Greetings from Wilbur

I write to you ensconced at the Willows Inn (nee the Settle Inn--how could they discard such a great name?), window open to the sunset and temperate breeze, the laughter of boisterous and brew-pounding young men on the rock crushing crew outside their rooms wafting in to accompany the TV shows I'm clicking through. Why is it that the crappier motels always have the better TV? Will it be Beetlejuice, Lord of the Rings, or QVC ce soir? (Speaking of the Lord of the Rings, have you seen the Leonard Nimoy/Bilbo Baggins video?)

I forgot to bring the cable to my camera, so for now you'll just have to imagine the lovely views I took in during my flights from Santa Rosa to Spokane: unusually green rolling green hills with vineyards flowing down to sparkling rivers giving way to majestic snow-topped volcanoes floating among low pompons of clouds, and finally the crazy quilt of wheat fields welcoming me to Washington. I know, it's all so trite, but really true even from the vantage of a plane. Sadly, there was not enough highway shoulder to stop and snap a pic of the sign that read "Litter and it will hurt" on Route 2, so that one you'll have to continue to imagine (blue background, white lettering).

I started reading Heminway's "A Moveable Feast" on the plane now that I've finally, sadly finished off the Richard Sharpe series I've been reading for what, the last year. I appreciated this advice that he gave to himself when he needed to start work on a new writing project: "Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know." If you wonder, like me, how he started the novel, it's: "Then there was the bad weather." When all else fails, there's always the weather. It's always true.

I saw Grandma briefly tonight (she's doing great!) then headed to The Alibi for dinner. It wasn't very crowded, so I couldn't help but overhear the disbelieving whispering between cook and barkeep over my request to leave the chicken out of the chicken alfredo. Maybe it was the antique bar and their banter, but I also couldn't help but thinking that those two women would've done a great job running the place 100 years ago. I learned that pints here are called "pounders" and the smaller glasses are "schooners." However, that would've been scandalous for me to know about a century ago, eh? Wild Goose Bill Days start this weekend, and though I'll be departing before the main festivities get underway, there is apparently a "moonlight madness" sale tomorrow evening that I'll be able to partake in.

Looking forward to a good night's sleep (I just jinxed it, didn't I? I can sense those 18 wheelers and their jake brakes coming to get me now) and more visiting with Grandma tomorrow.