"Flagstaff, Arizona. Don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino...." I have always had itchy feet. Cincinnati was a good place to grow up but I made up my mind as a youth that I was not going to spend my life there. Television may have had a hand in that decision as I would watch the football games from the West Coast with all the sunshine and happy people in the stands with their colorful short sleeve shirts on in December. At the same time it would be dark in Cincy with cold rain pelting the windows. When I finally got my chance to head west, I grabbed it with a vengeance. Thank you Linda Devereaux, wherever you are, for encouraging me to visit you in those salad days of 1959. I still remember the excitement of driving my non-air conditioned ‘57 Chevy on old two lane Route 66 and going through Flagstaff and the pines, then dropping down to the desert of Kingman and on through Needles, California, across the Mojave Desert to Barstow and San Bernardino and finally Los Angeles. I was in awe as I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time; it was a little more impressive sight than the Ohio River.