Being in the motel business adds a clarity to one's view of life that few other businesses could give. It lets one see things in a new, truer perspective. What were unalive, unreal news stories, for instance, become to me true, believable facts when people who have just come from the locality in question discuss them. It makes me realize that the places where I've never been really exist, and that people whom I have never seen are as human and as vulnerable as I am. There's as much difference between reading a newspaper about an event and talking with eye witnesses of that event, as there is between glancing at a faded snapshot and studying a picture through a stereoscope. Another advantage of the motel business is that it prevents our marriage from sinking into the stale rut of custom and habit that afflicts so many marriages when the first rosy years have passed. No doubt Grant and I have some quarrels that we wouldn't have if we were leading a more normal life, where there would be less nervous tension and less intrusion of the public into our private life; but, on the other side of the ledger, it must be noted in big black letters that we never bore each other because of interests that lie in diverging directions, and that, with so much happening every day, we never run out of things to talk about. Of course there are bad things about the motel business, too. Business is seasonal; we know that the winters will be good, and that the summers will have much room for improvement. Improvement is just what they'll get, though--Grant has made and will continue to make changes, some minor, some major, that will make our summers better and better, until finally, perhaps, they will be almost as good as our winters. Anyway, the winter tourist trade in the desert always is so good that it makes up for the slackest of summers. Another bad thing about our being in the motel business is that our children are restricted more in their play than they would be if we had the average home life. David can never have his playmates around the front of the motel; nothing frightens prospective customers away more quickly than the sight of children playing. There are times, too, when the very sight of human beings nauseates me, I am so sick of being interrupted and constantly on call. Fortunately the times when I feel that way are rare. A sense of humor is one of the principal requisites for any one who aspires to own or manage a motel. For instance, if I answer the bell late at night when Grant is out, and if the legs of my pajamas unroll suddenly while I'm showing a cabin, and leave me presenting an old-fashioned pantalette effect, I simply laugh and tuck them back up, without even bothering to explain that I just slipped my dress on over my pajamas.