The Color of Pain

Kutsuu--the Japanese symbol for pain

Recently my youngest niece took a nasty spill while snowboarding. The Ski Patrol evacuated her from the mountain to a nearby medical center where they determined she had suffered from badly torn ligaments, an injury that will require reconstructive knee surgery. Julie is a resilient and strong young woman; I have no doubt that she will be a trooper throughout her surgery and therapy, and that she will soon find her way back to the sport she loves.

When I heard of Julie's accident, it took me back to an April evening thirty-three years ago when my life changed. Barely 21, I was on my way to meet a friend for a night of dancing when something went terribly wrong. I had some sort of mysterious seizure while driving, and plowed my beautiful new chocolate-brown Camaro right into a tree.

To this day I have no memory of the accident. It took me several months to even remember the events that preceded my ill-fated trip to the local disco parlor. I regained consciousness in the hospital where I found myself hooked up to multiple tubes, a white gauze turban wrapped around my head, ice packs and bandages on my legs and arms, a pair of hand-wringing parents right by my side.

I must have looked quite a sight but insisted I was fine because it didn't hurt all that much. Morphine, I was told, was keeping the pain at bay. Still, since I felt almost no pain, it couldn't be that bad, right? It was then I was told about the damage my body had endured.

The impact had thrown me forward so that the steering column was thrust into the center of my chest, breaking several ribs. My head broke the windshield and I sustained multiple cuts on my skull, an eyelid, and down one cheek. The ashtray sliced my knee open, requiring nearly 100 stitches. Both my right leg and arm were twisted horribly as my body was then propelled backwards, like a blonde Crash Test Dummy, until it landed in an unnatural position between the bucket seats.

No, I was not wearing a seat belt and yes, I realize I would not have been hurt so badly had I done so. Not only was this in the days before mandatory seat belt usage laws, but I was also 21 and as often happens, thought myself invincible.

After three days in the hospital's intensive care unit, I was moved to a regular room. The morphine was taken away and at last I had to face the pain, a sensation with a hue I can only describe as bright, hot, searing red.

My broken ribs produced the worst misery, aggravated and prolonged by the use of crutches. Eventually, slowly, my body began to heal and I was walking again. But I never felt as though I walked correctly, and my back has never been right. Over the years, each new tinge of pain and odd sensation has been absorbed and made part of my new reality. It may take a few weeks to adapt and then on you go, pushing ever forward.

Once many years ago, a massage therapist told me, "Pain must be a beautiful thing, because we have so much of it in our lives." Maybe she was right, I don't know. Personally I could do quite nicely if I were to lose a big chunk of the pain I have acquired since that dark April night.

A new pain arrived on the scene a few years ago and I finally met my match. After acupuncture and chiropractic treatments, physical and massage therapy, and even electronic nerve stimulation, this is one affliction I find myself incapable of incorporating into my world.

Its color is every bit as bright red as the color of pain I remember experiencing in that hospital room long ago. So I have chosen to undergo a radical elective surgery this summer, hoping that it will provide relief.

Pain, the old saying goes, toughens the soul. What I've decided, however, is that I believe my soul is already tough enough.

Say Hello to Daisy

Our newest family member is Daisy, a cattle dog/corgi mix. We adopted her from the Longmont Humane Society.

She's about 4 years old, a sweet little girl but scared of her own shadow!

She loves Tonka a whole bunch and, well, Tonka is still trying to decide if he loves her (not when she steals his favorite toys, that's for sure!).

They are getting along really well so far.

Stay tuned...

In Like a Lion

Let's talk about the weather.

Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.

I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.

The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.

I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.

Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.

Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.

Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?

On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.

Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.

Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.

All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.

Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...

...out like a lamb.

So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.

A Dry Spell

Can't think of a single thing to write about. Well, that's not exactly true. I have thought of a few things but the topics were either pretty boring or completely unworkable. Guess you could say it's been a dry spell for me. Or maybe just the winter doldrums. Or possibly some middle-age thingy. So I've decided instead to share some random pictures, on the off chance someone stops by.

Tonka wasn't very excited about the Super Bowl.

Wonder what kind of resources an extraterrestrial might require?

Found these dolls among my childhood things.
Spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out what they were called.
Answer = Kola Kiddles: Luscious Lime, Olivia Orange, Greta Grape

It's been snowing a lot lately. And it's way too cold. Dave does a good job shoveling.

Here's my family. The stick-figure version, that is.

These trees look like they're hugging.

I miss Raven...

That's all for now. Soon as I can think of something interesting to write about, I'll be back...

Urban Orphan

In southern Colorado is a county named Huerfano, a word that means "orphan" in Spanish. About sixty miles north of the New Mexico border off I-25, you can't miss the county's namesake: Huerfano Butte. This lone volcanic plug lies east of the highway among scattered sagebrush and yucca plants. It seems lonely, lost on the prairie, far removed from the lofty peaks to the west.

Another 150 miles north of Huerfano Butte, a busy, bustling street cuts through the heart of downtown Denver. Broadway is home to our finest old hotel and is one block distant from the city's tallest building. As Denver grew, a good number of its original buildings fell victim to progress, demolished to make way for skyscrapers and modern edifices. But there remain many historical places mixed in among the sterile, gleaming towers of glass.

One such place sits near the corner of 20th and Broadway--busy street in front, light rail train station at the rear, three diminutive stories dwarfed by towering luxury condominiums--an urban orphan far removed from its contemporaries.

Using a configuration common at the time, the exterior walls were designed to make best use of space on a wedge-shaped lot. Looking at the building from the rear it seems unremarkable, plain, with three square sides. But standing at the northwest corner, the triangular walls appear much like the pointed end of a large slice of architectural pie.

It may not have a fascinating background chronicled in newspaper archives. Its facade is not likely to be featured in the western history photographic collection at the Denver Public Library. Yet 1980 Broadway has a past I cannot forget.

Some time after my family moved to the Denver area, my grandfather followed to be near his youngest daughter and son. For a while in the early sixties he lived at 1980 Broadway, where we visited him from time to time. A trip to downtown Denver from our quiet suburb was always an adventure. I remember peering out the car window as we passed buildings no more than four or five stories, inconceivable heights to a little girl used to living in a small ranch-style home.

Even now I can close my eyes and be transported back in time to the boarding house where grampa lived.

Through the front door is the lobby and a dark, smoky sitting area with decrepit furniture, upright piano shoved against the staircase wall. The steep staircase heads straight up one side of the building. Grampa's apartment is at the very top of that dark, forbidding stairwell.

Such a tiny living space! The first thing you see is the sofa bed, then a small table and chair in the corner. Turn left into the tiniest kitchen you could ever imagine, and through another doorway is a bathroom with windows that open onto the most incredible part of his apartment: a fire escape!

My brother and I loved to crawl out the window to that fire escape. Mom and dad would visit with grampa while we indulged ourselves in imaginary New York City-type scenarios on the tiny metal balcony, the likes of which we had never seen before.

Grampa came to live with us before he died. Mom told me that he missed his apartment and the city, where he could walk several blocks to Civic Center Park, meet up with other elderly city dwellers, and talk about the old days while playing checkers.

I'm not sure how this particular building managed to survive Denver's march ever forward and upward. Now it hosts a Budget Rent a Car office, where this week we stopped to visit. The two young women working at the counter were friendly and interested to hear stories about a brief period in the building's history. They told us the upstairs rooms are sealed off, unused and in disrepair. We peered up the dark staircase and saw a mess of cracked, peeling plaster and rickety stairs.

Then came the best part of the day. "Did anyone ever tell you if the building is haunted?" one woman asked. She said that one day she was alone but felt a hand on her shoulder. Another time she witnessed her office chair spinning on its own. Both women have discovered cabinet doors in the back office hanging wide open not long after they were closed.

Whether or not you believe in ghosts as I do, the stories are fun to hear. So I told them my grampa's name, Evan, and said next time something happens... and on the off chance it is him... just say hello.

Now when I pass the building, it won't seem so much like an orphan.

Another New Year

We had a nice, quiet New Year's Eve. Friday was the beginning of a much-needed ten-day vacation for me. Dave has been laughing at my countdown of days until freedom. "One more day!" came the sing-song melody on Thursday morning. That night a perfect glass of wine greeted my arrival home from work.

We celebrated the New Year early Friday afternoon with a drink at our favorite local pub. While we were there, Moscow rang in the New Year so we raised a quick toast. Still many hours remained until 2011 came winging around the globe and bumped right up against Mountain Time.

For dinner I made mom's famous "Square Pizza" -- a Thompson family New Year's Eve tradition from way back when. I have modified the pizza to suit my own taste; Dave can hardly wait until the New Year rolls around again to get this special treat.

This is the before picture...

... and here is the finished product, piping hot from the oven.

Because it was cold and I was bored, I posted these pictures on Facebook. Well, I have to tell you, the pizza pictures garnered more comments than any others in my rather extensive library! I suppose all my friends were in similar situations, home and tucked in warm and snuggly for the night, celebrating in a more virtual fashion. Or maybe they just thought that pizza looked lip-smackin' good!

I lapsed into a peaceful slumber around 9 PM. Dave and Tonka were both fast asleep before me. At midnight we all woke to the sound of fireworks. Several of our neighbors just love fireworks. Really, it's almost ridiculous, you might be treated to fireworks on any random day. They are out there right now, shooting off a few extras. Still, I could not believe they were at it for nearly a half hour in that sub-zero weather!

New Year's Day is time to put away the holiday decorations and reclaim the house. Tonka has been through this Christmas decoration chaos once before. Last year he became obsessed with our two stuffed Rudolphs; he even knows the name "Rudolph." We say, "Where's Rudolph?" and Tonka snaps to attention, staring intently in that border collie way at Little Rudolph, smiling down from his lofty perch on the mantelpiece. Big Rudolph was hidden in a corner this year so he didn't get nearly as much of Tonka's attention. But today Tonka managed to get up close and personal (very personal) with Little Rudolph:

Hey! There's that terrorist reindeer!

Maybe I should just be nice. Hello, Rudolph. Hmm, no response.

Let's try a sniff and... I'm getting nothing here either. What's up with this guy?

Oh no! They've joined forces! What to do?

Note to Tonka: The reindeer are safely tucked away in the attic. You can relax now.

Welcome 2011, I'm looking forward to a bigger, better, brighter tomorrow!

In Search of Snow

We went looking for snow yesterday and found plenty in Rocky Mountain National Park. It was a free day too, with all kinds of visitors on a warm sunny Christmas Day. Snowshoers, cross country skiers, and other parched Front Range folks like us out hoping to catch a glimpse of that beautiful Colorado snow.


Storm Pass trailhead



Looking towards Bear Lake area from Storm Pass trailhead

Mountains above Bear Lake

A lovely little creek in the snow

The same creek

Whispy clouds overhead

Creek through Moraine Park

Same creek, up close

Snow dog!

Mountains above Moraine Park (big herd of elk way off in the distance--bottom left)

Looking towards Trail Ridge Road

Travelin' man

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

~ Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Dear Santa

All I want for Christmas is for someone to please throw my ball.

Thank you. Love, Tonka

Idling in Neutral

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

~ John Lennon

Today we spent some time reflecting on the past year. I asked Dave what he thought of 2010. His response: “Well, it was kind of shitty.”

Can’t argue with that.

It began with good intentions, plans and dreams galore, which kept us preoccupied for the first two months. Then came the news. Like so many others, Dave’s company was struggling and several employees would have to be let go.

Not a pleasing prospect, a still-sour economy coupled with the added hurdle of competing for limited jobs when you’re over fifty.

After we married we chose to live frugally, well below our means, so that we could maintain a debt-free lifestyle and save up for a wonderful retirement, perhaps move to our favorite little mountain town, maybe even a few years earlier than expected. We were well on our way.

But we quickly shifted gears this year, temporarily idling our Bus to the Future in neutral.

All was not lost. Our frugal lifestyle served us well. Dave was able to work part-time for a few months and supplement his unemployment income. The extra time at home allowed him to finish a multitude of projects, the kind you simply don’t have time to accomplish with only two days off each week. We even managed to squeeze in a few fun and relaxing trips around Colorado, making the very best of our new reality.

Tonka was delirious. His favorite person in the whole wide world was home nearly every single day. Together they perfected their ball throwing/catching skills.

I turned to writing, a creative outlet long enjoyed but always in private. Earlier this year I discovered a gleaming online warehouse for my journals. In this virtual space my silly little stories dwell in quiet, unassuming fashion, like so many wallflowers at a raucous digital blog party, afraid to be noticed.

I’ve also been fighting a losing battle with sciatica. Months into the war now--with acupuncture, chiropractic and physical therapy treatments under my belt, orthopedic shoes in the closet, prescription pain pills in the medicine cabinet, a nerve-stimulating machine that I use to perform electric shock therapy on my back--and I still hurt.

Yet we are so grateful for all that we have.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)

Mouse House

When I was a little girl, about age 10, my parents bought a fun Christmas present for me. The Mouse Treehouse was a two-story contraption that included an elevator, a swing, and various treehouse furnishings suitable for a vinyl mouse family.

Mr. and Mrs. Mouse had a set of twins and were dressed in their pajamas. Maybe they were perpetually exhausted after raising two wild and rambunctious babies.

Many years later, while sorting through our family's cedar chest, I discovered a box with a young girl's long-forgotten treasures stashed inside: three thumb-sized dolls with brightly colored hair (orange, purple, green), worn out copies of Black Beauty and Little Women, a plastic statue of Guiseppe Verdi given to me at my one and only piano recital, and Mrs. Mouse. Not sure what happened to Mr. Mouse, the twins, or the treehouse for that matter, but for some reason I could not part with Mrs. Mouse.

So at least I know that somewhere in my past, mice were suitable companions. Not so much any more.

This year we have been fixing up the back yard. Due to the crazy renters behind us and their vicious dogs, we decided to put in a privacy fence. To accomplish this, we had to remove a tall hedge that was overgrown and difficult to manage. We also replaced our worn redwood deck with snazzy composite decking.

Sometime in October, we purchased our usual 40-lb. bag of dog food and stored it in the back of the pantry. Soon it was time to refill the easy-access tub we use for scooping out Tonka's daily meals. When Dave pulled out the bag, little dribbles of dog food followed along behind. He said there was a hole in the bag and slapped a piece of duct tape over it (always the best solution, right?). He figured it was a flaw in the bag; I suspected mice.

A few weeks passed and it came time to fill the tub again. I looked in the pantry and there was dog food strewn all about the floor in the back corner. We pulled out the bag and noticed the duct tape had been gnawed clean through. No question this time. Mice.

Day 1: The mice have been declared enemy combatants. I purchase a set of miniature mousetraps and assign Dave the unenviable task of capturing and removing the tiny interlopers.

Mouse #1 is clever, he manages to remove the bait without setting off the trap. Dave finds the little guy rooting around in the trash can, a Starvin' Marvin looking for something, anything, to replace the missing dog food. Dave quickly snatches up the trash bag and takes off for the dumpster at a nearby school, squirming mouse still inside. Mouse #1 lucked out; that dumpster probably held a veritable feast fit for a rodent king.

Day 2: Mouse #2 and Mouse #3 are sent on a mission to discover the fate of their missing buddy and to bring back dog food. They do not fare as well. Both set off the traps and head straight to mouse heaven. Dave purchases a second set of traps. That evening we both hear unidentifiable noises, probably nothing more than routine, everyday house noises we have learned to ignore. But now it's different, we have become hyper-vigilant. I find myself asking Dave repeatedly, "Did you hear that?"

Day 3: It's early, 4:45 AM. I'm in my comfy recliner drinking coffee, checking emails and fixing to surf the internet when suddenly a movement catches Tonka's eye. He darts across the room toward the laundry area; I immediately call for backup. Dave drags himself out of bed and sets a trap alongside the dryer. Later that day, Mouse #4 suffers the same fate as his two predecessors.

Day 4: This morning I hide in the bedroom with my cup of coffee and the laptop until Dave is ready to get out of bed. The rest of the day is uneventful, quiet. Some might say eerily quiet. After work, Dave consoles me by declaring that since an entire day has passed with no activity, he believes the mice have been vanquished. Later that night, I'm up the hall in the computer room and Dave is watching a sporting event of some sort. Suddenly I hear a loud "Shit!" from the family room. Although I have a somewhat unrestrained potty mouth, Dave rarely curses. This can't be good.

Mouse #5 scoots along the baseboard right next to Dave's chair and zips around the corner into the bathroom. Dave quickly pulls the door shut then returns to leave a trap inside. We work out an alternate plan to perform a live capture with a small bedside trash can, but Mouse #5 has already taken the bait and is snagged in the trap. Unfortunately, he is still alive. Dave takes the trap outside and releases the half-dead mouse over the back fence, into the yard of the renters from hell.

By now Dave is traumatized by all the carnage; he invokes the specter of the 1971 movie Willard. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but I share his concern. Tonka, on the other hand, finds all of this quite amusing and in fact thinks we may have invented a great new sport the entire family can enjoy.

Dave resets the traps in the pantry when along comes Mouse #6. He runs out the door, into the kitchen and under the stove. But how did he get in? Surely there can't be any more mice in the house. We blocked all the holes we know of. It's a mystery.

That night I can hardly sleep. I imagine mice scurrying around the bedroom baseboards, lounging on the living room sofa, smoking cigars and playing poker. It's all gone horribly wrong.

Day 5: Thanksgiving. We will be gone most of the day. Dave checks all the traps; the bait is still intact. Still no sign of Mouse #6.

Day 6: Time to take serious action. Dave contacts a professional pest control service. They perform an inspection, discover the nest, and set additional traps and bait. Apparently one bait includes a form of mouse birth control, to keep them from reproducing excessively. Word on the street is that a breeding pair can produce up to 200 offspring in a few short months. I can assure you, none of that hanky-panky ever occurred in my Mouse Treehouse!

We all agree that removing the back yard hedge disrupted a major mouse habitat. Also, it turns out the new deck was built in a way that allows for easy rodent access through the outside crawlspace door. We will work on securing the perimeter.

In the meantime, we wait. I feel sort of bad for the mice. Well, not really. They are not at all like my special friends from the Mouse Treehouse. Mr. and Mrs. Mouse were so benign, so friendly, smiling faces, cute little pajamas. These fellows are much more sinister.

And they will never end up among my keepsakes.

Oh, and Mouse #6? He's still on the lam...