I woke at 3:00 am, probably out of instinct, and heard the pitter patter of raindrops beginning to fall on the leaves around me. I immediately sat up, put on the boots, unzipped the hatch and grabbed the now-completely dry tarp/fly. I placed it over the tent and fastened it down as the rain increased.
Getting back into the tent, I fell asleep again, not giving anything much thought except for getting back to my entertaining dreams.
At 6:00 am, the watch alarm beeped, and I opened my eyes. There was no more rain, I could tell the sky was brighter when I poked my head out to take a look around. I laid myself back down for a couple of minutes and waited for the sun to rise behind the overcast...
Another creature taking shelter from the rain--a beetle about an inch long.
This place had worked out extremely well. I began to feel my mood changing. I walked around and ran across a milkcrate. This was a major find! Now, I wouldn't have to stand every time I came back...
Score!
To my great surprise the leaves were dry. Even the tarp/fly was dry inside and out. Phew! That made pack-up much easier. All I had to do was tip the tent on its side to dry some patches of wet on the bottom. Then I put it in its bag and stuffed everything into the backpack...
On the long walk into town, I saw a dog about to cross the busy 3rd Street intersection. Visions of the horrible scene of the dog getting hit in Tuscon flashed back into my mind. I tried to call him over, but he was very hesitant. He looked at me, wagged his tail and put his ears back, but simply would not approach me any closer than about ten feet.
He looked hungry and pretty ragged. I happened to be right next to a Shell station, and told the dog to stay (not knowing if he had a clue what I was saying). I quickly ran in and bought a can of dog food, then went back out. He'd moved back toward the road, but I called to him again and he cautiously approached.
I thought maybe opening the can would attract him, and it seemed to, but he still wouldn't take those extra steps to come to me, and turned to face the street again. With some desperation setting in, I walked down the sidewalk to a side street and dumped the food out there, then walked away. He turned around and went over to the food, lapping it up...
I got the sense that he was a neighborhood stray, being taken care of occasionally by some of the people around there. I later posted his picture on Facebook (animals always steal all the likes and attention there), and it was a good thing, because my friend from the old Missouri experience, Stacey, contacted me and offered to share the picture and location info with her large network of animal rescue friends and with local no-kill shelters. These are what I sent her...
Being satisfied that the dog had at least eaten, and knowing he would not come to me, I continued downtown, taking pictures. If I saw him again, maybe he would trust me more easily...
This last shot is the only graffiti I've seen since Spokane that had some amount of quality to it.
there are an awful lot of tags with halos over them (indicating the artist died, probably violently).
What can I say?
There wasn't a lot I could do during the day, besides working for nine hours trying to catch the blog up, and publishing two posts. I was utterly exhausted afterward, and heard the sweet blues music echoing through the canyons of the surrounding buildings.
I NEEDED a break. The day before had taken a chunk out of my soul, and I needed to repair the damage as best I could.
I still had about $20.00 left on the card, so I walked down Beale, looking for a cheap beer and a chance to watch a band...
The energy I'd felt two days earlier returned as I saw how alive Beale was on a Saturday night..
Beale Street, alive!
The music penetrated the hard shell of disappointment and depression that had taken ahold of me. Memories of being a kid and learning how to play bass and guitar came flooding back. Long and fun jam sessions with my dad, in our living over thirty years ago danced in my mind, while that most familiar of all musical forms to me, filled my ears. I had the sense to make a video...
The band tearing down.
Michael--son of Cowboy Neal, and killer sax player who
hit even the highest note, staying perfectly in tune, without the hint of a screech.
Cowboy Neal--The man himself, playing incredible licks and had the
voice you'd expect from such a good looking fella.
Jackson--FANTASTIC bass player.
I couldn't afford to stay after the band had packed up, so, I explored a bit further down Beale...
I saw the famous photographer, Ernest Withers' Collection and Museum, and popped in. I met a young man named Jermaine. He had an outstanding character and poise--like he was on a real mission to inform people about accepting the things they don't understand, so that they would no longer fear them. I spoke with him for a while and gave him a card--we were on the same kind mission. Photos of Ernest's photos weren't allowed, but I snuck two of the oil paintings of him...
Ernest as a young man.
Ernest and his wife.
It was time to head back to the new sleep spot and I was ready to relax there before turning in...
Put the people further into debt. Make the poor poorer. Tempt them...
This should be a criminal activity (with up to 50% interest on short term loans).
But, it is all part of the game we allow.
No tarp/fly needed on this night.
Cooler, drier, clearer weather was on it's way. I didn't even take the tarp/fly out of the pack. I sat on my milkcrate throne and surveyed my kingdom of trees and leaves, watching a freight train pass only fifty feet from my camp.
Sleep came easily, and in the morning I would discover why my dreams had become so vivid and strange.
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