I wish I could remember the driver's name.

Either I have to be more careful about what I write in this thing, or I need to pass my postings on to my brother and sister before I publish. Apparently, my memory is beginning to meld certain moments into others so that what I remember becomes hopelessly entwined and missing pieces. Perhaps I should just quit and admit that I really don't know much of anything.

Human memory is a funny thing. As we get older our memories of the day before must simply get put in a holding file where we might remember them at some later date. At the same time, the things we experienced at the beginning of our lives remain like some odd, immutable signpost to our birthing and beginning. Thank God we have others to help us along.

I assume that the ultimate lesson here is that if we harbor any ambitions of being a writer or, at least, writing down anything about our personal experiences from the safety of our future lives, it would pay to start journaling at an early age. Since I am now 51, that bus has clearly passed the stop, just like the last bus Frank, Kevin and I watched drive away from us in downtown Seattle at the end of our last fishing trip trip to Alaska with dad.

Here, perhaps, is a memory which might ring true. I suppose Susan can run this past Kevin for editorial verification of facts. The last time we were fortunate to have dad fly us to Craig, Alaska, via Ketchikan and Seattle, to go fishing, we flew back to Seattle after the trip, for the traditional last night of our fishing trip. The fathers who planned and paid for these trips always scheduled a last night in Seattle so that the fish boxes could stay a night in the deep freeze in the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. This allowed the fish to freeze thoroughly and also allowed the gentleman fishermen to have a last night of rest before the last leg of our trip back to Atlanta. A final blowout in the Pacific Northwest.

The last night of these trips was always spent in an uninspiring, but adequate motel located across the street from the airport. For the three trips I experienced with dad, we flew from Ketchikan to Seattle via Air Alaska, arranged for the freezing and storing of the fish in the airport deep freeze, and then settled in for a last night in Washington state. When Frank and Dad and I went the first time, we ate a last meal near the airport, then settled down for the last night of the trip. When Dad and I went, Mike Gallagher had arranged for a limousine to pick me up at the airport and bring him to his house in Seattle. After a night of seafood and fun, Mike brought me back to the motel.

When Kevin, Frank, Dad and I went the last time, Kevin, Frank and I decided to ride into downtown Seattle to see the sights. We arranged for a limo to pick us up and drop us downtown near the Municipal Market. The driver was supposed to pick us up later at the spot where he dropped us off in downtown Seattle and return us to the motel at the end of the evening.

When the limo driver arrived at the motel, he was an older gentleman who had recently arrived in Seattle from the Republic of Georgia. He was a talkative fellow, who gave us a considerable amount of information about his work as a driver in Seattle. He gave us our fare amount and then drove us from Sea-Tac into downtown Seattle, dropping us off right in front of the Municipal Market around 5:30.

Kevin had spent a bit of time in Washington when he was a student at Gonzaga and knew the area well. Frank and I had seen television programs showing the workers at the market tossing fish to one another. That was the extent of our knowledge of downtown Seattle. It all seemed kind of colorful and interesting. We looked forward to watching the dudes throwing and catching fish and whatever else we might find in the downtown area.

Unfortunately, the market apparently closed at 5:00. When we walked over to the market, we quickly realized that everything was closed. So we decided to take a turn around the surrounding downtown area. It did not take us long to realize that virtually everything down there was closed as well. In fact, the only ones downtown seemed to be Native American panhandlers, working in packs, trying to bum some money for their night's liquid supper.

Realizing that our driver was not coming back until considerably later, we decided to see if we could take a bus down to the ballpark to see a Mariners game. We quickly located the nearest bus stop, just in time to watch the tail end of a city bus drive away down in the direction of the baseball park. We actually ran a few steps toward the retreating bus before we realized we weren't going to catch it anytime soon. Not in any particular hurry, we walked up to the bus stop to see when the next bus would arrive.

Trying to interpret a bus schedule is not the easiest thing to do. Believe me, I've tried. But between the three of us, we finally interpreted the anacronyms, letters and numbers to find that the bus we had watched leaving the stop in a whirl of diesel smoke was the last bus of the day.

At this point, we had a couple of options. We could call our driver and have him return us to the motel. We could call our driver and see if he could come pick us up early and take us to the ballpark. Or we could walk the ten or so blocks between downtown Seattle and the ballpark, and then have the driver come for us after the game.

At the time, Frank and Kevin were golfers. I used to be an athlete, I think (that is open for interpretation). Faced with quite a walk through downtown Seattle, but short on cash, we decided to go ahead and walk to the ballpark.

And so, we walked. I will tell you this, and I suppose it might have changed since 2003, but downtown Seattle has a ton of biker bars. Every block seemed to have at least two bars or more, front doors and windows wide open, with at least ten or so big Harley Davidsons parked out in front. I can't say that I was concerned, but it did make me wonder.

It reminded me of a somewhat gentrified version of what the space between Clayton, Georgia and Dillard, Georgia used to look like back in the early 80's. Back then, there were rows of roadhouses all along US 441, with rows of hogs parked out in front at any given time. Usually, you could drive along the highway and see the denizens of the bars, talking, arguing, partying, fighting and considering their options for the evening. Fun times.

At any rate, we finally made it to the ballpark. I believe the Mariners were playing the Royals that night. We walked up to an entrance nearest to us and were told that we would have to walk all the way around the park to get to the ticket window. More fun.

So we walked all the way around the building and finally made it to the ticket windows. This was a relatively nothing game, but we found that our seats were somewhere at the top of the stadium, right up next to a wind screen which prevented us from looking out over Puget Sound and the view to the west.

The ballpark in Seattle is interesting. The concessions are amazing. They served just a cornucopia of different types of foods and drink. I think if I lived in Seattle, the only thing that would prevent me from being a wrinkled pasty mess (from the rain) would be the carb intake from chowders and beers at the ballpark. Lets just say it wasn't just hot dogs and hamburgers.

We called the driver and made arrangements to meet him near the ballpark at the end of the game. Placing your lives and safety in the hands of a recent emigree from the former Soviet Republic of Georgia, is certainly interesting. We really didn't know what would happen when it got nice and dark and we found ourselves standing on a downtown city street in a relatively strange city waiting for our driver to show himself (and find us, as well).

Anyway, we watched the game, night fell, and we called the driver. As everyone exited the ball park, we worked our way down to the general area we thought the driver had indicated to us as our place of pickup. All the while, people are leaving the area, basically abandoning it the last denizens of the night in downtown Seattle. We increasingly wondered whether we were abandoned as well.

But, lo and behold, the driver showed and we found ourselves riding back to the airport motel, the driver regaling us with stories about various fares he had handled in his short work experience in Seattle. The story I most remember is the one about the nice young man from California who he picked up at the airport and deposited at a hotel in downtown Seattle. Later, the particular fare arranged to be picked up at the hotel and dropped off at a nightclub or restaurant somewhere in town. When the driver arrived at the motel, the fare was nowhere to be found. Only a stylish young woman waiting in the lobby of the hotel. To the driver's surprise, the woman entered the cab, and he began to explain that he was waiting for another fare. The woman then explained that he, in fact, was the fare and that everything was alright. The driver began to try to gain an understanding as to why the young man wanted to dress up like a woman. The man/woman's explanation: "Anything is possible in America."

I don't know how that ends as a conclusion for my story here. But it was indeed an interesting night in an unusual city. Let me tell you about Dehner Franks later.