It's 2:22 am and I can't sleep. It has been a very long day, beginning with the first alarm at 5:30 am. A few hits on the snooze button later and I got up. I had a little more than half an hour to get ready for school, but it was enough, as I merely had to iron, get dressed and grab a breakfast drink. That is, until I realized that I hadn't printed out the paper I wrote the night before.
My laptop began having trouble. It is a recurrance of short in the power connection and I couldn't get the thing to stay on long enough to log on. I finally got that working only to find that my network wasn't working. Rather than work on that I quickly hooked up the spare printer with the USB connection.
This delay made me about 10 or 15 minutes late. Arrgh! First class. Second class. Then wait until office hours at 11:00 am to discuss arrangements for a test with enlarged print as my eyes are so bad right now. Then rushed off to a meeting to work on music for the upcoming women's retreat. Missed a turn and decided to go a different way and took a wrong turn there. Late for this appointment. It went well and I got a real treat watching six deer and one tiny rabbit in the back yard, not ten yards from the patio door.
Had a nice lunch with Ellen, complete with homemade applesauce. Really good! Then realized I was late for my next appointment, so I called the coffee shop where I was to meet Jennifer to ask them to let her know I hadn't ditched her. I showed up, she wasn't there. I waited, then decided that I had the time wrong. I waited for the next half hour point to pass, then the next and then the next, taking the time to write some more Timmy story.
Then off to school for a 5:15 pm viewing of my first speech. The speech itself was not bad, but I look like the before picture for an advertisement for gastric bypass surgery. Awful!
Then home for a bowl of baked potato soup and taking care of the dog. 7:00 pm Bible study with Judy. It was really good to catch up with her and talk about some stuff I've been going through. When I got home I took a quick minute to check email and there was one from Jennifer confirming our appointment on Wednesday(!).
At about 10, I decided to light the candles on the mantle and sit and watch some TV. At about 10:45 pm, I stood on the raised hearth to blow out the candles. After doing so, I stepped backward off the hearth and cut my foot on a 3-hole punch Steve left on the floor when he was doing some paperwork. (He's sure the dog moved it there. :-)) It bled a bit and I managed to get upstairs to clean it up and bandage it. Upon inspection, I decided it looked pretty bad and called Mom (my friendly local EMT) for a second opinion. She looked at it and took me to the ER where they shot me full of numbing agent before scrubbing the wound and putting in six stitches. They followed that with antibiotic lotion, bandages and a nifty, hot pink wrap.
The anesthetic is wearing off and it is throbbing like crazy. I don't know if I'm going to be able to sleep. Oh man. This is what happens when you hit the snooze button!
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Freshman at 43
They say age is a state of mine, but I will tell you it is also a state of body. There are things that at 18 I could do without thought, that now require preparation and perhaps even a new pair of shoes. Hiking across campus is one of those things.
My mind, which still thinks I am 20-ish, doesn't register the distance between Columbine Hall and Dwire Hall as any big thing. My body, and in particular, my aching feet, say differently. With 10 minutes to get from one part of campus to the other, and parking such an issue that I cannot drive from one building to the other, park, and arrive in time. This is a hike, and an uphill one at that. Moving as quickly as I can, I am easily outpaced by the flip-flop set in their short shorts, and barely make it in time.
What I found upon arriving at my first class on Monday was not what I expected.
I had just finished reading about an elementary school teacher and her excitement about getting the room ready, the chalkboards freshly cleaned, the floors buffed to a high shine and the desks situation just so. I had similar expectations of freshly cleaned rooms, bright white, whiteboards and neatly ordered rows of chairs/desks.
The first room has more desks than can reasonably fit, and the stacked ones take up room that the setup ones need. The one-armed chair/desks are so closely shoved together that it is hard to get beyond the first chair, and I have no explanation for the rows being so crooked. If there were a fire it would be nearly impossible for me, seated in the back to maneuver my way to safety. The whiteboards show the remnants of many other classes, even though this is the first class of the first day of the first semester of a new year. All in all, not what I was expecting, but I'm still probably the happiest and most excited student there.
This semester I am going half-time, so my two classes are Logic and Reason and Public Speaking. What a lot of fun.
Another thing that changed since I was 18 is my eyes! I'm having trouble reading my textbooks and can't get new glasses 'til our insurance kicks in sometime in September or October. Yikes.
My mind, which still thinks I am 20-ish, doesn't register the distance between Columbine Hall and Dwire Hall as any big thing. My body, and in particular, my aching feet, say differently. With 10 minutes to get from one part of campus to the other, and parking such an issue that I cannot drive from one building to the other, park, and arrive in time. This is a hike, and an uphill one at that. Moving as quickly as I can, I am easily outpaced by the flip-flop set in their short shorts, and barely make it in time.
What I found upon arriving at my first class on Monday was not what I expected.
I had just finished reading about an elementary school teacher and her excitement about getting the room ready, the chalkboards freshly cleaned, the floors buffed to a high shine and the desks situation just so. I had similar expectations of freshly cleaned rooms, bright white, whiteboards and neatly ordered rows of chairs/desks.
The first room has more desks than can reasonably fit, and the stacked ones take up room that the setup ones need. The one-armed chair/desks are so closely shoved together that it is hard to get beyond the first chair, and I have no explanation for the rows being so crooked. If there were a fire it would be nearly impossible for me, seated in the back to maneuver my way to safety. The whiteboards show the remnants of many other classes, even though this is the first class of the first day of the first semester of a new year. All in all, not what I was expecting, but I'm still probably the happiest and most excited student there.
This semester I am going half-time, so my two classes are Logic and Reason and Public Speaking. What a lot of fun.
Another thing that changed since I was 18 is my eyes! I'm having trouble reading my textbooks and can't get new glasses 'til our insurance kicks in sometime in September or October. Yikes.
Hike to Mysterious
I found this piece while cleaning out my nightstand. I wrote it in November 2002 for a class on nature writing. Hope you enjoy it.
I have often told my family not to bury me when I die, but instead to sprinkle my ashes in the place which calls to me in the stillness and quietness of my spirit. Instead of a manicured lawn covered in precisely placed headstones, I want to be remembered in the place which in its serene wildness speaks of who I am and who I want to be. It is the place I think of when I remember my dad before age and illness stole his strength and vitality. It is, of all places I love, the place I consider my true home, my church, my cathedral, where choirs of trees sing to the music of the water and the birds harmonize an anthem of praise to their creator. The memory of it calms me when I need it most.
Our first attempt to get to Mysterious Lake had us gasping for air above timberline, with no lake in sight—Mysterious in name, mysterious in location. Following that attempt, my Dad made other trips and, with my older brother, had found his way in over a punishing seven-and-a-half mile trail. Too long and strenuous for the entire family, Dad sought an alternate route.
As I sit here in the city, I think back…and in the blink of an eye I am back. Back in 1972, eight years old, ready to embark on a trip that could bring success or failure. I can still be eight years old and back on the trail, any time I close my eyes—drying my boots by the fire, looking out over Mysterious Lake, just the way it was the first time we hiked in. Back, before others discovered our trail, before dirt bikes and ATV tires tore up the trails and churned up the creek beds—when it was as innocent and untamed as I was.
That first successful trip begins after a journey over the Continental Divide, past the large expanse of Taylor Reservoir, past the beaver dams where we’ve camped and fished for years, and up rough logging roads, where our small Toyota stations wagon scrapes and groans over rocks and downed trees. At the end of the logging road, we leave the car behind, tugging on our outerwear and check for the last time to see if we have the essentials for a trip in the backcountry.
After an uphill hike of nearly an hour, we reach an unmarked road. (On our return trip we will trace this road back down and find that we could have entirely eliminated the first hour of the hike.) We follow the road up to the end and stand in our heavy clunky boots, overweight packs on our backs, staring up an impossibly steep hillside. We are following Dad with his axe, ready to blaze the trail, topographical map in hand.
Moments later, I am scrambling up the hill, tiny rocks skittering down, kicked loose by my boots, still damp from crossing the creek. I can smell the pines and hear the heavy breathing of my family, the path too steep and too hard for talking. I can’t quit, I tell myself, though with each step I want to stop and wait for their eventual return.
At the top I half sit, half lean against a boulder, not taking my pack off for fear I won’t be able to lift it back onto my screaming shoulders. There are faint sounds of camp robbers (gray jays) and robins calling each other and rustling sounds of chipmunks in the underbrush.
The sun is warm through the pines as a cool breeze dries the sweat on my face and neck. The rest is all too brief. “Let’s go.” Dad is ready, so we rise to follow him.
There are six of us on the trail, but up here, with the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and the sound of my own labored breathing, I feel alone, but not lonely. My boots are heavy, and their sure footing gives me a feeling of confidence and strength as I follow Dad down the hill.
Thwack. The echo of metal striking wood is followed by the sound of flesh being torn from a tree ahead. As I pass, I admire the fresh blazes, the sap beading and glistening in the fresh wooden wound.
At the bottom of this hill we must cross another stream and then across the mire of the marsh, the muck clinging to my boots when I step off the high ground. I slap at the multitudes of mosquitoes rising from the vegetation to feast on my blood, drawn by my exhaled breath. The grasses are lush, the leaves wide and green, making a lovely swishing sound as I pass.
At the far end we stop before taking on the second steep hill, and I try to knock the mud off my boots, drinking water from my canteen (We didn’t worry about giardia in those days.) It tastes so good, so refreshing when I’m in the high country. No chlorine. No impurities. Liquid silver poured by heaven’s hand.
At the end of the short but rough trail, we come out of the pines into a wide meadow, at the top end of a small lake. We have arrived.
I am as yet unaware of spectacular places like Niagara Falls or the Mediterranean, so the dark waters reflecting the pale blue sky and wispy clouds overhead strike me as the beauty of a daisy—hardy, cheerful and pure. The waters are as clean as the first snow, as cool as the first winter chill, as refreshing as the first drought-ending rain. The lake seems to hide great mysteries in the depths. To the south, above a broadening meadow, treeless peaks fill the vista, snow clinging to the ramparts. We won this view by virtue of our sweat and blisters, by the climb that leaves us sitting, thighs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, shoulders aching from carrying all our gear over one and a half of the most grueling miles I will ever encounter. I feel triumphant, healthy, alive—and tired. My older brother takes his pack off, lays back, closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
I made that same trip many times as I was growing up. I hope to hike that trail ‘til the hair on my head is a white as my father’s and the skin on my face as lined as the map that showed him the way in. I long to follow the still visible blazes into my favorite spot on earth.
No matter how many times I’ve been there, the first time, the effort the newness, and the wonder remain etched in my mind. Each swing of my father’s ax is a tick in the clock marking the days of my childhood, so quickly gone. Each step is imprinted in my muscles and memory by the sheer will to dominate that trail and soaked into my skin by the rewarding delight of swimming in the shivery shallows of Mysterious Lake.
Today, despite the damage left by others, and the occasional discordant roar of a motorbike engine destroying the peace, what’s left is the soaring hawk above, the trout below the dark water, the quick sighting of an elk across the lake. There is a vista without power lines, without roads and without the trappings of a modern civilized life. It is a place where you must be alert to the ever-present danger of nature in all its wildness, and the inattention that can cause catastrophic injuries so far from assistance.
I close my eyes and hear my boots crunching on the trail, smell the sweet pines and decaying undergrowth, feel the sun filtering through the trees, the gentle breeze and the strain on muscle and will. That first trip is the pinnacle, and when I am too old or too feeble to climb that trail again, I will still remember cold water, warm sun, hard boots, and the sweet scent of pines. Life never gets better.
I have often told my family not to bury me when I die, but instead to sprinkle my ashes in the place which calls to me in the stillness and quietness of my spirit. Instead of a manicured lawn covered in precisely placed headstones, I want to be remembered in the place which in its serene wildness speaks of who I am and who I want to be. It is the place I think of when I remember my dad before age and illness stole his strength and vitality. It is, of all places I love, the place I consider my true home, my church, my cathedral, where choirs of trees sing to the music of the water and the birds harmonize an anthem of praise to their creator. The memory of it calms me when I need it most.
Our first attempt to get to Mysterious Lake had us gasping for air above timberline, with no lake in sight—Mysterious in name, mysterious in location. Following that attempt, my Dad made other trips and, with my older brother, had found his way in over a punishing seven-and-a-half mile trail. Too long and strenuous for the entire family, Dad sought an alternate route.
As I sit here in the city, I think back…and in the blink of an eye I am back. Back in 1972, eight years old, ready to embark on a trip that could bring success or failure. I can still be eight years old and back on the trail, any time I close my eyes—drying my boots by the fire, looking out over Mysterious Lake, just the way it was the first time we hiked in. Back, before others discovered our trail, before dirt bikes and ATV tires tore up the trails and churned up the creek beds—when it was as innocent and untamed as I was.
That first successful trip begins after a journey over the Continental Divide, past the large expanse of Taylor Reservoir, past the beaver dams where we’ve camped and fished for years, and up rough logging roads, where our small Toyota stations wagon scrapes and groans over rocks and downed trees. At the end of the logging road, we leave the car behind, tugging on our outerwear and check for the last time to see if we have the essentials for a trip in the backcountry.
After an uphill hike of nearly an hour, we reach an unmarked road. (On our return trip we will trace this road back down and find that we could have entirely eliminated the first hour of the hike.) We follow the road up to the end and stand in our heavy clunky boots, overweight packs on our backs, staring up an impossibly steep hillside. We are following Dad with his axe, ready to blaze the trail, topographical map in hand.
Moments later, I am scrambling up the hill, tiny rocks skittering down, kicked loose by my boots, still damp from crossing the creek. I can smell the pines and hear the heavy breathing of my family, the path too steep and too hard for talking. I can’t quit, I tell myself, though with each step I want to stop and wait for their eventual return.
At the top I half sit, half lean against a boulder, not taking my pack off for fear I won’t be able to lift it back onto my screaming shoulders. There are faint sounds of camp robbers (gray jays) and robins calling each other and rustling sounds of chipmunks in the underbrush.
The sun is warm through the pines as a cool breeze dries the sweat on my face and neck. The rest is all too brief. “Let’s go.” Dad is ready, so we rise to follow him.
There are six of us on the trail, but up here, with the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and the sound of my own labored breathing, I feel alone, but not lonely. My boots are heavy, and their sure footing gives me a feeling of confidence and strength as I follow Dad down the hill.
Thwack. The echo of metal striking wood is followed by the sound of flesh being torn from a tree ahead. As I pass, I admire the fresh blazes, the sap beading and glistening in the fresh wooden wound.
At the bottom of this hill we must cross another stream and then across the mire of the marsh, the muck clinging to my boots when I step off the high ground. I slap at the multitudes of mosquitoes rising from the vegetation to feast on my blood, drawn by my exhaled breath. The grasses are lush, the leaves wide and green, making a lovely swishing sound as I pass.
At the far end we stop before taking on the second steep hill, and I try to knock the mud off my boots, drinking water from my canteen (We didn’t worry about giardia in those days.) It tastes so good, so refreshing when I’m in the high country. No chlorine. No impurities. Liquid silver poured by heaven’s hand.
At the end of the short but rough trail, we come out of the pines into a wide meadow, at the top end of a small lake. We have arrived.
I am as yet unaware of spectacular places like Niagara Falls or the Mediterranean, so the dark waters reflecting the pale blue sky and wispy clouds overhead strike me as the beauty of a daisy—hardy, cheerful and pure. The waters are as clean as the first snow, as cool as the first winter chill, as refreshing as the first drought-ending rain. The lake seems to hide great mysteries in the depths. To the south, above a broadening meadow, treeless peaks fill the vista, snow clinging to the ramparts. We won this view by virtue of our sweat and blisters, by the climb that leaves us sitting, thighs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, shoulders aching from carrying all our gear over one and a half of the most grueling miles I will ever encounter. I feel triumphant, healthy, alive—and tired. My older brother takes his pack off, lays back, closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
I made that same trip many times as I was growing up. I hope to hike that trail ‘til the hair on my head is a white as my father’s and the skin on my face as lined as the map that showed him the way in. I long to follow the still visible blazes into my favorite spot on earth.
No matter how many times I’ve been there, the first time, the effort the newness, and the wonder remain etched in my mind. Each swing of my father’s ax is a tick in the clock marking the days of my childhood, so quickly gone. Each step is imprinted in my muscles and memory by the sheer will to dominate that trail and soaked into my skin by the rewarding delight of swimming in the shivery shallows of Mysterious Lake.
Today, despite the damage left by others, and the occasional discordant roar of a motorbike engine destroying the peace, what’s left is the soaring hawk above, the trout below the dark water, the quick sighting of an elk across the lake. There is a vista without power lines, without roads and without the trappings of a modern civilized life. It is a place where you must be alert to the ever-present danger of nature in all its wildness, and the inattention that can cause catastrophic injuries so far from assistance.
I close my eyes and hear my boots crunching on the trail, smell the sweet pines and decaying undergrowth, feel the sun filtering through the trees, the gentle breeze and the strain on muscle and will. That first trip is the pinnacle, and when I am too old or too feeble to climb that trail again, I will still remember cold water, warm sun, hard boots, and the sweet scent of pines. Life never gets better.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Some look for Sasquatch. I look for bull moose.
When I was in Alaska, I went out on snowshoes following moose track. I never caught sight of a bull moose, but when we would drive somewhere (the post office, even) there would be fresh tracks when we came back. Drove me nuts! Even when the car broke down on the way to the airport...we were in the office waiting for a ride and the man who ran the tow company asked if there was anything else. I just jokingly (I had nearly given up) said, "I'd like to see a bull moose if you've got one hanging around." "There was one here about a half an hour ago, but he's gone now."
All the way through Yellowstone I had my eyes peeled. Lots of cow moose and calves, but not a single bull to be seen.
A few years ago there was a young bull moose who had wandered down Fountain Creek and was seen wandering around in the area of Monument Valley Park. Never saw him. He apparently decided to head back up through the Air Force Academy and off into the hills, but he never made himself available when I was down looking for him. He made quite a stir in these parts, let me tell you, even had a naming competition of some sort. I think they came up with Bullwinkle or something equally original. Doesn't matter. It was a nine-day wonder and now I can't even locate info on it on the web.
I still want to see one. Need to head up to Estes Park. I read on the park website where there tend to be sightings, and a friend of mine just spent the weekend backpacking in another part of the park and has tons of pictures of bull moose.
Please don't write me about how stupid it is to go looking for moose. I know the dangers and am fully prepared to stay as far away as necessary for safety. I've seen a grizzly in the wild and didn't get close enough for danger--I'm not a complete idiot. I don't want to pet them or get close-up...I just want to see them in their natural habitat. Not a nature show, not at the zoo.
It's a reasonably harmless longing. It doesn't keep me from seeing what's right in front of me while I am out, but it does provide that little extra spark. Maybe, this time I'll see one. Maybe as I go over this ridge or turn the next corner, there will be one off in the distance.
I have to admit there was a thrill each time I saw fresh moose tracks in the Alaska snow. Knowing they were out there, less than a block from the house added to the excitement of the chase. Elusive, but clearly there. The evidence was all around me. It could only be a matter of time before I saw one.
It's only a matter of time.
All the way through Yellowstone I had my eyes peeled. Lots of cow moose and calves, but not a single bull to be seen.
A few years ago there was a young bull moose who had wandered down Fountain Creek and was seen wandering around in the area of Monument Valley Park. Never saw him. He apparently decided to head back up through the Air Force Academy and off into the hills, but he never made himself available when I was down looking for him. He made quite a stir in these parts, let me tell you, even had a naming competition of some sort. I think they came up with Bullwinkle or something equally original. Doesn't matter. It was a nine-day wonder and now I can't even locate info on it on the web.
I still want to see one. Need to head up to Estes Park. I read on the park website where there tend to be sightings, and a friend of mine just spent the weekend backpacking in another part of the park and has tons of pictures of bull moose.
Please don't write me about how stupid it is to go looking for moose. I know the dangers and am fully prepared to stay as far away as necessary for safety. I've seen a grizzly in the wild and didn't get close enough for danger--I'm not a complete idiot. I don't want to pet them or get close-up...I just want to see them in their natural habitat. Not a nature show, not at the zoo.
It's a reasonably harmless longing. It doesn't keep me from seeing what's right in front of me while I am out, but it does provide that little extra spark. Maybe, this time I'll see one. Maybe as I go over this ridge or turn the next corner, there will be one off in the distance.
I have to admit there was a thrill each time I saw fresh moose tracks in the Alaska snow. Knowing they were out there, less than a block from the house added to the excitement of the chase. Elusive, but clearly there. The evidence was all around me. It could only be a matter of time before I saw one.
It's only a matter of time.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Hopeless cause
I got up this morning to find one of our mouse traps had been tripped. Strangely one of them was in the middle of the kitchen floor. I wasn't sure why, as we have had them on either side of the fridge for weeks with no takers (which was quite a relief). I remember seeing them both last night and thinking it was time to get rid of them as it was clear we do not have a mouse problem.
I wondered if Alex, home from college and a summer mission trip, saw them and decided to set one out, or if he or my husband, Steve, had seen a mouse last night and reset the traps.
In any case, I was upset because they had gotten up and left me with a dead mouse to take care of. I don't do rodents and I don't do dead. If it were up to me, we would simply have safe traps and I would release them far out in unpopulated fields. The deal has always been that if you use these kid of traps I won't argue, but you check them and get rid of the evidence before I can see it.
I didn't want to traipse around the thing all day, so I approached the trap to try to release the corpse for an ignominious burial in the trash. The instant I touched the trap it began to move. I shrieked and jumped halfway across the room as the critter dance the trap around in a wild circle with his back feet.
I know I should have clobbered him (or her, how can you tell?) but I couldn't do it, it was struggling so to survive. I decided that if this little guy would fight so for his life that I would release him outside and give him a chance, slight though it might be. I carefully approached the trapped mouse with a small stack of papers rescued from the trash to use to carefully sweep the mouse, trap and all into my red smiley face dustpan. He struggled a bit, but it was fairly easy. Grabbing a table knife to use to release the bar holding him in the trap, I carried him to the back yard. I released him near the woodpile, so he would have a place to hide either to recover or to die.
Surprisingly, he did not head for the woodpile, but made a very small journey, inches only, in the opposite direction. Still thinking that not providing him a swift death was probably the cruel thing to do, I could not help but feel pity for this creature struggling to live. I put a few peanuts near him and then went to view him from above on the deck.
When I checked him a few minutes later he had gotten himself into a small depression in the dirt about the size of a mango. "Poor thing." I thought. "There is no way you are going to be able to get out of there, injured as you are." I figured what I had done is probably just left him there as easy prey for a bird passing overhead. I sighed and went inside.
I could not stay away, but checked on him about ten minutes later. The hole was empty. Sure he had been lunch, I was surprised to find him a few inches to the side of the hole. Sadly, he was clearly dead, so I went to toss the body. Surprise, he moved.
Okay. That's enough. I grabbed a shoe box, lined with shredded newspaper and placed him inside, pulling some newspaper over him to give him the feeling of protection. Then I placed a cap full of water and a few peanuts in the box. He just lay there, so I dripped a couple of drops of water over his mouth. He greedily drank them down, so I gave him some more.
I don't know if the poor thing can or should survive, but last I checked he was still holding his own, unlike his poor buddy I found in the other trap.
Mice don't belong in the house, unless they are in a cage or in a children's storybook, but I can't stand these traps. If he survives, how am I going to keep him out of the house? Will he survive only to be left in the middle of some vacant field out in the country? Time will tell.
I wondered if Alex, home from college and a summer mission trip, saw them and decided to set one out, or if he or my husband, Steve, had seen a mouse last night and reset the traps.
In any case, I was upset because they had gotten up and left me with a dead mouse to take care of. I don't do rodents and I don't do dead. If it were up to me, we would simply have safe traps and I would release them far out in unpopulated fields. The deal has always been that if you use these kid of traps I won't argue, but you check them and get rid of the evidence before I can see it.
I didn't want to traipse around the thing all day, so I approached the trap to try to release the corpse for an ignominious burial in the trash. The instant I touched the trap it began to move. I shrieked and jumped halfway across the room as the critter dance the trap around in a wild circle with his back feet.
I know I should have clobbered him (or her, how can you tell?) but I couldn't do it, it was struggling so to survive. I decided that if this little guy would fight so for his life that I would release him outside and give him a chance, slight though it might be. I carefully approached the trapped mouse with a small stack of papers rescued from the trash to use to carefully sweep the mouse, trap and all into my red smiley face dustpan. He struggled a bit, but it was fairly easy. Grabbing a table knife to use to release the bar holding him in the trap, I carried him to the back yard. I released him near the woodpile, so he would have a place to hide either to recover or to die.
Surprisingly, he did not head for the woodpile, but made a very small journey, inches only, in the opposite direction. Still thinking that not providing him a swift death was probably the cruel thing to do, I could not help but feel pity for this creature struggling to live. I put a few peanuts near him and then went to view him from above on the deck.
When I checked him a few minutes later he had gotten himself into a small depression in the dirt about the size of a mango. "Poor thing." I thought. "There is no way you are going to be able to get out of there, injured as you are." I figured what I had done is probably just left him there as easy prey for a bird passing overhead. I sighed and went inside.
I could not stay away, but checked on him about ten minutes later. The hole was empty. Sure he had been lunch, I was surprised to find him a few inches to the side of the hole. Sadly, he was clearly dead, so I went to toss the body. Surprise, he moved.
Okay. That's enough. I grabbed a shoe box, lined with shredded newspaper and placed him inside, pulling some newspaper over him to give him the feeling of protection. Then I placed a cap full of water and a few peanuts in the box. He just lay there, so I dripped a couple of drops of water over his mouth. He greedily drank them down, so I gave him some more.
I don't know if the poor thing can or should survive, but last I checked he was still holding his own, unlike his poor buddy I found in the other trap.
Mice don't belong in the house, unless they are in a cage or in a children's storybook, but I can't stand these traps. If he survives, how am I going to keep him out of the house? Will he survive only to be left in the middle of some vacant field out in the country? Time will tell.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Summer Food
Ah summer. Despite hayfever, allergies, heat, sunburn, skunks and bugs, summer pleasures win out. Dinner at 93 degrees can be summer greens, fresh sliced tomato, and slices of grilled marinated steak. Or...a slice of three cheese bread covered in sliced tomato, fresh oregano and slices of cheese. Awesome! Or...when it seems entirely too hot, a half a chilled canteloupe refreshes nicely.
This is not the season for pot roast in gravy, chicken & dumplings, heavy pasta sauces or Aunt Barb's Swedish Meatballs. Meatloaf can wait. Light meals, no heat, iced drinks on the deck. Wonderful.
What are your favorite summer meals?
This is not the season for pot roast in gravy, chicken & dumplings, heavy pasta sauces or Aunt Barb's Swedish Meatballs. Meatloaf can wait. Light meals, no heat, iced drinks on the deck. Wonderful.
What are your favorite summer meals?
Saturday, June 30, 2007
There Will Be Hair...
Well, the dreaded time has come. I really thought I would have to have the beagle euthanized, due to her back problems, but instead, I shall have to have my precious Barney put to sleep soon. Oh, my heart is broken. I can't tell you how much I hurt.
But Barney nipped a kid today. The reasons why don't matter. The fact remains that he is now a liability. Where he has nipped one kid, he could nip another. Fortunately this is a very minor injury, but people are more important than animals, even animals we love, so I cannot risk that this is some kind of fluke, or even provoked. How can I assume that? I can't. People, especially kids cannot be expected to know the proper way to deal with strange animals.
This has me thinking about the responsibilities of dog ownership. I want to tell you what to expect if you get a dog.
1. Vet visits. Shots, worming, kennel cough, the occasional injury, sometimes long-term treatment for an ailment. Well, that is a philosophical and practical issue deserving a full-article, but my personal opinion is that you should determine how much is too much to spend preserving a dog's life. It sounds crass, but think about it. Children are starving in other countries for the lack of a few dollars a day, and some of us may spend hundreds or even thousands on keeping an ailing pet around for a few years of ill health. I don't mean don't take care of your dog, but you need to determine in your own heart and mind what YOU believe is the line. For me, when the dog reaches at or close to their expected life span, it is not my wish to spend a great deal of money doing things that will only delay the inevitable. That's my choice.
2. Food. Another area of some debate, there are designer labels and custom blends, as well as your basic generic and all things in between. At any rate it'll cost money.
3. Grooming. If you are fortunate, you can do this task yourself for a long time, but you will still need canine shampoo, the appropriate brushes, perhaps electric clippers, nail clippers, etc. There may come a time when you physically cannot do the task yourself and the groomer is expensive! A good grooming can help cut down on shedding and mean less housework for you, though, so...
4. Smells. Dogs smell. Some simply have their own odor that you may find slightly unpleasant (my beagle has a "hound dog" scent that some find offensive, even when she has just been bathed.) Wet dogs smell. Period. Flatulence. There's nothing better than turning to your spouse and asking "Was that you?" to find that the source is your very best canine companion asleep at the foot of your bed.
5. Things you won't want to see. Dogs eat gross things. Dogs are keen on hunting down small critters. Well fed dogs will only mangle said critters, not devour them, and you may have to deal with that. I recommend you have lots of jangling tags or bells around their necks to scare the critters away.
6. Sounds. Dogs bark. Even my barkless Basenji/Akita mix is not truly barkless (because of the Akita), but instead barks only rarely. He will always bark at the next-door neighbor, however. The beagle barks at flies.
7. Hair. There will be hair. Everywhere. You will own multiple tape rollers, and you can remove all the hair at the front door, checking this way and that, but by the time you arrive at your office, your pooch will somehow have managed to have his hair all over your black pants. Dog hair will be wrapped around the felt pads of your chairs, it will wind up on top of the ceiling fan, it may wind up in the punch you serve for your parent's 50th anniversary party. That hair will be a reminder of your dog long, long after he is gone. You may go in to your dry cleaner and get scolded for having pet hair on your clothes.
8. Chewing. Mind don't chew much any more, and in fact never did--much. But My dog, Barney is a discriminating chewer. He may not chew anything but empty pop bottles for 5 years, but should your son get you a baseball cap from his college, and should said hat fall off the hook, it will be in many small pieces. Should you kick your red leather boots off next to the bed and should you fail to immediately pick them up and put them in the closet, Your pooch will ignore the tennis shoes under the table, the sandles by the dresser, the clogs peeking out from the closet for the past week and will dig out one of your boots and chew the toes out. Count on it.
9. Separation anxiety. Don't kid yourself, your dog will have this if you have a busy week at work, or have too many after school activities for your kid. Your dog may have this just with you being away at work.
10. Exercise. Dogs need it. You need it. You hate it. They love it.
11. Training. Cesar Millan may be able to control a dog within minutes, it will take you longer, and you will have to keep at it.
12. Kids love dogs. For few weeks they will want to take care of feeding, but then they will stop. The dogs want to eat anyway.
13. No one wants to clean up dog poop. It still has to be picked up.
14. Dogs break things. Their tales are longer than they think, they don't watch where they are going, and let's face it, they don't understand how important Aunt Delia's precious bell collection is to her. Aunt Delia will be suitably angry that you brought your ill-mannered pooch to visit and break her things.
15. You are going to get tired of caring for the dog. it may only be occassionally or when life is particularly stressful, but you still get to feed and walk and play with your dogs even when you don't feel like it. It's kind of like parenting without the back talk and body piercing.
16. If you can tolerate the mess, the dumped trash, the smells, the chewed boots, the occasional peeing in the house, the sick dog who pukes on your rug, and the expense, you will receive far more than you ever give.
17. Somebody will always be excited to see you.
18. Somebody won't remember that you were grumpy yesterday, or even five minutes ago.
19. Dogs are eternal optimists. You have to work pretty hard for them to expect bad stuff from you.
20. Dogs will forgive you your dumb mistakes.
21. Dogs try to please you.
22. Let me state #17 in a different way. Your dog will always be happy to see you, and the sight of those perky little ears peering out the window to catch a glimpse of you, or that tail wagging like crazy when you walk in the door will make you feel better than you could imagine after a crappy day at work.
But, there will be hair.....
But Barney nipped a kid today. The reasons why don't matter. The fact remains that he is now a liability. Where he has nipped one kid, he could nip another. Fortunately this is a very minor injury, but people are more important than animals, even animals we love, so I cannot risk that this is some kind of fluke, or even provoked. How can I assume that? I can't. People, especially kids cannot be expected to know the proper way to deal with strange animals.
This has me thinking about the responsibilities of dog ownership. I want to tell you what to expect if you get a dog.
1. Vet visits. Shots, worming, kennel cough, the occasional injury, sometimes long-term treatment for an ailment. Well, that is a philosophical and practical issue deserving a full-article, but my personal opinion is that you should determine how much is too much to spend preserving a dog's life. It sounds crass, but think about it. Children are starving in other countries for the lack of a few dollars a day, and some of us may spend hundreds or even thousands on keeping an ailing pet around for a few years of ill health. I don't mean don't take care of your dog, but you need to determine in your own heart and mind what YOU believe is the line. For me, when the dog reaches at or close to their expected life span, it is not my wish to spend a great deal of money doing things that will only delay the inevitable. That's my choice.
2. Food. Another area of some debate, there are designer labels and custom blends, as well as your basic generic and all things in between. At any rate it'll cost money.
3. Grooming. If you are fortunate, you can do this task yourself for a long time, but you will still need canine shampoo, the appropriate brushes, perhaps electric clippers, nail clippers, etc. There may come a time when you physically cannot do the task yourself and the groomer is expensive! A good grooming can help cut down on shedding and mean less housework for you, though, so...
4. Smells. Dogs smell. Some simply have their own odor that you may find slightly unpleasant (my beagle has a "hound dog" scent that some find offensive, even when she has just been bathed.) Wet dogs smell. Period. Flatulence. There's nothing better than turning to your spouse and asking "Was that you?" to find that the source is your very best canine companion asleep at the foot of your bed.
5. Things you won't want to see. Dogs eat gross things. Dogs are keen on hunting down small critters. Well fed dogs will only mangle said critters, not devour them, and you may have to deal with that. I recommend you have lots of jangling tags or bells around their necks to scare the critters away.
6. Sounds. Dogs bark. Even my barkless Basenji/Akita mix is not truly barkless (because of the Akita), but instead barks only rarely. He will always bark at the next-door neighbor, however. The beagle barks at flies.
7. Hair. There will be hair. Everywhere. You will own multiple tape rollers, and you can remove all the hair at the front door, checking this way and that, but by the time you arrive at your office, your pooch will somehow have managed to have his hair all over your black pants. Dog hair will be wrapped around the felt pads of your chairs, it will wind up on top of the ceiling fan, it may wind up in the punch you serve for your parent's 50th anniversary party. That hair will be a reminder of your dog long, long after he is gone. You may go in to your dry cleaner and get scolded for having pet hair on your clothes.
8. Chewing. Mind don't chew much any more, and in fact never did--much. But My dog, Barney is a discriminating chewer. He may not chew anything but empty pop bottles for 5 years, but should your son get you a baseball cap from his college, and should said hat fall off the hook, it will be in many small pieces. Should you kick your red leather boots off next to the bed and should you fail to immediately pick them up and put them in the closet, Your pooch will ignore the tennis shoes under the table, the sandles by the dresser, the clogs peeking out from the closet for the past week and will dig out one of your boots and chew the toes out. Count on it.
9. Separation anxiety. Don't kid yourself, your dog will have this if you have a busy week at work, or have too many after school activities for your kid. Your dog may have this just with you being away at work.
10. Exercise. Dogs need it. You need it. You hate it. They love it.
11. Training. Cesar Millan may be able to control a dog within minutes, it will take you longer, and you will have to keep at it.
12. Kids love dogs. For few weeks they will want to take care of feeding, but then they will stop. The dogs want to eat anyway.
13. No one wants to clean up dog poop. It still has to be picked up.
14. Dogs break things. Their tales are longer than they think, they don't watch where they are going, and let's face it, they don't understand how important Aunt Delia's precious bell collection is to her. Aunt Delia will be suitably angry that you brought your ill-mannered pooch to visit and break her things.
15. You are going to get tired of caring for the dog. it may only be occassionally or when life is particularly stressful, but you still get to feed and walk and play with your dogs even when you don't feel like it. It's kind of like parenting without the back talk and body piercing.
16. If you can tolerate the mess, the dumped trash, the smells, the chewed boots, the occasional peeing in the house, the sick dog who pukes on your rug, and the expense, you will receive far more than you ever give.
17. Somebody will always be excited to see you.
18. Somebody won't remember that you were grumpy yesterday, or even five minutes ago.
19. Dogs are eternal optimists. You have to work pretty hard for them to expect bad stuff from you.
20. Dogs will forgive you your dumb mistakes.
21. Dogs try to please you.
22. Let me state #17 in a different way. Your dog will always be happy to see you, and the sight of those perky little ears peering out the window to catch a glimpse of you, or that tail wagging like crazy when you walk in the door will make you feel better than you could imagine after a crappy day at work.
But, there will be hair.....
Thursday, April 19, 2007
He Called Me Daughter
I would slide my arm around his waist and say "Hi there, Pops." He would give me a one-armed hug and say, "Hello, daughter." His smile would grow brighter, in a way that seemed just for me. I knew it wasn't, but I've always been fond of self-delusion and so it warmed my heart anyway. I knew he loved me and that was all that mattered.
Since I was a kid, Jack Boucher "Baldy" was a fixture in my life. Jack lived on his ranch east of Colorado Springs for most of his 81 years. Probably the single-most hard-working man I have ever known, Jack worked until days before his death. Married for 56 years, he and his wife, Shirley, raised four kids on the land where he was raised.
Of all the memories I have of him, a few things stand out: I never heard him say a harsh word or say an unkind thing about anyone; He loved people and was not harsh or judgemental even while he strove to live a good and upright life; He reached out to people no matter who they were. I'm not sure he noticed whether you were a trash collector, a felon or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Those weren't the things that mattered to him. Where your heart was with Christ mattered, what your struggles were mattered, true teaching of the Word mattered.
Jack was a praying man. His love for people translated into praying for them. He trusted in his Heavenly Father to listen to his requests. He was generous. He went out to eat with people all the time, especially the folks from church, and he often picked up the tab for folks he knew were hurting financially.
I heard once, years ago, that his wife, Shirley, fed him horse oats and liver for breakfast every day of his life. Looking at his vitality and how slowly he aged, I always believed it. A couple of months ago I was eating dinner at their house and I told him how it was hard to argue with that diet. "I don't eat horse oats," he protested. "You do when I tell the story."
He had a great sense of humor and yet was a serious man, always ready to talk about Jesus.
"It is a wondrous thing that Man can talk to God." Such was his belief. It is wondrous, indeed.
Today Jack is talking to God face to face. He was welcomed with a marvelous reception and I am convinced he heard the words, "Well done."
The man who called me daughter has gone to his reward. I shall miss my Pops.
Since I was a kid, Jack Boucher "Baldy" was a fixture in my life. Jack lived on his ranch east of Colorado Springs for most of his 81 years. Probably the single-most hard-working man I have ever known, Jack worked until days before his death. Married for 56 years, he and his wife, Shirley, raised four kids on the land where he was raised.
Of all the memories I have of him, a few things stand out: I never heard him say a harsh word or say an unkind thing about anyone; He loved people and was not harsh or judgemental even while he strove to live a good and upright life; He reached out to people no matter who they were. I'm not sure he noticed whether you were a trash collector, a felon or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Those weren't the things that mattered to him. Where your heart was with Christ mattered, what your struggles were mattered, true teaching of the Word mattered.
Jack was a praying man. His love for people translated into praying for them. He trusted in his Heavenly Father to listen to his requests. He was generous. He went out to eat with people all the time, especially the folks from church, and he often picked up the tab for folks he knew were hurting financially.
I heard once, years ago, that his wife, Shirley, fed him horse oats and liver for breakfast every day of his life. Looking at his vitality and how slowly he aged, I always believed it. A couple of months ago I was eating dinner at their house and I told him how it was hard to argue with that diet. "I don't eat horse oats," he protested. "You do when I tell the story."
He had a great sense of humor and yet was a serious man, always ready to talk about Jesus.
"It is a wondrous thing that Man can talk to God." Such was his belief. It is wondrous, indeed.
Today Jack is talking to God face to face. He was welcomed with a marvelous reception and I am convinced he heard the words, "Well done."
The man who called me daughter has gone to his reward. I shall miss my Pops.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Anticipation
Some of you may be puzzled as to why I haven't written much lately. Well, my system has decided that my stress would reside in my gut. For a while now I have been plagued by intermittent nausea and stomach aches, but for the past few weeks it has been virtually non-stop, with the notable exception of a really terrific lunch at my friend Evelyn's house where I surprised myself by being able to eat roast beef with carrots and potatoes. I even had a second helping! Amen!
The upside of this has been that I've lost around 20 pounds.
The downside is that I've really felt awful and not known why. It became clear to me recently that the business struggles and the financial fallout are the source of my stomach problems, and so I'm working toward stress reduction. It's kind of embarrassing for me to admit that I'm struggling in this way. Do I trust God? Yes I do, but it's not a simple trust. It is hard-fought. I struggle to trust, even when I believe in my head that God is faithful and believe what the Bible says, I am aware that we must endure hardship. Endure, not enjoy.
Hebrews 12: 2 says: Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.
I have been looking to live in perpetual joy. Joy in the midst of troubles, in the midst of bad news, in the midst of pain...but Christ himself for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame. The joy was in the future. It was anticipated, not experienced in the moment. He endured. He despised. And so, in the midst of despising the shame, I can endure, looking forward to promised joy.
This is a real gift to me, to see this for the first time. The joy does not have to be in this present moment, but we can endure, knowing that joy is anticipated. I am anticipating joy. That anticipation has brought peace.
The upside of this has been that I've lost around 20 pounds.
The downside is that I've really felt awful and not known why. It became clear to me recently that the business struggles and the financial fallout are the source of my stomach problems, and so I'm working toward stress reduction. It's kind of embarrassing for me to admit that I'm struggling in this way. Do I trust God? Yes I do, but it's not a simple trust. It is hard-fought. I struggle to trust, even when I believe in my head that God is faithful and believe what the Bible says, I am aware that we must endure hardship. Endure, not enjoy.
Hebrews 12: 2 says: Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God.
I have been looking to live in perpetual joy. Joy in the midst of troubles, in the midst of bad news, in the midst of pain...but Christ himself for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame. The joy was in the future. It was anticipated, not experienced in the moment. He endured. He despised. And so, in the midst of despising the shame, I can endure, looking forward to promised joy.
This is a real gift to me, to see this for the first time. The joy does not have to be in this present moment, but we can endure, knowing that joy is anticipated. I am anticipating joy. That anticipation has brought peace.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
You're Beautiful
After a trip to pick up firewood, I decided to treat myself to Starbucks. With help I managed to fill up the truck, tie it down and drive it on home. If you don't have FM, sciatica and arthritis, you may not know what a feat this was. I was feeling pleased and that kind of delicious tiredness that comes with pushing oneself to accomplish a physical task.
I pulled into the drive through at my local Starbucks (why haven't they called me for an interview yet?) the cheerful male voice called out, "How are you today, beautiful?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Great. What can I get for you this Valentine's Day?"
Gotta say, that even though I am not one who meets the standard of beauty, and though I knew who it must have been calling out through the speaker (turns out they have this tiny camera so they can see you, but you cannot see them), and though I know this guy is harmlessly flirting, and is young enough to be my son (gasp!) it still made me feel good. It's been a very long time since anyone called me beautiful. Kind of brings tears to my eyes to think about it.
I don't expect those kind of compliments, truly I don't. It sure feels good to hear, even if it's not true.
Made me remember an episode of "Cheers" from way back. Coach's daughter was really frustrated with her dad cause he called her beautiful. "Don't you see me dad?" She didn't want him to patronize her. "Look at me!" she insisted. He looked at her and in a choked voice he said, "You look just like your mother." It was clear from what followed that he had thought his wife was beautiful, and in doing so you realized that his daughter now realized that he was speaking the truth as he saw it. He truly saw her as beautiful.
When I think about it I know many women who look all different ways, ultra-thin, voluptuous, dark-straight hair, short frizzy hair, freckles, big lips, thin lips...oh I could go on, but you know what I mean. Think of the women you know and how their beauty is so different from one to the next. From the wholesome outdoor girl to the pale, wan, ethereal type, each has their own beauty. Perhaps that is the lesson I need to internalize today. Perhaps I am holding myself to a standard which I don't apply to anyone else. Perhaps others see me the way I see them, as having a unique attraction. I don't expect everyone to look alike, merely to be the best individual they are...and in the end, I think I really look for the heart that shines out. Are they compassionate? Loving? Kind? Funny? Merciful? Just? True? Do they face life with courage? I have some friends I would find impossible to describe physically because I see such joy and courage in their faces that that is the beauty I see when I think of them. Their internals shine on the outside.
Oh, that is the beauty to which I aspire. What matters it whether I have perfect skin, flawless body, shiny gorgeous hair, perfectly straight teeth? what does it matter that my eyes don't work together? One day, given enough years, we will all have matching sets of wrinkled skin and gray hair. May the lines on my face be that of smiles and joy rather than the frown of depression. May my eyes shine with love and compassion.
I pulled into the drive through at my local Starbucks (why haven't they called me for an interview yet?) the cheerful male voice called out, "How are you today, beautiful?"
"Fine. How are you?"
"Great. What can I get for you this Valentine's Day?"
Gotta say, that even though I am not one who meets the standard of beauty, and though I knew who it must have been calling out through the speaker (turns out they have this tiny camera so they can see you, but you cannot see them), and though I know this guy is harmlessly flirting, and is young enough to be my son (gasp!) it still made me feel good. It's been a very long time since anyone called me beautiful. Kind of brings tears to my eyes to think about it.
I don't expect those kind of compliments, truly I don't. It sure feels good to hear, even if it's not true.
Made me remember an episode of "Cheers" from way back. Coach's daughter was really frustrated with her dad cause he called her beautiful. "Don't you see me dad?" She didn't want him to patronize her. "Look at me!" she insisted. He looked at her and in a choked voice he said, "You look just like your mother." It was clear from what followed that he had thought his wife was beautiful, and in doing so you realized that his daughter now realized that he was speaking the truth as he saw it. He truly saw her as beautiful.
When I think about it I know many women who look all different ways, ultra-thin, voluptuous, dark-straight hair, short frizzy hair, freckles, big lips, thin lips...oh I could go on, but you know what I mean. Think of the women you know and how their beauty is so different from one to the next. From the wholesome outdoor girl to the pale, wan, ethereal type, each has their own beauty. Perhaps that is the lesson I need to internalize today. Perhaps I am holding myself to a standard which I don't apply to anyone else. Perhaps others see me the way I see them, as having a unique attraction. I don't expect everyone to look alike, merely to be the best individual they are...and in the end, I think I really look for the heart that shines out. Are they compassionate? Loving? Kind? Funny? Merciful? Just? True? Do they face life with courage? I have some friends I would find impossible to describe physically because I see such joy and courage in their faces that that is the beauty I see when I think of them. Their internals shine on the outside.
Oh, that is the beauty to which I aspire. What matters it whether I have perfect skin, flawless body, shiny gorgeous hair, perfectly straight teeth? what does it matter that my eyes don't work together? One day, given enough years, we will all have matching sets of wrinkled skin and gray hair. May the lines on my face be that of smiles and joy rather than the frown of depression. May my eyes shine with love and compassion.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Living in a Snowglobe
Well it's snowing again. This has been the most amazing winter so far. Snow, snow and more snow. It's finally melted in large part from the first blizzard on December 21st. Now the snow isn't accumulating, just floating to the ground lightly in fat, fluffy flakes as if the world outside my window was one of those snowglobes I collect.
People who aren't from Colorado often think we have winters of non-stop snow, mistaking the ski slopes and mountain areas with the entire state. The largest population centers are located just East of the mountain range and here, the snowfall is somewhat different.
Typically, we will have snow followed by a few temperate days during which the accumulated snow melts. Any snow we get usually goes away quickly and there is never enough of it for me. I am delighted by the snow, but unfortunately, the icy sidewalks (many people have never cleared their walks) make it difficult to walk through the neighborhood, and I have had an attack of FM and sciatica keeping me indoors more than I would prefer. I love the crisp air and the cold on my face. I love playing in the snow!
There was a story on the news tonight about people who get the winter blues. They typically do this story every winter. Even though the cold makes my joints ache and my arthritis a bit worse, I can't understand getting down in the dumps when the skies are overcast and there is snow on the ground.
When the leaves have fallen off the trees I can see Pikes Peak from my deck. I've prayed that some natural occurance would cause the top 20 or 30 feet to fall off their trees so that I could see the mountain year round, but that hasn't happened. But when fall causes the leaves to jump to their deaths, I get to see the glorious mountain.
Now, the mountain, the city lights, my fabulous trees are all seen through the gentle snowfall. I love snowglobes.
People who aren't from Colorado often think we have winters of non-stop snow, mistaking the ski slopes and mountain areas with the entire state. The largest population centers are located just East of the mountain range and here, the snowfall is somewhat different.
Typically, we will have snow followed by a few temperate days during which the accumulated snow melts. Any snow we get usually goes away quickly and there is never enough of it for me. I am delighted by the snow, but unfortunately, the icy sidewalks (many people have never cleared their walks) make it difficult to walk through the neighborhood, and I have had an attack of FM and sciatica keeping me indoors more than I would prefer. I love the crisp air and the cold on my face. I love playing in the snow!
There was a story on the news tonight about people who get the winter blues. They typically do this story every winter. Even though the cold makes my joints ache and my arthritis a bit worse, I can't understand getting down in the dumps when the skies are overcast and there is snow on the ground.
When the leaves have fallen off the trees I can see Pikes Peak from my deck. I've prayed that some natural occurance would cause the top 20 or 30 feet to fall off their trees so that I could see the mountain year round, but that hasn't happened. But when fall causes the leaves to jump to their deaths, I get to see the glorious mountain.
Now, the mountain, the city lights, my fabulous trees are all seen through the gentle snowfall. I love snowglobes.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Redneck, White-trash Christmas
Now before you get upset at the use of the terms "redneck" and "white-trash", I understand that these can be inflammatory. For a writer, I am remarkably bereft of words. Let me tell you the story.
The kids were all due home this Christmas, Alex from college, Craig from the army, where he is posted at Fort Sill, and Kristen with her husband Paul, from California. Alex was home, Craig arrived on the 18th, having driven all night with a buddy from Fort Sill, after sleeping for a few hours, they took off to see the sights. They arrived late that night, then were out again the next day. The 20th began a blizzard with Craig and his buddy having spent the night with a friend of Craig after an "all night video tournament" which I took to mean they were drinking and didn't want to drive.
Craig came home that day ready to go get his sister from DIA. The blizzard made it certain that Kristen and Paul would spend their Christmas in California, with flights cancelled and travellers stranded all over. It also meant that Craig couldn't get out to pick up Zach, who had to spend the next couple of days with Craig's friend.
On the 22nd we began to be able to get around, but with four vehicles at our house, we could only drive one of them. The work truck with the rack and chains was the only one able to get around.
Anyway, when Craig got out that afternoon and went to go pick up Zach, somehow he had gotten from the far southeast side to the middle far west side. I didn't think a whole lot about it, just wondered how he would get there.
Christmas Eve everyone showed up for the last of the three services I was singing in. Christmas morning we started late, with everyone hanging around for our traditional Lucky Charms Christmas breakfast. I also made a double batch of Swedish pancakes. We ate, then opened our meager presents. Then we all prepared to go to our traditional Christmas movie. Craig and Zach were late enough that we had to switch to a later show. Then they took Alex home while Steve and I went to my parents. Later Craig and Zach also showed up at Mom and Dad's.
It was a nice day, but everyone was moping that Kristen couldn't come.
The following morning the guys were gone and I was kind of depressed with everyone's attitude, so I went to spend a little time at a friend's for a peaceful interlude. When I left, I checked my phone to find that I had missed about eight calls. Alex. Craig. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. So I called only to hear that Craig had been in a bad car accident and that he and all his passengers were in the ER at Memorial. He was okay but "banged up pretty badly", Zach was hurt and couldn't feel part of his feet. One of his passengers was a friend who was 8 months pregnant and was supposed to stay the night. Her 11-month-old son was the only uninjured party (a testament to good car seats!).
Craig having the most readily apparent wounds, and two of the passengers having masked their injuries with adrenalin rushes, they were late to begin treatment/assessment and he was the first to be released, so he came home to shower, change and head back to check on his passengers. About two blocks away he says, "Uh, Mom? There's something I have to tell you. Angel (the pregnant passenger with 11 month old) isn't just my friend. She's my wife."
I never read Amy Vanderbilt's proper etiquette for this situation, so I don't say much. I don't really believe it, yet part of me knows it's true. It explains so much. I'm having a heart attack; no, I'm hyperventilating; no, I'm just fine, just heartbroken and can't breathe. I'm crying, so he says, "This is why I didn't tell you...'cause of how you react." Excuse me?
What, pray tell, is the appropriate response? He shows me the wedding certificate and I see that they have been married since the day he arrived home. Hiding this for over a week! Living in my house, spending Christmas with us while he had a wife on the other side of town. Plus, he's married to a pregnant girl with a child, neither child is Craig's. What the hell?
So...it gets worse, but this is my redneck, white-trash Christmas. I don't know the child I bore, but I have a mental picture of him that I cannot get out of my mind. He's a little guy, walking around in a mock baseball shirt and shorts, hair combed neatly over and bright blue eyes looking up out of the mischievous, chubby-cheeked, smiling face. How did we get from there to here?
My son, who I've always felt was a bit behind the crowd in maturity is now married and the stepdad of two children. He doesn't have two nickels to rub together and now has all these responsibilities he cannot comprehend.
I'm sure there are better adjectives to describe these holidays, but I'm afraid you'll have to supply them for me. I'm plum out of words.
The kids were all due home this Christmas, Alex from college, Craig from the army, where he is posted at Fort Sill, and Kristen with her husband Paul, from California. Alex was home, Craig arrived on the 18th, having driven all night with a buddy from Fort Sill, after sleeping for a few hours, they took off to see the sights. They arrived late that night, then were out again the next day. The 20th began a blizzard with Craig and his buddy having spent the night with a friend of Craig after an "all night video tournament" which I took to mean they were drinking and didn't want to drive.
Craig came home that day ready to go get his sister from DIA. The blizzard made it certain that Kristen and Paul would spend their Christmas in California, with flights cancelled and travellers stranded all over. It also meant that Craig couldn't get out to pick up Zach, who had to spend the next couple of days with Craig's friend.
On the 22nd we began to be able to get around, but with four vehicles at our house, we could only drive one of them. The work truck with the rack and chains was the only one able to get around.
Anyway, when Craig got out that afternoon and went to go pick up Zach, somehow he had gotten from the far southeast side to the middle far west side. I didn't think a whole lot about it, just wondered how he would get there.
Christmas Eve everyone showed up for the last of the three services I was singing in. Christmas morning we started late, with everyone hanging around for our traditional Lucky Charms Christmas breakfast. I also made a double batch of Swedish pancakes. We ate, then opened our meager presents. Then we all prepared to go to our traditional Christmas movie. Craig and Zach were late enough that we had to switch to a later show. Then they took Alex home while Steve and I went to my parents. Later Craig and Zach also showed up at Mom and Dad's.
It was a nice day, but everyone was moping that Kristen couldn't come.
The following morning the guys were gone and I was kind of depressed with everyone's attitude, so I went to spend a little time at a friend's for a peaceful interlude. When I left, I checked my phone to find that I had missed about eight calls. Alex. Craig. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. Alex. So I called only to hear that Craig had been in a bad car accident and that he and all his passengers were in the ER at Memorial. He was okay but "banged up pretty badly", Zach was hurt and couldn't feel part of his feet. One of his passengers was a friend who was 8 months pregnant and was supposed to stay the night. Her 11-month-old son was the only uninjured party (a testament to good car seats!).
Craig having the most readily apparent wounds, and two of the passengers having masked their injuries with adrenalin rushes, they were late to begin treatment/assessment and he was the first to be released, so he came home to shower, change and head back to check on his passengers. About two blocks away he says, "Uh, Mom? There's something I have to tell you. Angel (the pregnant passenger with 11 month old) isn't just my friend. She's my wife."
I never read Amy Vanderbilt's proper etiquette for this situation, so I don't say much. I don't really believe it, yet part of me knows it's true. It explains so much. I'm having a heart attack; no, I'm hyperventilating; no, I'm just fine, just heartbroken and can't breathe. I'm crying, so he says, "This is why I didn't tell you...'cause of how you react." Excuse me?
What, pray tell, is the appropriate response? He shows me the wedding certificate and I see that they have been married since the day he arrived home. Hiding this for over a week! Living in my house, spending Christmas with us while he had a wife on the other side of town. Plus, he's married to a pregnant girl with a child, neither child is Craig's. What the hell?
So...it gets worse, but this is my redneck, white-trash Christmas. I don't know the child I bore, but I have a mental picture of him that I cannot get out of my mind. He's a little guy, walking around in a mock baseball shirt and shorts, hair combed neatly over and bright blue eyes looking up out of the mischievous, chubby-cheeked, smiling face. How did we get from there to here?
My son, who I've always felt was a bit behind the crowd in maturity is now married and the stepdad of two children. He doesn't have two nickels to rub together and now has all these responsibilities he cannot comprehend.
I'm sure there are better adjectives to describe these holidays, but I'm afraid you'll have to supply them for me. I'm plum out of words.
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