All my bags weren’t packed, I wasn’t ready to go. But I had to get myself packed. Wednesday was a whirlwind of activity, as we prepared to travel to The City. That would be San Francisco. When I come to this vibrant place to visit my son, I feel like I’m in my element. I belong here, and those are hard words for a fifth generation Texan to utter. First, however, I had to get here. As I get older, preparing for a trip has become more excruciating.

Do y’all remember how easy packing was when you were younger? All I had to do was grab a toothbrush and I could be out the door. That was then. I’ll spare y’all the details of the creams and foundations that an older woman needs (and I won’t tell you about the tweezers necessary to pluck the stray chin hairs that sprout overnight and grow long enough to braid). Wednesday was spent in a whirlwind of packing those accouterments of middle aged beauty. I also had to find underwear that wasn’t my “Sunday” ones—-the holey kind.

On top of the packing, I had to arrange a cat sitter, secure the house, and I had to get these packages of crocheted squares out the door to volunteers, so that they could continue to crochet for Share A Square.

Then, as I was about to do laundry, we discovered that the plumbing had backed up. Eric got to rent a “snake” from Home Depot and clear out the lines. How happy was he? Not very.

After a lot of frustration, and the usual wondering of what we forgot to do, we made it to the airport before the crack of dawn on Thursday. I needed a bit of an eye-opener, so I had my Bloody Mary before I got on the plane. It was served by a little girl who was just too perky in the morning, but she understood my needs. That’s all I cared.

A long flight later, we arrived at SFO, and I tried touching base with my son. Of course he wasn’t awake yet, it was only 11:00. The child is an artist, which I think translates into “night owl.”

Yes, it IS San Francisco…see the cable cars?

Eric CAN smile, even when toting heavy bags across town to our hotel. Well, he can smile if strangers are taking our picture.

Union Square is a shopping Mecca.

But I much prefer the tiny wonders you can find on any side street. On Sutter, near our hotel, I found a shop called Three Bags Full, with marvelous hand made sweaters. Yes, I bought one, and Eric had to drag me out of the place before I pledged my first born son to her in payment for more.

She had a magnificent sweater made in the UK which was dyed with natural materials. It was the most expensive thing in the shop, and worth every penny. But, it was far beyond my pitiful means.

After meeting with my son, we took a cab ride across town that was wilder than a ride at Disney World. We went to a cafe called “Gratitude.” It was a “vegan” restaurant, and I wasn’t happy not to get my bacon, but it was actually quite delicious.

Matt was grateful for “Zen-like cab drivers.”

A trip to The de Young Museum

And a visit to the Japanese Tea Gardens were included in our day.

More to come if I can find a decent internet connection. Right now, I have to get out of this hotel room and into the streets of San Francisco. There’s a world out there waiting for me to explore it. I wish you were here!

Technorati Tags: travel

There are folks who claim that we Texans are prone to bragging a bit. That, my friends, is an understatement. Any Texan worth her salt can expound until the cow’s come home about the virtues of The Lone Star State. You ain’t even gonna believe this, but I, myself, am quite capable of this. I am not above “embroidering” the facts just a bit if the situation calls for it. I will also tell you the plain truth when necessary.

Now, I’m a little leery about telling you this, because it could be considered a “traitorous” act. It could get me tarred and feathered and run out of town. I’m going to tell you a little secret, but don’t you tell anyone I told you. One of the main conceits of any Native Born Texan is that our state was once a Nation Unto It’s Own: The Republic of Texas. That is quite true. However, that distinction pales in comparison to a tiny town that was a nation. Texas has no bragging rights here, for that town was in California.

In 1849, a mining company from Wisconsin came to an area in California north of San Francisco to establish a gold mine. The company was named after General Zachary Taylor, the 12th President of the United States. Taylor was nicknamed “Old Rough and Ready.” The Rough and Ready Mining Company gave their name to the settlement that sprang up around their mine.
Now the gold mining town of Rough and Ready was aptly named. By 1850, the town’s size swelled to 3,000 citizens who were diamonds in the rough, so to speak. Well, alright, there probably wasn’t a gem among them. In truth, they were a scabrous bunch of rowdy miners, feisty “painted ladies” and deadly gunslingers crowded into that tiny town. You can imagine that this was a volatile mix.

There was a general air of lawlessness, with wild parties and fracases in the street each night. Those independent minded folks began to feel a growing resentment toward the United States government. This came to a head when those idiotic lawmakers back in Washington, D.C. (3,000 miles away) had the gall to go and impose a Mining Tax on all mining claims. A tax?

Well now that didn’t set well at all in Rough and Ready. So, the citizenry called a town meeting on April 7th 1850 and seceded from the Union, proclaiming themselves “The Great Republic of Rough and Ready.”

Now, that sounds grand and noble. But there are rumors about why they really might have wanted to secede. Some say that a dirty rotten scoundrel had defrauded one of the townsfolk, so people wanted to be able to create their own laws and hang the son of a gun.

Be that as it may, The Great Republic of Rough and Ready only existed until the folks started preparing for their favorite annual shindig. It was the biggest, grandest, most humongous celebration of the year: the 4th of July Celebration. Independence Day for the U.S. of A.

Uh, oh. Being as how they were no longer a part of the United States, the good folks realized there was no reason to celebrate! No problem. They just called a meeting and rejoined the Union. The Republic of Rough and Ready fizzled out without lasting three months—but, their fireworks that year were astounding.

These days, Rough and Ready is a sleepy little town without much to recommend it, from what I can gather over the internet. The population has dwindled to only about 1500 people, and only 500 or so live within the city limits. Its name is pretty much lost to history. But, every year, they celebrate their heritage with a Secession Days Celebration, complete with a reenactment, fireworks, and music by a local band called The Fruit Jar Pickers. Doesn’t that make you want to book your trip?

Well, you may be wondering why a Native Daughter of Texas would go and spill the beans about something like this. It’s all about guilt, people. Texans don’t have to go bragging about our status as a former Republic (which lasted longer than three piddly months, and don’t you forget it). Our state has tons of other things to brag about. After all, we gave y’all Fritos, Dr. Pepper, and Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Technorati Tags: Rough and Ready, history, Secession Days Celebration, Texas

I’m a worry wart, and I won’t apologize for it. It’s not my fault, I was born that way. It’s the San Andreas Fault. With an adult child living in San Francisco, I can find plenty to worry me. The City is a marvelous place, but any city has a dark side, too. I worry about him being accosted by some stranger. I obsess about the cost of living there. I fret about him having to take public transportation or walk everywhere (I’m a Texan– therefore think it is unnatural not to have a car). But mostly I get all shook up over earthquakes.

Before our last visit, I bought a book in Wal-Mart Bookstore (I only rarely shop there) called A Day That Changed America—EARTHQUAKE!, by Shelley Tanaka. It’s a children’s book written about Wednesday, April 18, 1906. That’s when one of the most famous natural disasters rocked the western coast. The story is told through the eyes of four of the young survivors from San Francisco. It’s fascinating and horrifying. Just what I needed to make me totally paranoid.

My baby is sitting on top of the San Andreas Fault. He has only told me about experiencing one tremor. I’m sure there have been more, but it might have disturbed him to hear my voice go up two octaves when I tried to talk about it with him. He doesn’t want to burden me. I keep hoping he will decide to move to someplace safe. Someplace where there won’t be any dangers like earthquakes. Maybe someplace like—Missouri.

Wrong, again, Shelly.

THE largest recorded earthquake in United States history occurred near New Madrid, Missouri. In fact, there were a series of quakes that took place from December 1911-February 1912. There were three earthquakes of greater than 8.0 in magnitude. “Aftershocks included two more events around magnitude 8.0, five more at magnitude 7.7, ten more at magnitude 5.3, and eighty-nine at an estimated magnitude of 4.3. This seismic release was the largest ever recorded in the continental United States.”

Teachers didn’t enlighten me about that in school. I accidentally found it thumbing through a book on earthquakes (to satisfy my morbid curiosity), then looked it up on-line. Because that part of the country was sparsely settled during the time period, there wasn’t enormous loss of life or major damage to cities. Perhaps that’s why it doesn’t get the attention that the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 gets in the curriculum.

However, the devastation was great after the New Madrid quakes. The first of the three main quakes was so powerful that it rang church bells in Boston (1,000 miles away), knocked over chimneys in Maine and made the Mississippi River run backwards at one point. More than 150,000 acres of forest were destroyed, the Mississippi River changed course, whole areas of land were swallowed up and new lakes were formed. For the people who lived there, it must have been terrifying.

The Virtual Times has several accounts from survivors of the quake. Excerpts from letters written by George Heinrich Crist, who lived in central Kentucky at the time, are especially vivid.

Interestingly, ten years before the earthquake, a man predicted that “In the midst of the night the earth will begin to tremble, giant trees will fall, rivers will run backward, new lakes will be formed, and old ones will disappear.” It happened on the exact day that Tecumseh, a Shawnee warrior and chief predicted. He took that as a sign that all the tribes should unite against the whites to take back their land. Unfortunately, that didn’t go so well. His brother led the tribes to defeat at the battle of Tippecanoe. Tecumseh didn’t see that one coming.

You can go to this site and read the predictions of damage to the area if another major quake were to hit. Or, you can just take my word for it. It wouldn’t be pretty. Modern day predictors of catastrophe say that there will be another earthquake as great as the New Madrid earthquakes, and they say it can happen any time.

My son can relax now. I have another focus for my worry.