A day in Galt

I initially considered starting a blog on this afternoon:

Lunch on a half-day. I decide nothing will sate my hunger like some taco truck action. Mandy swears eating there is a digestive Russian roulette, but Bry and I think otherwise.

I am in charge of getting lunch for Bry, Reece and myself. This amounts to three carne asada taco plates which I know will take a few minutes. Extra cheese.

As always, I choose to spend my extra time observing my surroundings. Across the adjacent train tracks are the mid 80's homes of West Galt. Nothing too special there. Across A Street is Robinson's Feed and its potholed lot. In the bare space behind the taco truck is a Port-a-Potty and a collection of vehicles in varying conditions. Among said vehicles are Galt residents: partially employed hooligans with saggy jeans and hella bling. Gaudy bling. 

A man approaches me from across A Street. Can't my tacos hurry the H up? A fellow patron of the mobile Mexican food establishment, he decides our common epicurean interests warrant conversation. 

I find out he works at the Galt Flea Market peddling various wares. He is partially toothless and smells faintly of stale liquor. Awesome. When he asked my occupation, I told him I taught at the high school. Ranting is the best word to describe his response. "Kids need skills, we're not teaching them anything useful, etc. etc." Most of his thoughts I would tend to agree with, strangely. Sage advice from gummy Mr. Market Man. Cheers, sir.

Dang those tacos are taking a while. I keep looking around. The local ruffians seem to be preparing for a throw down with some other numbered crew. I don't understand it. 

Over by the auto body shop two large unleashed pitbulls sniff each other. I shudder. Pitbulls scare the bajeezus out of me. When we were children one got my little brother's head in its mouth. Not the most endearing memory. The sniffing was followed by some vigorous streetside lovemaking. Doggystyle, or so the expression goes. 

I couldn't help but laugh. In a period of ten minutes I experienced some authentic corner of Galt's personality. No one laughed with me, but those who heard tell of this scene smiled a little at the visuals herein. 

Finally, several paper plates of saran-wrapped open-faced carne asada tacos. Extra cheese. 

Delicious.

Intro

Hmmm...I've contemplated the idea of a blog for a while now. I used to open Word documents and jot down thoughts. Sometimes I would actually put pen to paper. Neither seemed to satisfy the wanderings of my mind and the desire to bounce ideas off of my thoughtful and reflective friends. 

Last spring I seriously considered a Galt-oriented blog. This summer I almost started a blog to share my travel stories. Finally, on this new day in January, I made it happen. 

I don't know where this will head nor do I have any thought to its longevity. Compulsion for reflection is a tempting guide. Plus I love words. Falling into a good book is so rewarding, and yet I find it a rare experience. My oversized bookshelf is rife with partially read books.

I'm sure anyone reading this knows me. In case you don't, here I am. High school agriculture teacher. Child of Eureka's redwood groves and iron surf. Graduate of an absorbing Chico. Part of a warm, closely woven family of Dean, Pam, Derek and Carly.

Now I live among the quiet grids of suburban Sacramento. Most weekdays find me chugging coffee on my bucolic commute to Galt and laughing all day long. Weekends include reading books in quaint used bookstores with charming names, shooting hoops, traversing the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, playing Wii, and enjoying the companionship of my great friends.

Occasionally I wonder if I am totally ordinary. Then I look in the mirror, chuckle at my own folly, and realize ordinary is an impossible idea for anyone. Maybe I'll write about that sometime.