point things thinned out considerable. Again.

 

*Previous three [3] pictures courtesy of Wm. Kirk Moore. Venues thanks to Nick and Adralyn Blue, party planning and realization Adralyn.