A Mexican Adventure...and a Comedy of Errors

It was while walking Ollie, our Schnauzer, in the neighborhood that I saw the sign. "For Sale" written by hand and taped to the back window of a 2009 Jeep Wrangler. We had been looking for a new (or newer) vehicle for our home in Barra de Navidad, Mexico. The old Cherokee was slowly disintegrating in the coastal air, and it was becoming much less reliable. We needed a replacement. I had researched purchasing in Mexico but struggled with the costs. We also considered importing a vehicle from the US, and perhaps this is what we were looking for. Within a few days, we met with Mimi, our neighbor and owner of the Jeep, and deal was sealed. We could even park it in her extra garage while we figured out how to import it. 

We also have an attorney in Mexico who has helped us on various other issues, and he was able to facilitate the process. Othon found us an agent to help with the import, and after a few months it was all coming together. In December of 2023, we would drive to Nogales, Mexico and pick up our new plates at the DHL office. So, on Christmas Day we left Surprise and spent the night in Tubac, just north of the border. The next morning, we would cross at Nogales and we would be off. 

Yeah...right!

Whenever dealing with entities in Mexico, one must always be prepared for a change of plans. Of course, the license plates did NOT arrive at DHL as planned. They would not be there for several more days. Panic! What to do? Perhaps we can get temporary plates at the Tourist Visa and Auto Importation Station at KM 21? It sounded plausible…if we didn’t have our Permanente Residencia (the equivalent of a US Green Card in Mexico). Apparently Mexican residents cannot drive foreign plated vehicles in Mexico. We had no choice but to turn around and return to the US.

What complicated everything was the tight schedule with visitors coming to Barra. We still needed to be there by the end of the week. While waiting to cross into the US, Karen was on the phone and able to secure a couple of seats on a flight tomorrow morning. We parked the Jeep at the airport long-term parking and caught our flight.

Numerous phone calls to our attorney and the importer ensued, mostly starting with hablas englis (and sometimes without luck). During our final week in Barra in January, DHL arrived at our condo, with our plates and all the applicable stickers. We breathed a huge sigh of relief.

April rolled around, and we thought another attempt to drive the Jeep to Barra was in order. Reservations were made (at hotels that accepted pets, of which there were many). This time we left early in the morning and crossed the border around noon. Just south of Nogales we stopped at the auto import station and changed the plates on the vehicle. By late afternoon we were in Hermosilla for our first night in Mexico. The early part of the day the roads were surprisingly good, but as we got closer to Hermosillo, the potholes multiplied, and I was thankful for the new, all-terrain tires. It reminded me of an early video game where one dodged oncoming missiles.

Next stop was the little town of Topolobampo (yeah, it’s a mouthful). It is the eastern terminus of the ferry across the Sea of Cortez from La Paz, on the Baja peninsula. As we drove in we were struck by the colorful houses perched on the hillside above the bay. Truly charming. The hotel was on the water’s edge and offered a lovely respite from the day’s drive.

A perfect pic of Karen and Ollie as we came into Topolobampo.

The third day we left for Mazatlán. As we drove I noticed numerous gas stations along the way, so I didn’t fret about getting fuel. Strangely, the frequency of stations seemed to diminish as we came closer to Mazatlán and the gauge’s needle dipped ominously. Would we make it? Karen became so concerned that she insisted we get off the highway and find a farmer who perhaps had a tank from which we could buy fuel. I thought it best to stay on the highway, because if we did run out, at least someone could stop and help. We pulled off, drove a few kilometers without luck. I did not want to be stuck here. Back to the highway. I think the last few kilometers were downhill, and we made it to Mazatlán on fumes, stopping at the first gas station we found.  That night was spent at a seaside hotel with a nice casual dinner near the pool, and we watched the sun set over the sea. Over a Margarita I also promised Karen I would not let the gas tank go below the halfway point.

Next stop was Sayulita, a cute little town just north of Puerto Vallarta. Each day we drove between 6 and 8 hours, and the stretch between Mazatlán and Sayulita was perhaps the most beautiful. The roads in some portions were 4 lanes, divided and in some cases brand new with stunning views of the mountains and the ocean. It was obvious that Mexico is investing in infrastructure. As we drove further south, the ecosystem became lusher and more verdant. This is one of the reasons I love Mexico. Dinner that evening was at a sidewalk restaurant that arguably had the best Italian dinner…in Mexico, of all places.

On the fifth day, we arose and drove through Puerto Vallarta. This last segment is a familiar one for both of us, as we have flown into PV and either driven or rode a bus to Barra. This was also a shorter day, as Barra is only 4 hours south of PV. We arrived in the early afternoon.

It was a journey of almost 1,500 miles. Before leaving many asked us “aren’t you afraid?” For some, Mexico conjures up visions of cartel shootouts and bandits on the road. Our response is typically “Have you driven through south Phoenix lately”? As advised, we stayed on the toll roads and only drove during the day. Yes, we were stopped several times at checkpoints set up by the military and our vehicle searched twice. We also avoided certain towns known to be hotspots, such as Culiacan. The tollways made it quite easy. For me it was a lovely glimpse into typical Mexican life, where trucks ply the roads and people engaged in commerce, just like in the US.

The Jeep finally resting at the condos in Barra

As for the Jeep, all went very well and safely ensconced in Barra. We decided to name our Jeep Mimi, after her previous owner. Yes, I asked her, and she was delighted. You see, Mimi is the original Jeep girl. She showed us a photo of her perched on the hood of a WW2 Willys, when she first learned to drive. It could’ve been a poster.

 

 Ode to Gini

As most of you know I have family scattered throughout the northern hemisphere of this globe. Most of you also know of the historical aspects of this family (and hopefully soon you will know more). Those of you who follow me on Facebook or my blog have seen the articles and photographs of my parents and other members of note.

Today, however, I want to introduce one member of my family who most of you don’t know. Her name is, or was, Regina. Everyone called her Gini for short (and the “G” is a cross between a hard and soft pronunciation best done from the back of the throat. It’s a Dutch thing). I first learned of Gini when I asked my father who was that young woman in the photograph on my parents’ dresser. You must understand that to a young boy, as I was then, I didn’t spend much time in their bedroom. It was a place that had an air of sanctity about it.

I’m not sure how old I was when I learned that my father had been married before…before he was married to my mother and became my father. I was old enough to have some curiosity about this young girl. I became curious about my father’s previous life, and the mystery in my mind grew.

Gini beside our Grandfather Elibartus. (I don't know who the two on the left are,)

I was a teenager when Gini first came to the US. We drove to Seattle to meet her plane and then returned with her back to Portland. Of course, my father was giddy with excitement, and perhaps I was a little jealous. Having been what I thought his eldest, meeting a usurper of that role, innocent though it be, wasn’t easy for a teenager. I didn’t get to know Gini, partly because of my conflicted feelings and perhaps partly her own, as I was to learn in time.

Years later my father passed away and in the course of giving that news, my mother cultivated a relationship with Gini. Gini’s mother was still alive, and I believe it may have been the first time those two spoke to each other. A year later her mother also passed away.

With my father's passing, my mother wanted to make one more journey to Holland. Her remaining siblings were getting older, and she wanted to take me to my roots. The trip included spending most of our time with my cousins in northern Holland. The trip was planned out with various family reunions and visits to places of her youth. It was a fateful step off a curb as she was startled by a passing cyclist which caused her to fall and break her leg. This changed everything.

We had planned to visit Amsterdam in the following days but her confinement to a wheelchair made that unlikely. The visit would’ve included time with Gini. A phone call to her to say we wouldn’t be coming made Gini say that instead, she would come to us. She rode the train from her town to Groningen.

Gini, Mom and I in Groningen, in 2001

In the meantime I was trying to salvage what I could out of the trip and was planning to visit Amsterdam by myself. Mother was uncomfortable with that idea (and perhaps a wee jealous as well) but my cousins thought it was a great idea. They would take care of Mom while I was gone for a few days. Besides, Gini could accompany me to make sure I changed trains at the appropriate station. Despite being almost 50 at the time, I think my mother still looked at me as a child. I also think she was not comfortable with me being with Gini…alone and without her directing the conversation.

I thought the train ride from Groningen to Amsterdam would be fairly routine and we would make small talk to pass the time. I invited her to meet in Amsterdam and sightseeing together, but she politely declined. And I was somewhat relieved.

I don’t know how the conversation about our father started, but I suppose it was inevitable. It was what we had in common, and as I learned had kept us apart. Here we were, half-siblings struggling to communicate (with her little English and my meager Dutch) and coming to grips with our respective pasts. I learned of her resentment towards her father’s “other family”, of all the birthdays he spent with us…and not her. True, he called often and wrote many letters to her, but he wasn’t there. I realized she missed him terribly, especially now that he passed just a year or so before. Perhaps now she could also share that grief with someone who also knew her father. Interestingly, I remember looking in her eyes, and seeing my father. They both had brown eyes.

The train ride took several hours and tears flowed. It was one of the most difficult conversations of my life. Then Gini surprised me. She said, “We were the innocent ones”, acknowledging that we (her, I and my brother Mike), had nothing to do with her parents' divorce and his subsequent marriage to my mother. I felt the years of resentment melt away. She again surprised me, saying she would love to spend the day in Amsterdam with me. I got off the train at Amersfoort and she went on to Utrecht and her home in Breukelen.

We connected the next day and spent it sightseeing, including a visit to our father’s home on the Prinsengracht (canal). It was truly a wonderful time. The next day I took a bus to her home and she showed me Breukelen and the surrounding area. We promised to write, and we did. I followed my father’s tradition of sending postcards of places I visited in the US and Mexico. Gini loved travel and I found a postcard she sent to my father from Egypt. We wrote to each other several times. Occasionally I would call, usually on her birthday. I last visited Amsterdam in 2014 when I introduced Gini to my wife Karen. We toured the canals by boat and had a lovely time.

Gini in 2009, in front of our father's house in Amsterdam

Then one year I didn’t receive a letter. I wrote to her, but no reply. Time passed but I couldn’t shake the worry inside me. I googled her name but to no avail. Then, earlier in 2021 I tried again and found what I hoped wouldn’t be, but it was an obituary. Regina Angelica Helena Kluvers passed on April 2, 2019, at age 76. She is buried next to her mother in a cemetery near Breukelen.

Children of the same father yet separated by divorce, a condition all too common these days. Interestingly I always looked upon my childhood with its seeming perfection, completely unaware of another aspect of family that wasn’t as “ideal”. As I grew older, I looked at life through different eyes and learned more of my family’s past – both the heroic and the banal. In the end, Gini and I reconciled ourselves and each other to “it is what it is”, and life went on.

Karen, Gini and I in Amsterdam in 2014

 April 28, 2024

 Revelations in a Box

Where are those damned vaccine records, I thought as I rummaged through boxes of old files? It was more a matter of curiosity than anything else, as my recent records were available online. The ones I wanted were from when I was a child. I exhausted the usual places but to no avail. Opening another cabinet I spotted the metal lockbox...perhaps the records were there? 

It was the metal box where my father kept all his documents, which I inherited when Mom passed away in 2014. It is about 14 inches long by 10 inches wide and 7 inches deep with a lock on the lid that opens on the long side. Based on how heavy it is, I assumed the box is made of steel, probably double-layered.  The stress of her death, mixed with the subsequent responsibilities of settling the estate, clearing her house, and then selling it, I hadn’t taken the time to fully explore its contents. When it left Mom’s house, it went to a closet in Olympia, ultimately ending up in our house in Surprise, Arizona. Each time I moved it I knew I needed to look through it and take inventory of the contents. Several cursory looks yielded the usual stuff that I already knew, and it made sense that the early vaccine records could be in there. I lifted the box from the cabinet and set it on the floor.       

I kept the key to the strongbox in my desk drawer, along with several others (including a few that I had no idea where they went, but they were in my mother’s desk and I couldn’t part with them), with a tag labeled as “metal safety box” in my father’s neat printing. I smiled as I thought of his meticulous recordkeeping as I held the key, and then I opened the box.    

There was the stuff I already knew was there, and I lifted the documents out and laid them on the carpet. Opening each envelope, I confirmed what I knew was already there, and pretty soon I was ambling down memory lane. Each item held a memory, and a piece of my father, so it didn’t take long for me to become a tad emotional. I realized I missed him.       

There were expired passports and old photographs of the times he was with Royal Dutch Shell, as well as his divorce decree, which occupied a lot of time as I read through it. It was in Spanish, with a certified translation into English attached to it. There were what looked like postage stamps affixed to the documents, as well as embossed stamps attesting to their authenticity. Perhaps this needs to be in the book I’m writing? Maybe book two?         

As I continued to rummage through the contents of the box, a small envelope caught my eye. The paper was brittle and old, so I carefully opened the flap. Luckily it was not sealed. Inside were papers folded in quarters, and I delicately unfolded them. The paper was thin and yellowed. The words were in Dutch, and I saw Dad’s name mentioned. It was the date that especially caught my attention. 24 January 1945, in the upper right corner. Though my knowledge of Dutch is rudimentary, there were many words I would need to look up. It was an official document that bore the signatures of six people. The title at the top was Landelijk Herstel N.B.O., which I translated to read National Recovery Office, which was in Eindhoven.

Thanks to Google Translate (which I acknowledge is not perfect, as my cousins in Holland will say when I tried to speak their language), I learned the document formally attested to his Resistance activities during World War II. I had always known this, so seeing it in print was no surprise, yet it somehow felt validating to see it in print. The pride I felt for my father filled me with renewed joy.       

    Scholman's Letter - Page 1

However, it was the second piece of paper that surprised me. This was a letter, on someone’s official letterhead and written with an old typewriter. Though the ink had begun to fade, I could still feel some of the indentations from the type as if it had just hit the flimsy paper. It was from H. A. M. Scholman, Officer of Health in the town of Oirschot, Netherlands, dated 26 January 1945. The letter also bore a certificate and stamp attesting to the authenticity of Mr. Scholman’s signature, probably akin to our notary public. In this letter Mr. Scholman describes the resistance activities of one Elibartus Kluvers…my father. Apparently, Mr. Scholman and my father worked together in the Resistance during the war, and several of the examples cited contained the word “we”, implying their joint actions.           

Examples of their work included cutting German communication lines, smuggling weapons, hiding fugitives from the Nazis, and various sabotage efforts. Among the examples of the actions by my father, Mr. Scholman recalls one Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy, a Canadian pilot who was shot down in the area and helped by my father and Mr. Scholman. Conroy was sheltered by both and then taken to the border with Belgium.           

I was stunned! In my hand, I held tangible proof of my father’s resistance activities. Growing up with the stories told by Dad, I sometimes wondered if some hyperbole or exaggeration crept into those accounts, though I had to admit Dad was never given to such exaggerations. Perhaps his downplaying of the stories made them seem less exciting to me. Yet here I could see someone else’s version of that time and it painted a different picture of my father.           

The Conroy episode grabbed my attention, and I wanted to know more about him. I googled Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy. What are the chances, I thought. To my surprise, I got a hit immediately. I found the records of the Bison Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force, based at a location in England, of which he was a member. There were other links that I dutifully followed until I hit the mother lode. It led me to the British Archives, which required me to register, and found it was free. Perhaps my muse was leading me here.           

 Flying Sergeant R. F. Conroy's Report (Page 1 only)

Once I registered for the Archives, I was led to a document, labeled “Most Secret”, a three-page typed account of FS Conroy’s bombing mission from England to Dusseldorf. The account was an incredible narrative of his ordeal, starting when he took off from RAF East Moor at 11:00 PM on the 11th of June 1943, then shot down in Holland where he parachuted into a field. He goes on to describe his hiding in fields and ditches, then being helped by the Dutch Resistance, though not naming any names. The account describes staying in a Dutch man’s home before being driven to the Belgian border, and ultimately his journey through France and then into Spain, eventually finding his way back to England.   

My eyes teared up as I read Conroy’s account. Between his and the letter by Scholman, my father’s wartime experiences went from abstract and distant memories to irrefutable truth. That person helping Conroy was none other than my father. Waves of emotion washed over me as I pondered this information. One was regret, wishing I had been more persistent in hearing those stories of my father. I wished I could ask him again to tell me, and then tell me more. Another was the unbelievable pride in the man who had bestowed his DNA on me. There was also a hint of sorrow, as I missed him terribly.           

To say this provided incredible fodder for the story I began more than twenty years ago would be an understatement. Another emotion that would rise in me was profound gratitude. I was thankful for his bravery in fighting against tyranny. Many like him made the world safer for me, and many like me. I was also grateful for his saving those documents, perhaps to be found at just the right time.

 

Cars...in the Middle of Nowhere

There is little that gets me excited more than some old Detroit Iron, even if the ravages of time have pitted the chrome and rusted the paint away. Especially the era of my youth, the 50's and 60's make my heart pitter-patter just a little more. Add in a little architecture from that era, and I am practically swooning. You see (and perhaps already know from some of my earlier posts), I am a car guy. I spent my high school years working in a gas station, mainly to support my addiction to the smell of oil and high octane gas, and the texture of cast iron engine blocks...not to mention the bloodied knuckles that are the result of slipped wrenches. 

On our excursion to the remote southeast corner of Arizona, we stumbled upon the town of Lowell. Located on the south side of Bisbee (another blog post, by the way) and truly teetering on the brink of the Sacramento Pit, an old copper mine, the town boasts an assortment of buildings straight out of the 60's, complete with an old Sprouse Reitz storefront (no longer open, by the way) and various auto-related businesses. Parked on this relic of Main Street, USA are a number of cars, as though time had stopped and the dust of the desert came in and settled on the steel.

A 1959 Chevrolet Impala with the distinctive horizontal fins - one of my favorite cars of that era. Note the old gas pump on the sidewalk

Lowell has the appearance of a street in the 60's where people parked their cars and then...disappeared. First founded in the late 1890's as a town to support the Lowell Mine, the first businesses were a pair of saloons and a livery stable in 1910. Over time the town grew to include the usual accompanying businesses such as brothels and boarding houses.

The main drag through town in Erie Street, perhaps the best example of mid-century architecture, largely preserved through the "Lowell Americana Project" made up of volunteers who paint, repair and provide much of the accessories reminiscent of the era. 

What could be more representative that a caddie and a gas station? It does seem fitting, since the 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville was notorious for drinking gas like it was soda pop. Shell was also nostalgic for me, since my dad worked for Shell as an engineer in the late 40's and 50's, and Shell was my first credit card.

What speaks more of the open road and travel than an old Greyhound Scenicruiser, ca. mid-50's? I'm guessing that's a ca.1940 Chevrolet under the Texaco sign...let me know if you discover otherwise.

Lowell kinda dried up in the late 50's when mining slowed down, and the open pit to the north encroached into Erie Street. Most businesses and services moved to neighboring communities and the relocation of the highway (because of the pit) sealed the demise. It's largely the volunteer efforts of private individuals that help keep this reminder of our past alive and available to visit. 

Mayberry...on Acid

Mayberry...on Acid. Such was the bumper sticker that I still regret not buying. It was when we visited the little town of Bisbee, Arizona, tucked away in the southeast corner of the state, just a few miles from the Mexico border. It's a old western town known for being among the more lucrative copper mines in the western US. Teetering on the edge of the open pit and snaking up the hills surrounding the town, there is a wild collection of old western architecture as well as Victorian and Art Deco buildings, roads that wind around and suddenly end, antique stores, hippy shops, and an assortment of counter-culture facades that belie the otherwise conservative values one would usually expect in a "red" state like Arizona. It is actually pretty refreshing to me. 

         The main drag, or Tombstone Canyon Road.  

Bisbee was founded in 1880 with the discovery of copper and grew to a sizable community of more than 9,000 people. The adjacent Copper Queen Mine was the main employer and was eventually operated by Phelps Dodge Co. The open pit mine was started in 1915 and operated until 1975. The town floundered until the 1980's when it became a counter culture mecca. 

Art can be found in many forms and on many surfaces throughout Bisbee, and certainly reflective of the varied tastes and proclivities found in the community. Some are larger than life, using spray can media on the canvasses of building exteriors (and some are more subtle, such as the pair of rabbits in upper right corner of the window). 

Bisbee also boasts one of the longest (and skinniest) galleries I've ever seen. This one bore paintings and drawings on the fences and sides of buildings along an alley almost a block long. I'm not sure what the criteria for posting the artwork (or if there is any at all), but certainly entertaining.

Of course not all artwork comes in canvass form, or on a two-dimensional media. Some carry a message, as the rear window of the pickup truck 

 

There are many reminders of Bisbee's mining past throughout the town. Pieces of mining equipment, such as drills, winches and small rail cars are scattered at various locations. The grandeur of some of the larger buildings, like the bank and various stores along the main drag are all reminiscent of the opulence of days gone by. The Copper Queen Hotel, perhaps the Grande Dame of hotel accommodations in Bisbee is a stunning example of Edwardian architecture not commonly found in the Old West. Filled with Art Nouveau antiques, pianos and Tiffany chandeliers, one cannot miss the the glories of days past.

 

Then, of course, there is the mine itself. One can tour the 10,000-foot long Queen Mine tunnel into the mountain on special cars that used to carry miners to their shift. The underground mine was started around 1880. 

Just to the south of the mine tunnel are the Lavender and Sacramento Pits, which begun during World War I. Between the 900-foot deep pits and the tunnel, the mine produced 600,000 tons of copper, plus silver, gold and turquoise. 

Fetch...and Life on the Lake

The dictionary defines "fetch" as the distance of open water over which wind travels and creates waves and rough waters in the process.  Even over the relatively short distance across Offut Lake (less than a mile) upon which we live on the north shore, we have seen impressive gusts buffet the house and whitecaps splash over the bulkhead.  Today's forecast is for winds up to 60 mph.  It's the kind of weather that makes one want to hunker down and hope the power doesn't go out.  Nevertheless, the candles stand ready.

So it was today, and yet I look out over the top of my laptop and see a splash of red against the gray water and sky sail by the window.  It turns out that some people don't hunker down, but instead choose to embrace the wind and enjoy its effect.  The red was the catamaran and sail of one of our neighbors on the lake as he harnesses the wind's power and races back and forth.

I watched our neighbor traverse the lake while I sipped my coffee (I'd rather it were a glass of wine but it's too early for that).  Part of me envied him, in much the same way all of us envy those around us who are fearless and embrace the thrill that life offers.  I also marveled at his apparent skill in mastering the wind with such speed and agility...much different than my kayak paddling on a glassy lake.

It's a far cry from the early morning photos I've posted other times when the lake resembles a mirror reflecting a moonrise or a veiled sun casting shadows over a misty surface. Yet that variety demonstrated today is certainly the spice of life we all need, and perhaps the impetus for adventure,..whatever it may be.

I will close with a photo of the lake under more peaceful conditions, as I return to the work at hand on my computer.

Who’d a thunk??

Sometimes in life we are presented with an opportunity to experience something totally, completely, and unabashedly unique and unexpected.  I believe this is the definition of serendipity, and I truly love serendipitous occurrences!

Cheryl and Casey are a couple who are among our best friends.  Last night we were invited to join them for dinner and an evening listening to a local jazz musician, one by the name on Joe Baque who plays a keyboard with two others…one with a cello taller than he, and the other an acoustic guitar.  The dinner and concert was at a place called Jeremy’s Farm to Table, in Chehalis. 

Now, I must confess to some preconceived notions about the I-5 twin cities of Centralia and Chehalis.  All of us have whizzed by on the freeway, usually on our way to Seattle or Portland and glanced through the car window at the cluster of buildings, small strip malls, gas stations and car dealers spread out over the Chehalis prairie…and perhaps not thought much about it.  It is also true that Lewis County, in which the two towns lie, has a reputation of rednecks, roughnecks and meth heads… not an appealing combination to tempt us off the freeway.  When I was told that is where we would dine, my expectations were not high.  Nevertheless, we always have a good time with Casey and Cheryl so I wasn’t too worried about an enjoyable evening.  After all, it is what we make of it. 

Just a half hour drive from our house in Olympia, we took Exit 77 off of I-5 and pulled into the parking lot just 4 blocks east of the freeway.   We were seated at a table fairly close to the stage and were indeed treated to some lovely music that Joe and his musicians played completely from the heart.  Pieces such as “As Time Goes By” and “New York, New York” filled the rafters amid the din of diners and the clatter of the kitchen.  It was lovely.

However, the surprise came when a gentleman stood on the stage during a break, and sang “Nessum Dorma”, one of my favorite opera pieces that will always bring tears to my eyes, and it did.  I was stunned!  Was I really in Chehalis, or did I enter some time warp and find myself in a performance venue off Broadway?  He also sang it without any musical accompaniment.  It was amazing!

After he was done he mingled among the patrons and finally came by our table, where I caught his attention.  Who are you, I wanted to know?  It turns out he is Jeremy, who’s namesake is the restaurant.  It also turns out he went for voice lessons when he was young man and his teacher told him he should sing opera.  His reply was ok…what is opera? 

Cheryl and Casey, and Joe is playing in the background

Yes, I know.  It is increasingly impolite to post pictures of food, but since this is about a restaurant it felt right.

It wouldn't be a complete blog without a pic of my darling.

We also talked about his restaurant, which it turned out had only been open for two years.  He shared his vision of opening a local farmer’s market and supply network so he could always be assured of a supply of local and organic foods.  Three of us had Prime Rib, and Karen had the Macadamia Crusted Halibut…delicious!

Wow!  The times they are a’changing, and so is my impression of Chehalis.

I have attached links to Jeremy’s restaurant, so if you are travelling the I-5 corridor here is a wonderful alternative to the fast food and chains one always finds at the exit ramps (and no, I’m not getting paid for this plug!).  I’ve also provided links to Joe Baque and a performance of Nessum Dorma (by Pavarotti, not Jeremy of course).

http://www.joebaque.com/index.shtm

http://www.jeremysfarmtotable.com/home/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTFUM4Uh_6Y