Back Through Time
			     by
			 M.I. Smith


"...imagine a time before top fuel dragsters," Ken intones as
they wander over yet another scenic and educational footpath,
intent on not stumbling in the rubble.

Michael looks down at his left hand and notices that his fingers
are covered with reddish blotches. He reaches into his pocket and
extracts the small pink rock he has been absently-mindedly
fondling. It was just purchased in a shop at the entrance to the
Petrified Forest National Park. "Huh," he says.

They are now in the Park's museum grounds looking at redwood logs
which are actually giant lumps of rock. Michael rubs some more
dye off of the stone with his thumb. Ken looks over, "That's very
funny. I was wondering why I'd never seen agates in all those
colors before."

"Well it's still the right color." Michael spent the outrageous
sum of $1.09 to buy the heart-shaped stone for a female friend
who is enamoured of shades of pink.

"And Erika will probably like it better that it's dyed. Lucky I
didn't get one for Debbie. She's not that type."

"Story of your life."

"Your side's better."

Ken and Michael are now on the last leg of a six day
Self-Guided-Loop-Trails of the Southwest marathon. "When we were
here in 1963 I got a card with little samples of different rocks
glued to it," Ken reminisces. "It was so cool."

"Yeah, I got one of those on our trip to Wisconsin too." At the
impressionable age of 7, both boys' families had taken cross
country road trips wherein many trinkets were purchased.

"This time we could be collecting them on the hoof." Ken kicks a
pebble. "Except for all the signs, of course."

Michael points to the museum gift shop. "Here we are in Petrified
Glyph Natural Pork, and it's time to SHOP. Maybe we can find a
card with samples of all the dyes." He is still a little upset
about his rock.

This store also has a bin of brightly colored rocks. The clerk is
trying to have a conversation with a man in brand-shiny-new
motorcycle leathers, "Even if we don't speak the same language we
all know numbers."

They have been playing tag with a large group on some kind of
see-America rental-tour, all on identical new
Yamaha-Fake-Harleys. None of them seems to speak enough English
to call for help if a bike drops. "Je ne comprends pas?"

"Numbers." She scribbles with her finger on the counter top.

"Je ne sais pas...."

"You know money, numbers." She points to the cash register. "We
all know money."

"Ah, oui. Merci." He leaves with a perplexed look on his face.

"I've never seen agates this color. Are these the real colors?"
Ken asks the clerk.

"No, they're all dyed in Brazil," she answers. "I think the
chemicals are too caustic to use around here," she adds offhand.

Ken and Michael exchange glances. Michael looks at his hand and
says, "Hmm, postcards."

"What else is new." Ken says.

"What?" the woman asks.

"Oh, nothing..." Ken replies. "Say, do you have those little rock
collections? You know, a card with a bunch of different rocks
glued to it?"

"I haven't seen those in a long time. Maybe one of the rock shops
up along I40 might still have them."

Michael lays four cards on the counter, "I'll take these." Back
in the car he transfers the cards to his travel bag and tosses
the empty paper bag into the back seat.


The night before, sitting on a sticky naugahide bench in a dingy
Mexican restaurant in Holbrook, Arizona, they had observed a
family of four Scandinavians trying to make sense of the menu.
The father looked like a middle-school teacher, permanently
disapproving. Mother, just a little worried, and Daughter with
Probable-husband, their backs to the boys, are trying to make the
best of it.

Mother sounds out various descriptions. "Ta Ko. Pla-ate. Rice.
Beans. Soap Oh-pee-ah."

The waitress brings Ken and Michael their food. Ken says, "You
think we could point to stuff on our plates and help them out?"

"Probably wouldn't matter," she answers. "They're all vegetarians."

She goes to assist the family in their deliberations. "Everything
has meat in it." She waves vaguely to some wilted lettuce in a
bowl behind her, "Except the salad bar."

The daughter points to the menu and utters a few English nouns.

"No. The sauces are already made. With meat. We could strain the
red for you but it would still have that meat taste. The green is
hopeless." She is speaking much too fast for any of her customers
to understand. "Why don't you try the Quesidilla or the Guac
salad. We can leave out the meat." She waves her finger over the
menu and looks expectant. They all nod as if they have understood
so she writes on her order book, "Ok, two Quesidillas and two
Guacs. Alright. Thanks." She collects the menus and hurries away.

Michael cautiously probes the contents of his tamale plate. "This
may kill me," he waves a lump of something speared on his fork.

"Think they have espresso?" Ken wonders. "La Manteca is going to
need a wakeup call later."

When the family's food arrives the father's stern expression
turns momentarily to surprise and disgust but settles quickly
back into disapproval. They gamely eat their meals, probably
imagining some nice lutefisk when they return to civilization.


Earlier that day, on the way from Chinle to Holbrook the
travelers saw a Burger King billboard near a McDonalds. It said
"Only 95 miles, in Chinle." There is no McDonalds in Chinle, so
two hours previously their choices had been Burger King or A&W.
"Gosh, wouldn't it be great to find a Denny's just about now?"
Michael had said as they were looking for a mid-day snack.

"My parents always kept some cookies in the car to bribe my
brother and me when we got out of hand. Let's check into that
Gas-Food there and get some for the road," Ken suggests. The
small market on the corner turns out to be a full service
operation. Laundromat, Video Rental, Food, Gasoline, and some
Indian Mystery Trinkets by the cash register. But the cookie
choices are limited to Oreos and Pop Tarts.

"Maybe not," Michael says.

As they return to the car a man in a wheelchair rolls over and
places himself directly behind their rear bumper. "Hi, I'm Cody,"
he holds out his hand. They all hesitantly shake hands. "I'm a
Vietnam Vet. Navajo. Where you from?" He has very effectively
immobilized them.

Ken and Michael exchange a resigned glance, "California." Michael
points to the rental car's license plate. After two days on the
road Ken had noticed that, even though they got the car in
Albuquerque, the plate was from California. "No wonder everyone
has been treating us like tourists," he said when he pointed it
out to Michael.

"I used to live in Duarte," Cody says. "Now I'm back here."

"L.A., huh?" Ken says. "Lovely area...."

"Yeah. Duarte. Covina. All over there. Say you guys couldn't help
me out with a $1.50 to get something to eat could you?"

They exchange another glance. "I guess we can split the damage,"
Michael says. "Here's my dollar." Ken winces but also hands Cody
a dollar. Michael opens the driver side door.

"Thanks." The money quickly disappears but Cody shows no sign of
moving away from the bumper. "You know I used to go out and party
in Duarte all the time. Man I remember the bars. The girls.  Yeah."

"Yup, probably still the same down there," Ken says, opening his
door. They make motions as if they are getting into the car.

"Les'see....the Watering Hole, um, Last Chance. Yeah, those were
the days. You remember any of those places?" Cody asks.

"Can't say as I do," Ken answers, "Been a long time."

"Wow, those were good times," Cody makes a stab at keeping the
conversational ball rolling.

"I'm sure," Michael agrees, inching closer to his car seat.

"Long time now I guess," Cody muses.

"Things are probably different now." Ken is getting into the car
in slow motion.

"Yeah, well," Cody resigns. "Have a good one." He finally rolls
off towards the A&W.

As they pull out of the parking lot Michael says, "I thought we
might have to drive over him."

"If he spends that on food, I'll buy him lunch at Chez Panniss."
Ken opens the Oreo package and offers them to Michael.

"Hey," Michael defends Cody, "It is illegal to posses or consume
alcoholic beverages," he quotes from the previous night's Holiday
Inn menu, "on the Navajo Reservation." Nevermind that their ice
chest contains a bag of limes and a bottle of tequila that they
have been nursing from each evening. Michael selects a cookie and
then consigns a stray piece of plastic wrap to the back seat
gulag. "If we had gotten some nice cookies in Santa Fe...."

"We would have eaten them by now," Ken interrupts.

"Right."

They take the long way around Canyon de Chelly, skipping a few
scenic outlooks just to prove that they can. Ken points to the
sweeping panorama beyond the driver's-side window.

"Your side is better," Michael says, pointing to an identical
panorama gliding past Ken's side of the car.

As they turn onto Hwy 12 Michael sees a vandalized road sign and
asks, "What'd that say? Suck on Road?"

"Stock on Road. Silly." And for the next 50 miles, every time
they see an animal near the road, Ken warns Michael, who has put
the car on cruise control and is playing a Sheryl Crow tape a
little louder than he really politely should, with the phrase,
"Suck on road."

After an hour or two of high mountain driving they return to
civilization and take I40 to Holbrook. As each exit approaches
there are flurries of billboards for tourist-trap Indian stores.

"Only 5 miles to Ortega's Indian Trader."
"Indian pots. $5.99."
"Only 2 miles".
"Easy return to I40."
"Gas. Food. Clean Restrooms."
"Next exit."
"Visit Cree's first, owned by Navajo." A ringer in the set.
Then,  "Here it is!"
"Turn off now!."

"Man I remember those all over Wyoming and Nebraska," Michael
channels his family trip. "I whined about stopping at every one.
I don't think my Dad ever forgave me. Little America was the
best."

"We got a bunch of cool stuff. Tiny Indian Drums. All that kind
of crap," Ken agrees. "I should get something for Jamie." Jamie
is Debbie's three year old son.

"I think you should take him on a road trip."

"Oh wouldn't that be joyful. Maybe later."


As they left Chaco Canyon the day before, the midden in the back
seat of the car had taken on a form that would not be appreciated
by future archeologists specializing in rental car returns.
Explanatory loop trail brochures and empty film boxes made a
protective cover for food containers and rumpled paper towels
from lunch, which overlaid a thin layer of travel brochures and
superfluous maps, all on a solid foundation of Santa Fe
newspapers and gallery guides.

"You know, I think the whole point of this place is to test our
honesty," Ken says. "They should skip all the explanations and
just enlarge the `Please do not take anything' part of the signs."

"I think they have it all wrong. Those round Kiva things were
sewage treatment vats. Forget those drawings of rooms full of
city council meetings, this whole place was a water reclamation
facility." Michael has been pondering why there are mysterious
channels between certain walls in the ruins. "That's my artist's
conception, anyway. Too bad I can't draw. I could do the new
signs for you."

Ken points out a particularly dramatic rock outcropping on
Michael's side of the car, "Your side is better."

"Yahsure, yabetcha."

After studying the map and asking advice from various rangers
Michael comes to the conclusion that a back road from Shiprock to
Lukachukai would be the most scenic and challenging way to
continue the trip. The added attraction is covering a 10 mile
stretch of US 666. All they need to do is find a motel somewhere
in between.

The late afternoon drive through high desert, singing along with
a Dead Kennedy's tape under full cruise control is uneventful.
But on arrival, Farmington, even though it boasts a few motels
and an Italian restaurant listing in the AAA guide book, appears
to be an industrial wasteland.

"I take it back," Ken says.

"What?"

"The part I said yesterday up in the mountains about how
everything looks great at sunset. I don't think this place will."

"Maybe you're not giving it a chance. You never know."

"If it's all the same to you, I don't want to find out."

"Ok, Shiprock, next stop. There must be some place to stay
there."

"Maybe they'll have a vacant cliff dwelling or something."

But Shiprock proves to have, as the Harper's magazine article
(which Ken has so far neglected to show Michael) mentions, a
Burger King and a gas station. The article details the horrifying
decline of the reservation youth whose only outlets are drinking,
driving, and mayhem; but short-changes the area somewhat, since
there also appears to be a supermarket and a large number of
rundown dwellings. There is, however, no Inn for the Travelers.
Michael pulls into the Burger King parking lot.

"Why are we stopping?" Ken asks.

"You need to take a picture of me."

"I do?"

"The route 666 sign. I need a picture."

"OK, but I have to pee first. Don't start without me." Ken ambles
over to the gas station, but returns quickly. "Maybe I'll try the
B.K." He returns quickly again. "Damn place. I guess they don't
need restrooms. Do you really have to take a picture now? We're
going to be on 666 for a while aren't we?"

"Yup. There's a perfectly good sign right there."

"If we had a car full of kids we'd be in big trouble right now,"
Ken observes

"If we'd gotten one of those little plastic pots in Santa Fe,
everything'd be fine." Michael replies as he drops an empty film
box into the back seat.

After the picture they return to the car to figure out what to
do. Backtracking to prove that the sunset will not work on
Farmington seems unpleasant, and there is no indication of other
useful habitation for miles in any other direction on the map.

"Lets just go on to Chinle," Ken suggests.

"Fine, but you're going to have to drive."

"Sure, no problem." They switch sides. "So," Ken looks straight
ahead. "How do we get there?"

"We need to find 64," Michael squints at the map. "See I told
you. It's lucky we got that picture when we did." He rummages
for his reading glasses, moves the map up and down, and finally
realizes that taking his shades off helps. "The map shows it
branching off just after that bridge we crossed over there."

"There's a sign," Ken points across the road. The sign is oblique
to them so they can barely make out the numbers and arrows. "64.
I think. Looks like we turn here."

"Lets roll....I guess."

The road goes west but is completely devoid of markings for the
first 15 miles. "Hey I saw a mileage marker with 594 on it," Ken
says. "You see a 594 on the map?"

"Nope. I didn't see highway numbers on the markers before either.
My mother would be having a fit just about now."

"Well that's what it said."

Now that they are climbing back into the mountains the scenery is
improving. But there are no more markers so Michael isn't able to
verify Ken's findings.

"I guess it's lucky we didn't try the over-the-top-dirt-road-thing
I was going to do," Michael ruminates. "We'd probably be lost in
Indian country for days."

Ken is rubbernecking at Shiprock mesa in the distance on his
side, and keeping minimal attention on the road when a highway
number sign rushes past. "Sixty-four. Kewel," Michael is relieved.
"We are on the right track."

"What?"

"I just saw a highway sign. We're on 64."

"Huh," Ken seems unconcerned. "You know, this area really reminds
me of New Mexico."

"And my side is better," Michael indicates a series of barren
mountain valleys dissolving into the distance.


At dusk the night before, heading to Cuba, N.M. on highway 96,
they passed the Coon Haller Cafe. "Should'a brought mah
confederate flag patch," Michael said.

"The Corn Holer Cafe?" Ken sounds amazed. "My buddies up north
tole me to look y'all up down here at the Corn Holer. Said you
was a great buncha guys. How y'all doin?"

"I think we have achieved that forty-years-into-the-past thing
that Jim promised." Jim, Ken's old friend who now lives in Santa
Fe, recently provided the travelers with lodging and logistical
advice. "Imagine a time before Espresso and Herbal High Colonics."
Michael looks around to watch the Cafe recede into the twilight,
"Yup, I think we made it." He settles into his seat.  "Now.  How
d'we get back?"

"I think I can guarantee you that we're not returning through
Taos Pueblo." Ken swerves to avoid a bird-like being that is
rushing across the road. "I still can't believe I paid $16 to get
in there."

"It does seem improbable," Michael agrees. "But the Mountain
Girls in Taos proper were cute." They pass a road sign with a
hand-drawn UFO floating above the silhouette of a cow.

"Where'd you come up with that Mountain Girl thing anyway?"

"I don't know, it just came to me. Like a vision, y'know. All
those nubile young blonde women. They look like they work on
their own trucks and use ancient home remedies. Maybe dabble with
a little witchcraft on the side. I just imagine everyone in
Boulder looking like that."

"So why don't you marry one?

"I already failed the blue-green algae test," Michael shrugs. "I
just couldn't remember which was which and took them all at the
wrong times. That's why it didn't work for me. That's what Renee
said anyway."

"Renee's from Boulder?

"Yup." Michael glances out the window as a Pass With Care road
sign whizzes by. Someone has painted over the first and last
letters of the message. "I can't remember if we went through
Boulder when I was a kid. Maybe I got bit by a Moutain Girl
mosquito or something."

Ken points past the road sign at a tree-lined ridge backlit by
the failing sunlight, "Your side is better."

"She'd probably like Taos Pueblo," Michael nods at the trees.
"She would'a started talking to the women and ended up initiated
into some kind of tourist-level Kiva-dancing group or something.
Me? I never talk to anyone."

"Well, the gatekeeper wasn't exactly a friendly outgoing guy
himself. He was mumbling in some forgotten language the entire
time he added up our bill. Probably describing our white-devil
assholes in detail so he could remember why he hated each and
every one of us individually."

"Can't blame him. Except for the $16 of course. I mean look at
the guide book description." Michael fumbles with the guide,
"This picturesque pueblo is the tallest in the Southwest.
Electricity and running water are banned. Men wear blankets
around their heads." He tosses the book over his shoulder. "How'd
you like to have a bunch of bozos in shorts and dumb tee-shirts
wandering around your front yard staring at your piquant
existence? Not to mention space cadets channeling their own personal
primitive-back-to-nature-scatter-gather-spiritual-guides while
communing with your fresh-water supply."

"Should'a known I guess. Next time we'll stick to the
pre-columbian cave tour."

"No. It's better that we did it. At least the curio shops were
closed. Now THAT would have been depressing."

Another road-sign-aided zips past, this one with a knife and fork
added to the cow silhouette.


The previous day they had been walking around the center of Santa
Fe looking for something that was not made explicitly for
tourists. Surrounded on all sides by `Gift' shops purveying
reproductions of Indian artifacts, modern interpretations of
Indian jewelry, and Indian pottery made in Taiwan, plus galleries
selling polished Santa Fe paintings, polished Santa Fe sculpture,
and polished Santa Fe rocks, they felt out of place for being
precisely in place.

"You know, I feel I'm on the streets of Thira right now," Michael
says, thinking of Santorini, the Aegean Island that is
chock-full-o'shops.

"It does have that feel," Ken admits.

"The streets are a little wider here."

"And there are no Germans or Australians."

"I heard some German in the restaurant."

"Ok, not many Germans, fewer Australians. And no students. Its
too expensive for students," Ken postulates.

"I suppose so," Michael agrees. "But it is Where America Goes to
Shop."

"I wonder if you can buy milk around here anywhere."

"Who needs milk when you can get your genuine copies of local
archeological wonders, in durable plastic. Its food for the
soul."

"You saw plastic Indian pots?" Ken asks. "No. You didn't."

"Well, virtual plastic pots." Michael looks around, "You're
right, I haven't seen any Little Plastic Pueblos. Yet. But at
least you can buy milk in the Plaka."

"I think this is completely different from Athens. Everything
costs too much here to attract the same type of budget travelers."

An older Anglo woman, wearing all black and encrusted with silver
and turquoise jewelry pauses in front of a gallery window. She
points and says something to her husband who is intently studying
the sidewalk.

"But the spirit is the same." Michael surreptitiously points out
the woman's fingers as they pass, "Niiiice nails. I've never seen
turquoise polish before. I wonder if I can find some for Erika."

"You better not."

"One of these shops MUST have it," he waves expansively. "But,
yeah, it would clash with the pink. How 80's of me."

"The style here is completely different," Ken continues to
disagree with the main premise. "Look at all these
women-in-black. Slightly older, with straight grey hair and that
strong independent carriage. Somebody's minting O'Keefe copies
around here and letting them loose. You wouldn't see those in the
Plaka. You'd see fat mid-westerners in shorts with video cameras
stuck to their eye holes."

A gaggle of high school students with cameras stops at the
corner. Each one takes a picture looking down through a covered
sidewalk. Some are kneeling lower and some are just standing at
head height. As they pass Michael says, "You should get a couple
from up here," waving his hand over his head, "Just to cover the
bases, I mean." They look at him blankly.

"You shouldn't talk to strangers," Ken advises. "Especially him."

"Let's get some postcards," Michael points out `The Trading Post.'
"That looks like my kind of place."

"Oh no."

"No really. Postcards are about the only thing you can find that
has any individual character anymore. I mean you can fake them,
like the `Howdy from <put your city here>' ones, but mostly they
are the genuine article. Except, actually, I went into a mall
somewhere outside Boston once because I couldn't find any other
stores, and all they had were Hallmark Cards. Not a single thing
that wasn't available anywhere else in America."

"That's nice Michael."

"Am I rambling?"

"No. No. Not at all."

Michael selects two dollars' worth of cards as Ken studies the
earing case. After they leave he says, "You know, I wish I knew
about jewelry so I could recognize the good things. I'd like to
get something for Debbie."

"It probably wouldn't matter. It's a hopeless proposition buying
that stuff for girls. They usually don't like whatever you select
anyway."

"But at least I would know it was good if she hated it."

"Ah, yes, I guess that helps." Michael surveys the surrounding
territory and then points off into the distance, "Still think
we're not in Athens?" On the next corner is a Greek Taverna.

"Great. I was getting tired of that smokey chipotle flavored blue
corn enchilada thing."

"Not." Michael consults the hotel guide map. "Lets go to the
Indian Museum then."

The Institute of American Indian Arts is dedicated to preserving
and developing Native American artistic traditions. After paying
the required museum fees they enter a dimly lit circular room
with a large wooden totem in the middle. This is apparently a
model of a pueblo Kiva, meeting room, except there is some kind
of new-agey rock music playing in the back ground.

"Is this supposed to get me into the mood?" Michael wonders aloud.

"Maybe it's emblematic of the mixing of old and new. If we'd read
the guide book we'd probably already know all this by now."

Beyond the model Kiva there are rooms full of work done by
students at the school over the past fifty years. A video tape of
interviews with some of the artists is playing in the background.
Michael hears one say, "If I see one more painting of a warrior
riding off into the sunset I'm gonna puke."

As they leave, through the Kiva again, the music has been
replaced with Native American chants. "I guess we just had a
momentary programming error," Ken says.

"Mistakes were made," Michael agrees. "I liked the art though."

"My side was better," Ken replies.


The morning before, the boys had set out to tour a cave dwelling
site in the hills. Emily, Jim's on-this-week girlfriend was
acting as their faithful native guide because she had found them
so hysterically funny under the influence of four of Jim's
hand-made cappucinos at breakfast. After clearing a space on the
back seat for her and making a provisioning stop, a fourty-five
minute drive into the mountains between Santa Fe and Los Alamos
took them to the entrance of the Tsankawi ruins where they
collected their requisite park map and pedagogical guide.

"Imagine a time before Home Depot," Ken reads from the brochure.

"It doesn't say that," Emily declares making a swipe at the
guide. "Does it?"

"Right here," Ken holds the brochure too far away for her to read
anything. "See."

"Alright, stop dawdling. We've got places to see and people to
be," Michael orders the troops. "But first I've got to pee."

"We'll wait here."

On the trail Ken feels compelled to stop at each numbered marker
and read the relevant section of the guide. It's a good thing
because Michael is not used to the altitude and can use the
breathers.

"Those look like rocks to me," Michael muses.

"But they're really old rocks," Emily points out.

Once on top of the mesa Ken sweeps his hand around the incredibly
expansive horizon and points to a power pole in the distance.
Pretending to read from the booklet again he says, "This vast
array of artifacts that we believe was named the `Grid of Power'
had a mystical significance to these early residents. From
excavations in their hauntingly massive habitations, called
`Suburbs', we find that they mirrored these almost perfectly
perpendicular layouts in patterns of crude iron tubes below their
dwellings. What magical meaning the patterns had for these
primitive peoples has been lost in the mists of time. Time...
Time...."

"I suppose if you were an archeologist you could see something in
this. I guess that's part of a wall," Michael waves his hand in a
semicircular direction around a clump of rocks and grass with a
depression in the middle. "I wonder if they had snowball fights?"

"Are we getting punchy and ready for lunch?" Emily asks.

"Yes, Mom. Do we get cookies and a nap too?"

"Coffee wearing off?" Emily counters.

"Looks like those people with the kids up there may be leaving
their nice shady tree," Ken points. "Lets wait for them to clear
out."

After lunch, and illegally feeding a demanding bluejay, they trek
down the return leg of the loop trail, past the cliff dwellings
themselves. Some of the caves have mud-plastered interiors to
keep the dust down and holes carved in the rock to hold poles for
door coverings or hanging cooking utensils.

"Sweeping views. Built in appliances," Ken lists the features.
"Low maintenance fireplace. Move in condition."

"Rattlesnake," Michael indicates a small reptile in the next cave.

"Ok," Ken concedes. "Some problems with previous tenants. Nothing
you couldn't shake a big stick at."

Emily points to a petroglyph, "Look. There's the Kokapeli. You
know, the Santa Fe logo..."

Michael peers at some scratches in the cliff face.

"Just below the spiral."

"Spiral. Good." Michael tilts his head to one side, then the
other. "Ok.

"The guy playing the flute," Emily provides a bit more guidance.
"See, there's the flute."

"Oh, yeah. He's standing on someone else's head. That's what
confused me."

"He usually has a giant erection," Emily expounds. "But they cut
that part out of the logo."

"Anti-male assholes," Michael mumbles. "This one seems to have
been edited too. No wait. No. Oh, nevermind....Now everything
looks like a penis."

Ken stops at the next numbered outpost. "Even in this harsh
environment, humans manage to cling to life and eke out a meager
existence," he appears to quote from the guide.

"It doesn't seem like it would be so hard to live in these caves,"
Emily says. "Once all the patio awnings and doors and stuff were
installed, anyway."

"No," Ken replies. "But, now I'm reading from the AAA Resort Guide."

"My side was better," Emily retorts.



				 xxx

(c) 1998,99 Michael Schippling