A GATHERING OF THE TRIBES

It has become an occasional tradition (if there is such a thing…) for my lovely wife to invest our tax return in the corralling of all the children for a chance to let us all yak face to face.  It started in Corvallis and then Quincy when we were in residence, but there it was up to us, being the locals, to entertain and direct… and besides, with more butts than beds we always had to farm someone out. 

The obvious and perfect solution was to rent some neutral ground betwixt and between home towns with room for all.  Last time it was a vacation condo in Truckee, CA and this year we all gathered at the slightly cob-webbed and dusty resort town of Lava Hot Springs. Buried deep in the rolling, Mormon infested hills of southeastern Idaho, Lava (as the cognoscenti call it…) was a rail stop top spot through the first half of the 20^th Century and still features gallons of artesian hot water everywhere including most all accommodations. Really hot tap water, a hot tub every ten feet and hot water pools somewhere on every property mean good, clean fun for one and all.  The lack of development and expansion which has kept all this charm intact thru the second half of that 20^th Century comes at a price… limited shopportuities, a “grocery” store (one) which offers little beyond hot dogs, processed cheese and disturbingly spongy, glaringly white bread, a dingy, musty liquor store with limited hours and even more limited options, and an alarming faux wholesomeness as large Mormon families fill every nook and cranny of the campgrounds and ice cream parlors… our fault for unconsciously  planning our event on the cusp of Father’s Day weekend.

I can best explain my choice of “faux wholesomeness” by dredging up that old Idaho adage, “Why do you always take two Mormons with you when you go fishing? Because if you just take one he will drink all your beer…” Lots of Utah license plates which means lots of adults 150 miles from their Bishop’s all seeing eyes.

None of this, however, invaded the little complex we all called home for four days. Within our enclave there was much love and laughter, grand stories both told and spawned, beer and cocktails and too much killer food created by the talented culinary skills of one and all… particularly the children.

Most everyone came with a partner and a dog and, blessedly, the only small child present was embryogenic, though well represented on screen.

At least on the surface, everyone liked any and all new faces and the new members were unanimously initiated into the clan after showing their interest in getting the tribal tattoo shared by the family.

There was a nice outdoor bar and restaurant right next door and the town was sleepy and near comatose until Saturday night so all was quiet and the scenery was vast and verdant. (early June is the fleeting green time in the high desert…)

Four days was just long enough so that everyone could still leave sorry to see the others go.  We had flown into Salt Lake City and rented a car, so we had roughly six hours to drive 140 miles, leaving plenty of time to hop over to my childhood and visit Soda Springs, land of my ancestors.  No particular points of interest left for me there with the exception of a drive just out of town for the traditional guzzling of water from the source… Hooper Springs.  Cold and strongly mineralized, it is claimed by some an acquired taste but to me tastes better even than beer. And that says a lot…

Still playing for time we took the back roads through the country hot spots of Grace, Thatcher and Franklin - the oldest town in Idaho. Although” town” is a generous designation, Franklin has probably been upgraded from “wide spot” since, being just north of the Utah border where gambling is forbidden, the one convenience store in town has steadily sold more winning lottery tickets than anywhere else in Idaho.

Giving up all hope of forestalling the inevitable, we turned in our rental car and spent the next 3 hours in the airport reading and imbibing at Squatters brewpub which proffers alcoholic beverages such as Polygamy Porter and The Stumbling Missionary.  Finally our plane arrived and we embarked on our direct flight to San Jose… if, like Southwest Airlines, by direct flight you mean a stop over and plane change in Phoenix and four hours and ten minutes to fly a crow’s distance of 586 miles. 

On the other hand it was Father’s Day and having testicles earned me a complimentary gin and tonic on each leg of the flight.  One takes one’s consolations where one can.


Happy birthday my love...