A Better Place

The movers will be here in a few hours and I will say goodbye to my home of nearly 18 years. Back then it was a sad, gloomy, neglected little old house with potential that no one but me could see. I'm so proud that we are leaving it in a far better state, a home now so shiny and proud that someone fell in love the minute they walked inside.

So long, dear old friend...

Reflections

Turkey Patrol

A Rose by Any Other Name

Bloom from the rosebush planted in my mother's memory, called Purple Tiger.

Sometimes you just aren't quite sure if you remember a person's name. I am terrible at this. People introduce me to friends and co-workers but I promptly forget their names. It happens all the time and no, I can't really blame it on my advanced years. This has been a problem since the early days. Take work, for instance. I see people in the halls I've met at one time or another. I smile, say hello, how are you, then pass by with a puzzled look on my face. Now, what was her name again?

Speaking of work, recently we switched our email servers. As part of this modernization, all state employees were thrown into a common algorithmic pool. Where previously we had been separated in such a way that kept us sorted neatly along agency lines, we suddenly were thrust upon one another and quickly discovered how many of us shared similar or identical names. This proved enough of a disruption that I was forced to notify co-workers about the discrepancy, asking them to check closely before writing to "Debra" (the wrong person) instead of "Deborah" (the right person... or rather, me).

All this got me thinking, what's in a name?

Mom named me after Debbie Reynolds, whose wistful rendition of the song "Tammy" from the movie "Tammy and the Bachelor" left my mother yearning for a daughter who would embody the purity and goodness of that lovely young Hollywood icon (at least as she was portrayed in this particular film).



Years later, I discovered that Miss Reynolds' name wasn't even Debbie; it was only a stage name. No matter, the damage was done. By this time thousands upon thousands of little girls shared the same name. Between Deborah Kerr and Debbie Reynolds, suddenly there were little Debbies everywhere you turned.

Mom chose to spell my full name with the traditional, biblical version of "Deborah" rather than the modern, trendy "Debra." My middle name is Ann. Most everyone called me Debbie, but heaven help me if I ever heard one of my parents belt out "Deborah Ann!" It was never good news.

As an adult entering the world of work, I chose to use the shortened nickname "Deb" but will answer to anything. Quite often people call me "Bev" seemingly choosing a hooked-on-phonics version of my nickname.

How envious I have been of those whose names are uncomplicated, without nicknames or multiple variations of what someone might call you... like a "Linda" or a "Karen" or a "Joyce."

Of course, none of this can compare to mom's struggles with her own name.

Written on the back of this photo:
"Babe on Painted Lady, 1944"

Her given name was Florence Loretta, yet everyone called her "Floretta." It wasn't until she was much older, upon seeing her birth certificate for the first time, that she realized "Floretta" was only a nickname.

And it wasn't her only nickname, either.

Being the youngest child for a few years earned her the nickname "Babe" and this one stayed put, long after a younger brother was born. She told me that sometimes as a young woman, she was embarrassed by that nickname. Brothers and other relatives might pass her on the street and call out "Hey Babe!" She always worried that passers-by might assume there was a whole lot of flirting going on. But that nickname stuck, and until her dying day nieces, nephews and grand nieces on her side of the family all called her "Auntie Babe." Some of them never even knew her real name.

By the time mom and dad were introduced, she was calling herself "Loretta." Dad chose a shorter version--"Rett"--as his personal nickname for her. Eventually that became the name adopted by dad's side of the family.

Most of our Colorado neighbors also knew her as Loretta. Mom was a seamstress and made draperies in our basement on a contract basis for a company called Empire Fabrics. They called her "Flo" (don't ask me why). Sometimes I'd accompany her to deliver the completed orders. We'd trek all the way down to southeast Denver, then head inside to pick up new orders, searching the warehouse for rolls of fabric marked with big black letters: FLO.

The only time she was ever called "Florence" was at the end. The nursing home where mom spent the last few months of her life insisted on using the name on her birth certificate. Even though I asked them to change her nameplate, they never did.

Mom always favored the first name she knew as hers: Floretta. Someone once told her it meant "little flower" and she loved that idea.

So to honor her preference, and to give her one final name to call her very own, we inscribed her headstone with the one she secretly loved best.

All the while knowing that each of her names smelled every bit as sweet.

Golden Slumber

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
~ Albert Camus

What a glorious autumn we have had this year. Dave remarked this morning how beautiful and colorful the trees have been and I had to agree.

So often our Indian summers are short lived. The weather will remain hot and dry long past Labor Day, then suddenly it will snow. Other times the leaves are completely stripped by excessive windy weather and the dark, cold winter moves in much too quickly for everyone's taste.

Just ask a random sampling of people, "What is your favorite season?" and you'll discover the answer most give is "autumn." No surprise. The combination of warm, sunny days and cool crisp evenings provides an allure most people cannot resist.

Myself included.

Here's a young honey locust tree I noticed at the dog park last week. Newly planted, someday it will become a tall beauty, and each autumn it will turn glorious shades of gold, then orange. Dogs who come here to play and catch balls and zigzag around one another will be grateful for the shade and shelter its tiny leaves--clustered tightly together--will provide from a sun that burns extra hot at altitude.

You probably wouldn't suspect it, but this beautiful tree is one of many surrounding a miniature natural area in the back of our property at work. A quarter-mile gravel walking track circles two tiny ponds, next to a loud interstate and the Wonder bread factory, which spews a nearly constant sweet scent of baking bread.

On this day the wind was blowing, creating lovely ripples in the water. Rotting leaves at shoreline allowed me to whiff the scent of autumn instead of hot, sugary bread.

If I'm careful with my music selection, wisely choosing soothing New Age environmental background music, I can nearly drown out the highway noise. Soon I imagine myself gazing upwards into a deep forest canopy of gold, shimmering leaves drifting silently down to land in front of me on the soft dirt path. That is, until an eighteen-wheeler breaks my concentration...

Our maple tree struggled this summer, with the drought and extreme heat taking a severe toll on this backyard beauty. It suffered through most of July and August with a serious case of leaf scorch, but Dave treated the roots in late summer and we're hopeful it will survive the winter.

To look at its leaves right now, bright yellow tinged with green on the tips, it seems healthy as ever.

And despite the drought stress, that showy young tree felt strong enough for one last display of beauty as it prepares for winter's golden slumber, a well-deserved rest from the searing heat of summer.

Frostbitten and summer weary, the yellow roses are also ready for a nice long beauty nap.

I love how fallen leaves scurry off together and find quiet corner hiding places, where they can decompose and rest in peace.

(gratuitous dog picture)

Even Tonka and Daisy are tired.

Where the Buffalo Roam

Click on the pictures for a better view

Last month we headed out on the Labor Day holiday for a road trip. Not counting long weekends here and there, it was the first real vacation we have enjoyed for nearly three years. Even though South Dakota is relatively close to Colorado, at least by western traveling standards, neither of us had visited the state and its many attractions.

Monday: We reached the town of Torrington, Wyoming in time for lunch and found a small park with picnic tables. No sooner had we started to eat when an old gentleman shuffled over to join us. He asked us a few polite questions, then launched into a rather detailed, lengthy recap of his life as a young boy during the Dust Bowl in Abilene, Kansas. What a character.

Much of eastern Wyoming is remote, desolate. We filled the time by counting state troopers and out-of-state license plates, and speculated whether this part of Wyoming may have even had water during a previous epoch (say, the 1950s). We did pass an area with unusual rock formations, including one I dubbed "penis rock" (which is probably not its proper name).

I enjoy taking photos of state welcome signs, but this one provided by South Dakota on Highway 16 was so tiny we nearly missed it. Dave made a U-turn so that I could capture this image, if for nothing else than to prove we were indeed making progress on what was beginning to feel like an endless journey through space and time.

The day ended at our hotel, the Alex Johnson, by celebrating happy hour at the Vertex Skybar... where the Mojito was delicious, the Devil's Tower lager was chilled just right, the service was spotty, and apparently it takes two hours to prepare bruschetta.

Our room in this historic hotel had a lovely view of the HVAC units in the rear of the building, a favorite roost of the resident pigeon loft. Our bed was ever-so-comfy, and the shower came complete with a helpful warning sign: "Note: It can take several minutes for hot water." They were not kidding.

Tuesday: Our first glimpse of Mount Rushmore brought the same response from both of us: That's it? Kind of dinky, don't you think? Well, actually it's not, as we soon discovered when we found ourselves peering straight up George Washington's granite schnozzola.

We hiked all around the site and shot a dizzying array of monument pictures from every conceivable angle (including a reflection in the cafeteria windows), then spent some time comparing the fifty state flags to each other. Our determination? Colorado's flag is the finest. Naturally.

When we arrived at the Crazy Horse Memorial, we turned to each other and muttered a quiet, collective, "How much?!?" but dutifully paid the entrance fee and drove in. Compared to Mount Rushmore, the mountain looks so incomplete, almost unimpressive. That is until you are herded into the theater to watch a documentary and begin to understand the magnitude and meaning behind the project.

I loved the Native American museum and wandered from one display to another, snapping photos of inspirational sayings and paintings of handsome warriors. I even discovered a potential new best friend: The Spirit Helper.

Being a bit of an oddball, I also find myself drawn to the unusual, such as this sign proclaiming, "I am a Door, and I may Open when you least expect it!!"

Good to know.

Next we headed for Custer State Park, where we stopped at Sylvan Lake and decided to hike the easy shore path around the lake. About halfway into our hike, the path disappeared and we found ourselves scrambling over boulders, clinging to pine trees, and sliding down a steep slope before reconnecting with the "easy" shore path on the other side of the lake.

The park was crowded at the Needles area, and the day had grown hazy from the ever-present western wildfires. We drove, and talked, and listened to music, and drove some more. Then poof! we emerged from the winding mountain road and found ourselves in the midst of a lumbering bison herd. Such wondrous creatures! I snapped a mess of photos before Dave suggested a video:

Wednesday: We hit the road again, eager to experience Close Encounters of the American-Tourist Kind. Both of us expected to find Devil's Tower standing as a lone sentinel on the windy prairie. We were pleasantly surprised to discover the area consisted of rolling hills, sprinkled with picturesque farms and ranches tucked into pretty meadows.


Devil's Tower was crawling with people. Not just your everyday tourists wandering in and out of the visitor center in search of restrooms. No. The tower itself was crawling with people... more specifically, rock climbers. Since I suffer from acrophobia, I cannot understand what draws people to such folly, an activity in which a successful day would be one where you do not plummet to your death. As we watched the climbers from the safety of the walking trail, I noticed turkey buzzards, gliding and swirling around the summit of the tower, quite possibly waiting for lunch.

Further along the trail we stopped at a serene valley overlook. I pointed out a prayer cloth hanging on a tree, remembering the sign telling us not to disturb any Native American prayer cloths and bundles. Right then a pair of visitors wandered up behind us, one of them wondering aloud why some of these trees were marked with red flags. Was it to remember which trees need to be cut down? Or maybe the park service planned to use them for Christmas trees? Yes, that's it. Red flags = Christmas trees. Good grief.



Next we encountered an interpretive sign and a narrow makeshift telescope, aimed at an extreme angle toward a spot on the sunny side of the monument. The sign instructed us to look through the telescope to view the remnants of a wooden ladder constructed by the first crazy people explorers to climb the monument.

Unless you are very short, to look up through this telescope you must assume a pseudo-yoga position, bent at the waist with blood rushing to your head. Perhaps this was the reason neither Dave nor I could see the wooden ladder.

A group of four younger visitors came along; we waited to see if they could find the ladder. Nope. At this point I suggested that maybe the park service had a hidden webcam so they could laugh at everyone contorting themselves in hopes of spying an imaginary wooden ladder. One young woman teased her friend, the last to peer through the brass tube, that he now had a black circle around his eye.

Eventually that young woman found the ladder, with the naked eye, and directed the rest of us to its presence. One by one, the ladder came into focus for each of us. Afterwards we all remarked that once you had found it, that teeny-tiny object became the only thing you could see on the monument.

Thursday: If you find yourself yearning for a slice of cheesy Americana, Wall Drug is the place for you. There you will find an entire town designed to draw in unsuspecting highway travelers. On our way to the Badlands, eastward on I-90, every 100 yards or so we passed yet another roadside advertisement for this fine establishment. A sampling of signs included "Chuck wagon quartet," "Five cent hot coffee," "Shootin' gallery," "Something to crOw about," and my personal favorite, "Free coffee and donut for honeymooners." Who travels to Wall Drug for their honeymoon?

So of course with all this enticement, we had to stop. After indulging in what can only be described as complete sensory overload indoors, we strolled into the Wall Drug "backyard" where I coerced Dave into posing astride a huge jackalope. Yeah, it's silly. But it had to be done.

What can I say about the Badlands, except to assure you that the place comes by its name honestly. It's hot and dry--approaching zero humidity--desolate, eerie, and strikingly beautiful in a not-from-this-planet kind of way. There were signs along the pullouts warning of rattlesnakes. Somehow I found it difficult to believe there were living creatures of any sort in such a hostile environment.

Throughout the trip, one goal was to take a photo of ourselves in every location that we could entitle, "Self Portrait with iPhone at _____." Most smart phone users seem to come by this skill naturally. Not us. Dave claims my arms are too short. I blame his inability to do anything but grimace as soon as the button is pushed.

After watching us create multiple versions of the same sorry-looking photo, a helpful lady at the Badlands offered to take our picture. I told her thanks, but no thanks. We were determined to capture the essence of our journey, all by ourselves.

So, what do you think?

See the (serious) pictures here

Dueling Nylabones

Bumpy Roads and Happy Endings

East Pawnee Butte

"The bumps in the road just make the ride more fun."

Dave and I were late bloomers, each married for the first time in our mid-forties. We met via the Internet, went out on a blind date, and became inseparable from that point forward. Two years later on Valentine's Day, we decided to give it a whirl. We married on September 2--Labor Day--that same year.

2002: The first half-year was completely worry-free, wedded bliss. First Christmas ornaments, first this, first that, loads of fun all around. Then the roller coaster ride began and our lives have been pretty hectic ever since.

2003: We decided to remodel this old house. At the same time, I learned my job would be eliminated so I scrambled to find another and oh my, was it ever a horrible job. Construction was completed by our first anniversary; two weeks later, Dave was laid off from his job. He quickly found another, which he hated nearly as much as I hated mine. Then just after Christmas, Dave’s older brother became ill and died very unexpectedly. It was a devastating time for his family.

2004: I landed a good job working for the state. About that same time, dad was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and struggled with his health all year. My brother Ted and I spent a great deal of time helping dad meet all his needs, determined to fulfill his wish to stay at home as long as possible. And he did, right to the end.

2005: Dad and Ted were at a memorial service for one of our neighbors when, after the service, dad collapsed with a heart attack and died outside the chapel. Somehow we always knew that's the way he would leave this world: poof, gone in the blink of an eye. Ted and I cleaned out and sold our childhood home. Dave was laid off again but soon found another job.

2006: Our old dog Raven destroyed the ligament in one of her back legs while chasing a kitty down the street, which necessitated a form of doggy "knee" surgery. We finally had a chance to indulge in one of our dream vacations: Autumn in New England, visiting Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. Dave's father was diagnosed with congestive heart failure shortly after we returned. A week before Christmas, his mother suffered a stroke.

Cottonwood Pass, west side of the Continental Divide

2007: We both turned fifty, and spent most of the year selling Dave's family home, settling his parents in a nursing home, and managing their finances. After a long and difficult summer, as his illness grew worse and more unforgiving, Dave's father mercifully passed away in September.

2008: My mother-in-law's health stabilized and she seemed comfortable in her new surroundings, so we took a road trip to the Meteor Crater, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, and the Four Corners. We had a wonderful time. Later that year, after a Broncos game, my gall bladder exploded. A quick surgery fixed it right up.

2009: Raven was diagnosed with canine lymphoma; we kept her comfortable and happy the final few months of her life. We also added a new dog to our family, Tonka, then took a long-overdue vacation to Washington DC, Virginia and West Virginia. At the end of the year, we lost Dave's beloved mother Marge. She was buried on a brutally cold December day.

2010: Dave was laid off once again but worked part-time for most of the year. We took several weekend trips around the state. I returned to my own form of therapy: writing, and discovered this wonderful online home for my journals. After suffering through years of back problems I turned to holistic treatments, without success.

2011: Dave spent the year honing his househusband skills (he's really quite good at it). We decided to add a second dog to our family and after much searching found our little Crazy Daisy. The doctors finally diagnosed the source of my back problem, and I chose corrective surgery. Recovery was slow but went well. Plus, I had the best home health care aide you could imagine.

2012: This year has been good. I feel stronger than I have in a long time. Tonka finally admitted that he does, in fact, kind of like his little sister Daisy (shhh, don't tell her). Dave held a difficult but good-paying temporary job for several months; he is now focused on relearning his househusband skills. And for the first time in years, we are taking a vacation!

Originally the plan was to visit Hawaii for our tenth anniversary, but we scaled it back to suit our circumstances. South Dakota, here we come!

Owl Creek Pass, southwestern Colorado

"Somewhere along the way in this hard and bumpy road called life is someone who will fix your broken-down car and drive you to your happy ending."


::: handing Dave the keys :::

A Reunion

The essence of nostalgia is an awareness

that what has been will never be again.

~ Milton S. Eisenhower

Early yesterday morning I caught a glimpse of my left hand. At first it was the wedding ring that caught my eye, but soon I found myself studying the back of my hand. Spreading my fingers outward, each digit seemed cleft in two by what looked like a deflated beige football. The joints were wrinkly, the skin no longer taut, as though the outer shell had been worn far too long and was now stretched to the point that it no longer fit its frame.

Something about the hand seemed familiar, oddly comforting. What was it? Then I realized, it was my mother's hand resting on the sofa's arm. Creased, wrinkled, filled with folds of skin and faded scars from a lifetime of work, adventures, stress, these hands appear much like the soft, plump hands that reached out to me as a young girl. Back then, their look seemed foreign, strange, so unlike my own. Now I sport a pair of appendages with those same foreign markings and feel a sense of connection to another person's middle-aged world.

A few weeks ago I hosted a party for some high school classmates. With the exception of my dear friend Peggy, I had not been in touch with these people for many years. We all graduated together thirty-seven years ago, and the last class reunion I attended was ten years later. In all that time, I have had little contact with or knowledge of the lives of these people.

Easy interactions were the order of the day. Rather than halting conversations that sometimes mark the discomfort of people unfamiliar with one another, what we experienced was a common level of familiarity. Much water had surely rushed under each of our bridges in the time between then and now. Some of us may have missed out on one another’s lives for decades but we seemed to pick up where we left off, as if high school was in the not-too-distant past.

In studying each other's faces that day, I'm sure most of us could see the shadows of our high school selves in the wizened smiles and different proportions that now define us in our middle years.

Now that we have arrived smack dab in the middle of middle-age, the life changes each of us have been through certainly color our perceptions. But as we listen to old friends speak--and search for meaning in the words left unsaid--we may sometimes neglect to see the parallels in our lives. Have we really changed so drastically that the essence of who we once were no longer resides within us? Perhaps that younger self lurks just beneath the surface: idealistic, hopeful, unblemished and filled with promise.

Like the wrinkled hand that was so vexing to me, there was an unfamiliar familiarity to all of these people. Our hands may be worn with age, our faces may be seasoned, our eyes may have witnessed countless images of beauty and sorrow, and our individual realities may have driven us headlong down the path to where we now find ourselves. Yet it all makes sense.

Left to right: Stewart, Mark, Peggy, me, Vicky, Karen, Kathy, Kim, and John.

An Uphill Climb

Pictured above is Mount Princeton, taken from the Collegiate Peaks Overlook state park on our recent trip to Salida, Colorado. It was an incredibly beautiful day as we enjoyed our picnic lunch, looking down over Buena Vista and the Arkansas River valley.

Soon the second table under our shade shelter was snatched up by fellow travelers. The two couples spent much time discussing the surroundings. What was that town in the valley below? One woman insisted it couldn't possibly be Buena Vista. "That's nowhere near here," she said. I smiled to myself, hoping for their sake she was not the group navigator. Then one fellow asked another, "Is that a ski area?" Eventually--after a lively debate--they came to the conclusion that the slivered mountain trails were not ski slopes, but avalanche chutes.

After checking in to our motel, we took the dogs downtown to Salida's Arkansas River water park. Isn't this horse trough flower planter lovely?



Normally Tonka is afraid of the river's current but on this trip he tapped into his latent courage, grew some doggy water wings and swam like crazy.

We drove around the neighborhoods in search of homes for sale. It was a sizzling hot afternoon and this deer had the right idea.

Then we headed back to the motel for an impromptu happy hour.

On day two, we zoomed up the highway to Nathrop to check on a friend's trailer. He had asked for a photo looking down on the river from the Mini-Gorge Bridge to assess the river's depth. We all agreed the Arkansas was running pretty low.



Both dogs had a blast swimming and playing in the river here, too.

Our planned activity for the day was a short hike. We asked some neighbors near the Mini-Gorge Bridge about the half-mile trail to Agnes Vaille Falls. Super easy, they said. Very pretty, they said. Oh, it was pretty alright. Easy? I suppose that depends on your perspective. (By the way, Agnes Vaille was an interesting woman. You can read a little bit about her life on the sign.)

Okay, one-half mile, shouldn't take long. Clouds were gathering but we figured there was still plenty of time. A group of hikers arrived at the same time, so we held back. Notice the pointed peak above?

Several minutes later and there's the peak again, with some ski slopes avalanche chutes below. We've gained quite a bit of elevation already.

I stopped along the trail to photograph this dead tree, ostensibly for its stark beauty. In fact, what I really wanted to do was catch my breath and consider how much I was beginning to feel like this dead tree.

People were now leaving the area in droves. On the way downhill, one woman remarked about how we weren't even close yet. Seriously? The nicely groomed path soon disappeared; the trail grew narrow and less discernable. At this point we let go of the leashes and left the dogs to fend for themselves. Now we're scrambling over rocks, moving slowly through the slippery, less forgiving area of the trail. At least, we think it's still the trail. At the end it became quite steep, then just as I'm crawling up the side of a huge boulder, I hear a loud thunder clap in the distance.

Finally we made it to the falls only to discover that because it has been so dry this year, there is barely any water pouring over the edge of the mountain.

We plopped down on a nice, flat rock to rest and admire the scenery, which consisted mostly of rocks. Lots and lots of rocks, with an occasional tuft of pretty little wildflowers peeking out. And I'm thinking, well great. Here we are, sitting right in the middle of a rock fall area as a high altitude summer thunderstorm bears down on us. Perfect.

The other group of hikers was cavorting near the falls and Dave said he wanted to wait for them to leave first. No way, I said, hearing another crash of thunder as the storm drew closer. So down we went, gravity aiding us in our race back to the starting line. No time to finish reading the interpretive signs, there's lightning right over there! We made it to the car just as the skies unleashed a torrent of rain.

FYI: Dip Danger. Always a problem in the Colorado Rockies. Beware.

And yes, a good time was had by all...