Isaac, skypilotclub member from this morning, the holder of the BabyStuff, the loader of the BabyStuff, the BabyStuff purveyor.

Moving some boxes he revealed the door to the secret basement hideaway where the final piece of the babstuff puzzle was found back in under the house, deep, sending a tiny kid in crawling where no other person could go to drag it out: the plastic baby bath then close up the secret hidey hole and cover the door with boxes so no one will ever go down there again.

Luk2. He crawled into the hole!

Skypilotdate: 073002 0748 hours. Departing San Mateo across the San Mateo Bridge. 238, 580, 680 North, heading toward 80, we're in the car pool lane because there's two of us in rocket ship; all the other traffic in the other lanes, thousands of vehicles, one person per car, the American way, burn that gas! Benicio. Martinez. Across the bridge we go, no toll.

0845 hours. Free of the Bay Area gravitational pull; almost got sucked back in but pulled free, shot through the other side of the whirlpool out of the vortex into the high speed space winds, flying across the vale.

0910 hours. 505, truly heading north after eastward sprint. Intersect I-5, on empty, fill up and get mount for antenna pick up radio waves: "gotta git back to my baby once more . . . I'ma going home . . . my baby sent me a letter"

1130 hours. Red Bluff. Barbecue and Burger north of Redding and now over the scary bridge across Shasta Lake and into the mountains we go.

1330 hours. Gas in Dunsmuir, 1.81 a gallon, get ten gallons and go a little farther and get cheaper gas. This is old town Dunsmuir. Restored, even theCalifornia theater, old brick and old stone, old bricked up and old stoned people. Eagle parking lot is only five dollars, a good deal.

Fires all around. Firefighters get into their gear. Heavy smoke burning the eyes. Gotta pop in the eye eyezine visine. Smoke all the way to Grants Pass, so it say on the CB.

1435 hours. Welcome to Oregon. Truckers gabbing: "Gonna stop and get that musical thing at Costco . . . yeah, my son is learning to play the clairinet . . . sounds like you got a big squeek on your radio . . ."

Feet all swoll from the heat, puffy down to the toes, ankles big and round, duct tape around the heels keep the deep crevices from hurting too bad. Right arm red and raw from the short sleeve all the way down to the fingertips hanging out the window in the sunshine. No sunscreen. Lips chapped, bleeding. No chap stick. Throat raw. Catching smoke in the throat. Eyes red rimmed, scoured, can't hardly blink, thank God for the visine.

Canyonville. Not another Casino. Gambling. Everybody's gambling. Can't cross the street without tripping over a gambler. Slot machines. Video poker. The craps. The scratchit games. Scratch it and that stuff goes up your nose and pretty soon you are addicted to scratching it.

1745 hours. Depart I-5 at Creswell, Oregon. Hit Cloverdale road, cutoff to Highway 58 then east to Dexter. Arrive skypilotclub headquarters, Operation BabyStuff safely concluded. Now to set up that BabyStuff, see how it fits the room. Nice and tight.

Operation Baby

It's Coming!



It's Here!


Born 9:09 AM, Monday August 19, 2002

Celia Skyllar Babbs.
20 inches, 6 pounds 14 ounces.

Proud Parents, Simon
and Kris Babbs.

For a quicktime movie of the baby,
click on:


to return to main page, click on: