Red and I flew down to California non stop on Alaskan Airlines. When the pilot greeted us on the outside stairs, I asked him if he was gassing up and getting directions. He looked at me quizzically and asked me if I knew the way to San Jose. I grinned at him and assured him I didn't. California in March is a different world. The grass is tall and green, the sun is warm and welcoming and the blossoms are out on the fruit trees. There was a large brass plaque at the airport that told the story of the first honey bees shipped into the state in 1853. Twelve hives were shipped from New York by rail, pack mule and steam ship to San Francisco. Of the twelve hives only enough bees survived the trip to San Jose to make one hive. I was confused about how the farmers pollinated their crops without honey bees. A big airport employee, with an equally big grin, fell in with us and started explain how without European crops and fruit trees you didn't need European bees. All the Californians we met were equally friendly and helpful. We rented a car and drove down to Pacific Grove. This was John Steinbeck's old stomping ground. Iny taught Steinbeck's stories of Doc and the Chinaman and the rustics that populated the area and worked at the canneries. David's service was held in a small, old, but well maintained church there in Pacific Grove, not two blocks from the grand Pacific. Two soldiers in class A uniforms folded our flag and presented it to David's widow. We all struggled to hold it together. From there we drove down as a convoy to Big Sur to spread his ashes. We parked in a cove that David had chosen and watched families strolling along with the kids playing in the sand. JoAnn stood near a big rock and put her hand of it to keep her balance as she poured out David's ashes. A large Cormorant stood on the rock not 12 feet from JoAnn. He watched us like he was expecting us. To me it looked like David had an escort to the Spirit in the sky. Life is good.