We go to Payette to see Sean

To the west of Boise towards Oregon, the broad, irrigation-green valley lands are bordered by brown badland hills, a dramatic contrast on a hot sunny day. We drove out to Payette, Mike and Rosemary and I, along hayfields and cow pastures, to see Sean, Mike's son and my cousin. We stopped at a pull-out to read two plaques, one commemorating the site of a long gone fort built during the Nez Perce War in 1877, one remembering nineteen men who died nearby in a military air transport crash in 1958. In the shade you could smell honeysuckle, but in the ninety degree sun you just smelled dust and heat.

On the drive I learned that Rosie, Grandpa's girlfriend, had made a living for most of her life as a bartender in various Boise establishments, in particular the HiHo Club downtown. All over Boise people will still recognize her from those days, especially cowboy musicians, who often played at the HiHo. Boxcar Willie played a number of gigs at the club too, back in the sixties and seventies; taking a shine to Rosie he wrote a song about her, called "Rose."

In Payette we picked up Sean at his mother's house. He's a dark-haired young man, black Irish, with a small black chin beard and a heavy scruff after a few days without shaving. He wore a black t-shirt with an image of a skeleton riding an old-fashioned bicycle, the word "Cycledelia" written above. And black pants just below the knee and big skater shoes. He talks slow and smiles big, and whenever I see him I want to put my arm around his shoulders. He's working as a cook at two cafes, the Apple Bin in Fruitland for breakfast and lunch, DJs in Ontario for dinner. We talked about the difficulty of saving the yolk when frying eggs.

In Ontario we had a late lunch at Portillos Mexican Family Restaurant. The plates were massive, nearly the size of trash can lids. Rosemary had one of the combination options: Hagrid-sized chalupa, tamale and taco, rice and beans; we could have puut the plate in the middle of the table to share and it would have been enough. I don't know the explanation for such gargantuan portions; maybe it's what the local diners expect. I had a couple fat cheese enchiladas. Sean had carne asada tacos, new to him, and he didn't like the cilantro. Mike had arroz con pollo, and later back in the car said he found a hair in his food. Rosemary asked what color, and he said white. "That was your hair," she said.

Afterwards we dropped Sean off at DJs, next to the Rodeway Inn beside the interstate. He would be cooking till eleven. We drove back to Boise, stopping briefly at a wildlife refuge on the Boise River.

At the house, Rosie was sitting on the couch watching the U.S. Open. "Your grandfather's in the bedroom," she said, laughing. "I couldn't get him to watch golf with me. He's back there with his Lawrence Welk." (I didn't need to be told; the set was blasting, as it always is when he's watching.) He's been a Welk fan for many decades. When I visited as a kid sometimes I'd watch with him and Grandma, but more often I'd escape outside or to another room.

I sat down at the dining room table. Rosie provided a running commentary on the drives and putts of the golfers. When Tiger Woods made an unlikely chip-in from the rough, she said, "did you see that?" I did. Together we watched the replay over and over. After the shot Woods had laughed and looked embarrassed.

This was my last day in Boise. Everyone said they wished I could stay longer, as they do everytime I visit. But I left the next morning, headed south towards Nevada.