No, really

Alas, it's late and I've driven all day, so expect no prodigies of wit or style at the outset. From a "Super 8" motel in The Dalles, Oregon, a few hundred yards from the mighty Columbia River and just a few steps from a stairwell faintly redolent of powerful insecticides, I tender greetings on behalf of our party of four: brothers Rand, Greg and Scott, and niece Kinsey. Sister Jeanne has lingered in Folsom to be on hand for the birth of her seventh grandchild, and thanks to the miracle of modern cellular communication we were kept informed at intervals throughout the afternoon of the progress of cervical dilation: four centimeters, seven centimeters, nine...oh, sorry, too much information? At somewhere around 8:30 this evening little Tyler Gibson entered the world, and we are advised that mother, grandparents, father and son are all resting comfortably and considerably relieved about it.

We elected to leave Interstate 5 at Weed CA and take the more lightly traveled Route 97, greatly to the consternation of our onboard navigation system, which tried for miles to talk us into turning around, and then sulked for hours, occasionally snarling "Soft left in 800 feet" (where the obviously impractical alternative was a rutted cowpath) while withholding advice at a couple of ambiguous forks in the road. Fortunately it is still the glory of human intelligence, or some human intelligences, to be smarter than automated subroutines. The scenery of central Oregon is far less lush than along the western highways, and along some stretches downright arid, but possessed of an austere beauty, particularly along the last fifty miles—we were too busy admiring that stretch to take pictures, unfortunately.

Jeanne flies into Spokane and joins the expedition there late tomorrow morning as the Careaga/Fleming siblings set forth on the 2010 "Aunties and Cousins World Tour." Better-crafted entries to follow, I hope.