On the pretext of seeing Coby, our 19-year-old grandson, we break free of winter's clutches and head south. Coby is a new Marine stationed at 29 Palms, Calif.
Because Highway 395 is having a spring blizzard, we detour over Montgomery Pass. It feels great to be behind the wheel of our big old 32-foot motor home again. From the moment I step on board I'm a different person, carefree, optimistic " a joy to be with, I'm sure. The day is clear, sunny and quite lovely, marred only by annoying headwinds.
We spend the night at Boulder Creek RV Park in Lone Pine, the next day making it all the way to Desert Pools RV Resort in Desert Hot Springs. I'm struck by the vibrant, blood red geraniums, the dazzling orange marigolds and the sweet smell of alyssum. It's been a long winter.
It's morning and our newly acquired cell phone rings and sends us into a dither until we figure out how to answer it. It's Georgia and Richard, good friends from Smith Valley. They are at the Marrakesh Country Club in Palm Desert.
"How about lunch in the garden room, our treat," Georgia enjoins.
I have developed a fondness for polished silver, glistening china, cloth napkins and attentive service and instantly accept. Like a pro, I navigate down Bob Hope Drive, cross Gerald Ford Avenue and turn left on Highway 111. We've just passed hundreds of garden villas, posh golf courses and a host of fancy malls. Where do these rich people come from?
Marrakesh is tres chic. A perky dark-haired girl beams at us and a huge wrought iron gate swings open; we are expected. A series of water filled disks come at us from a Moorish style building.
Georgia and Richard greet us with wonderful smiles and give us a tour of the grounds. Everything is so perfect. Surgically sutured lawns, bountiful flower beds of pink petunias and blankets of crimson bougainvillea that are attached to dazzlingly white walls. We dine sumptuously, chatter freely and glory in being well attended to. Some rich people horde their wealth. Georgia and Richard do not.
After settling in, we took a tour of the Cabot Yerxa(Yerksa) Museum.
Born on a Sioux Indian reservation(circa 1883) in the Dakota territory, Cabot acquires the spiritual ways of Native Americans. This doesn't deter him developing a strong sense of financial hustle, however.
In his teens he goes to Alaska, successfully sells supplies to miners, once making a killing on the sale of a trunk load of cigars.
In 1906 he invests heavily in the cutting edge industry of the day; orange groves. In 1913 a sudden freeze puts him out of business. In those days homesteading is the 'bailout' option of choice and for $10 buys 160 acres in the Desert Hot Springs area.
On Christmas Day he acquires a burro, names it Merry Christmas and they become fast friends. Strapped for funds he gouges out a hovel in the desert.
This doesn't set well with Margaret, his first wife and they divorce.
Being garrulous, Cabot noises it around that he's struck 132-degree mineral water on his property. Tylenol hasn't hit the market yet and a swift promoter builds a lavish spa & voila, Desert Hot Springs is born.
In 1940, after kicking around in the West and studying art in Paris, he settles down and commences to build a Hopi style pueblo. In his 50s, he elects to do almost all the work himself. He scrounges old timbers, uses local rock, makes adobe bricks, insisting on authenticity. The rooms are tiny, some even misshapen. Narrow passage ways capture the cool evening breezes. His passion for building is unfettered and then he meets Portia. She becomes his butterfly and he is her humming bird and they marry. Portia insists on a workable kitchen before she will move in. Cabot complies and their years of cohabitation flourish, each a theosophist. Webster defines a theosophist as, 'someone who seeks to establish a direct or mystical contact with the divine.' This explains their liberated spirits and the abundance of their creativity. The pueblo swells to 5,000 square feet and 35 rooms until Cabot crosses over in 1965. Portia joins him three years later to a realm known only to the two of them.
Now a word about Coby. I am stunned by his wisdom. His philosophy is a simple one. "It's all good, grandpa" or grandma, he says countless times while we are together. He absolutely refuses to be backed into a corner of negativity. He relates details of a week long bivouac in the desert. It starts out badly.
The two alarm clocks he sets don't awaken him and he is late for formation. This is not a good thing for a Marine. For this indiscretion he will be up at 4 a.m. each day and drive to the base to retrieve meals for his unit.
He is also given the trash clean up detail. During the night a coyote gets into the trash and spreads it all over the countryside. From then on he sleeps on the floor of a doorless shack to better protect the trash. "It's all good grand pa," he says with a knowing smile. One day I find him cleaning our motor home stove top with baby wipes. What did the Marines do to this kid? A year ago Coby didn't know for sure where his shoes were.
One afternoon while we were bobbing around in the swimming pool, I ask him if he has ever spoken with anyone who had been to Iraq. His demeanor quiets and he shares an experience told him by a sargent.
"'We were parked in a truck and a little boy came running toward us. As he got closer I saw the kid had a bomb strapped to his chest,' the Sargent said, and then he did what he had to do." Coby says.
I am stunned by the magnitude of the statement and try to make some sort of sense of the tragedy to Coby. Later as we soak quietly in the spa hot tub, a man says he has a son in Afghanistan and the son's wife is a helicopter pilot in Iraq. As we leave the hot tub, the gentleman says "I'll say a prayer for you Coby."
Being temporarily a part of Coby's world and hearing him say, "it's all good grandpa" makes me think. It is true, life is good. I don't think God would have it any other way.
Ron Walker lives in Smith Valley, Nev.
