First in a two-part series.

Snowbird.

There’s a word I never dreamed of associating myself with.

As a proud lilac lifer, I’ve always held in contempt those cowards who cut and run at the first sign of shovel.

Who do you think you are? You with your Tom Ford sunglasses and floral-patterned swimsuits and leather espadrilles.

How dare you slouch on some white sandy shore while the rest of us are back home shivering in our timbers?

Umbrella-topped cocktails. Servile waiters with towels draped over an arm. ‘Nother Mai Tai, sir?

Aw, bite me!

There are many excellent reasons to stay put when Spokane becomes Snokane.

Local TV newscasts, say. They are way more entertaining when the black ice creates an I-90 demolition derby. Every newscast showcases the latest fender rearrangements that always end with some grim-faced state trooper delivering the same warning:

“Driver was, um, going, um, too fast for conditions.”

No shite Sherlock!

And what about the thrill that comes with surviving? You know the old saying: What doesn’t chill you, makes you stronger.

Then there’s…

Nope. That’s all I got.

Granted, I am composing these deep seasonal greetings from a relaxed quasi-alcoholic fog inside a stylish mid-century modern home in the heart of Palm Springs, Calif.

You know, the city where Sinatra built a Rat Pad with secret sex nest for JFK and Marilyn.

Although Secret Sex Nest would also make a swell name for a band.

My lovely wife, Sherry, and I are marking time here for all of January and February. Oh. And for those of you wondering, the outside temperature (last time I checked the Grumpy Cat weather app on my iPhone) was a balmy 74.

Between me and you, however, it feels much hotter. I think that’s due to the sun that just keeps scorching down through the cloudless azure skies.

But don’t worry about us. The new digs came with a lap-length swimming pool to, you know, counter any dangers of solar meltdown.

Did I mention that I picked a juicy fresh lemon off the tree in our backyard this morning?

—

Don’t be haters.

If anyone’s to blame for this hypocritical Clarksville bugout, it’s my daughter, Emily.

She hates snow. Ditto cold.

Flashback to the icy throes of last winter, months before the Covid took hold.

Like Poe’s raven, Emily vowed “Nevermore!” So, she and her hubby, Shane, hatched a plan to avoid the next winter by booking a two-month reprieve in a Palm Springs rental home.

As an old contrarian, I was automatically against such a brazen new idea until it dawned on me that they’d probably want to take our cute granddaughter, Ronan, with them.

A few calls and a monetary deposit later, and we’d reserved our own oasis. The elder Clarks had joined the Berry family’s southbound odyssey.

And then….

Who knew what a rancid bowl of wrong the year 2020 would be? By the time Christmas arrived, everybody I knew was either clinically depressed or in need of serious couch time.

The Clarks and Berrys had been self-quarantined for ten months. And sure, until the vaccine gets to us, life in Palm Springs will be no different in the limited-mobility department.

But at least we’ll all be hunkered down within walking distance in a desert paradise with self-service citrus trees.

Our two-car caravan departed Spokane midday on Dec. 29, and in a bit of a frenzy. We’d planned to leave on the 30^th until we learned that an enormous snow-blow was about to download on the region.

Actually, we were watching TV and noticed that the weather dweebs on all the local channels were showing even more capped teeth than usual.

“Grab your bags, honey!” I hollered. “Tom Sherry hasn’t been this wound up since Ice Storm ’96.”

So, off we went with snowflakes nipping at our wheels. As we learned from Homer, however, strange dangers await those who venture off into unknown lands.

No. Not Simpson. I’m talking about the ancient Greek dude. Hello.

For you literate readers, we encountered no Cyclops or Sirens. We did, however, survive a face-off with giant Brides of Christ and fell prey to a Grubhub grifter.

—

Spokane to Palm Springs is a 1,253-mile drive, unless you mean Yakima, which has long billed itself the “Palm Springs of Washington,” which is #soverysad.

Being quarantined for almost year, the Berrys and Clarks hadn’t done much driving aside from motoring to Rosauer’s for curbside pickups. 

For sanity’s sake, we divided our So-Cal travelogue into three segments, the first being a layover at a parochial looney bin, the Old St. Francis School in Bend, Ore.

The hotel is owned by McMenamins, a group known for procuring overlooked or unusual properties and turning them into lodging with brewpubs and historic quirky charm.

The Edgefield outside Portland, for instance, is on the site of a former TB sanitarium and county poor farm.

As the name indicates, the St. Francis was once a Catholic school. That explains the orgasmic nun painted in near life-size on the headboard over my pillow.

Think that’s odd? The painting hanging on the bedside wall featured four mothers superior in full habits who were looming and laboring over a farmhouse half their size.

All things considered, I was quite relieved to leave this weirdness in our rearview mirror.

Next stop, Sacramento—the state capitol of California—which looks less fresh than a long-haul trucker’s underpants. Boarded up storefronts. Grafitti-plastered buildings. Transients camped out. Punks roaming the sidewalks.

Nice job, Gov. Newsom!

It being New Year’s Eve, Emily called ahead to have a nice Thai dinner delivered to their downtown hotel before the restaurant’s 8:30 p.m. closure. With the timing of a space shuttle launch, they ordered eighty bucks’ worth of delicious food through Grubhub. 

The Berrys checked in. They settled into their room. Moments later—bada-bing!—the Grubhub Guy called with terrific news. The hot and spicy dinner was in the lobby and awaiting pickup.

Hungry as hell from the long day’s drive, Shane hurried downstairs, only to find no Grubhub Guy. Or even the tangy waft of curry.

He redialed Grubhub Guy who told Shane the following tale. After entering the lobby and calling Emily, some dude wandered over to him and their exchange went something like…

Grubhub Guy: “Are you here for Emily’s order?”

Thai Food Bandit: “Yes, I am.”

Grubhub Guy: “Here ya go.”

Thai Food Bandit: “And a Happy New Year to you, too.”

My son-in-law is a laidback sort of fellow, not given to rash rages or intemperate outbursts. But steal a man’s family dinner and the fight is on.

Shane walked outside the hotel. Standing next to the curb, he loudly started hollering the “F” word over and over into the Sacramento night air.

None of the riffraff seemed to notice. 

—

Palm Springs. There are so many things that come with desert living. Keeping your sunglasses clean. Replenishing the fresh lemonade pitcher. Deciding what color shorts to wear. Watching your step as you ease into the 101-degree waters of the jetted spa.

I miss Spokane. I really do. But…

Aw, who am I kidding?

This place rocks!

It’s also the perfect place for self-improvement.        

My plan is to swim every day, eat better and get back to a weight that doesn’t require a “Wide Load” sign whenever I cross a street. 

Already I think it’s working.

“Do I look like Michael Phelps yet?” I ask Sherry after lumbering out of the saltwater pool on Day Two.

“Well,” she deadpanned, “you’re wet.”