Eclipsin'

From a letter sent to a friend who grew up in Wyoming and now lives overseas.

So very Wyoming

We drove up through central Colorado, passing through Walden and North Park then onto Wyoming highway 230. We both laughed at how the speed-limit sign was the first thing you saw after crossing the border. 70! Go really really fast! No one cares! At least, that was our interpretation. Other than an occasional vehicle and a fire off in the distance somewhere near Riverside, we didn’t see a thing. We made it to Saratoga around 2:30 in the afternoon.

We set up our camp chairs in the motel courtyard, which faced the North Platte. It was so peaceful and serene. I do believe the North Platte is much prettier than the South Platte. It was the first time I’d seen that river. We drove around town (which didn’t take long), filled up on gas, and stopped at a place called Duke’s Bar & Grill for an early dinner. It was Sunday afternoon, and it looked like they roll up the sidewalks fairly early.

Well, after spending the night on what must be the most uncomfortable motel bed in all of Wyoming, we decided to get up stupid early and drive to Casper. Dave and I were tossing and turning quite a bit and around 3 am, Dave said he was thinking of taking a shower and hitting the road. We packed up, silently, and were off by 4 am to start the 2.5 hour drive to Casper. We wanted to make sure we made it all the way and were hoping to land a spot at the fairgrounds in Casper.

Venus and the red lights

North on highway 130, we veered east on highway 30 in the pitch dark of night. Venus shone above the horizon right ahead of us (Venus is my favorite planet, right after Earth, of course). Somewhere in the dark we began to see weird red lights everywhere. At first I thought it was an airport but we were nowhere near a town. Dave suggested power lines. Maybe an extraterrestrial landing strip, in place just for that day? A lack of coffee clouding our judgment? Turns out it was lights on top the rotors at a huge wind farm west of Medicine Bow.

Next we went north on 487, where at last we ran into the traffic we expected, although not much. A light but steady stream of cars apparently coming from Laramie met us and we all zoomed merrily up the highway as the sky began to lighten a smidge, here and there. We made it to the fairgrounds early. As soon as the gates opened, we picked a parking spot and set up our temporary encampment, then wandered around to check out the facilities and enjoy our fellow eclipse chasers.

Our peeps for the day

I loved being in a crowd of people. My ideal at first was to be alone somewhere on the prairie, but the shared experience with so many people, all excited for the same thing, was a key part of what I took from the eclipse.

One thing that surprised me was how the colors changed all around us. The shadows were stronger, the grass seemed a deeper green, but the rest of the environment was muted and diffused, sort of an eerie silvery-gray color. We both wore black t-shirts and they weren’t even hot to the touch. The temperature dropped and the ever-present birds, hopping around looking for morsels of food dropped on the ground, all disappeared to their lofts in the trees. The crowd of people, which had previously been playing guitars, singing songs, telling stories and laughing, all grew silent. Just then, a hot air balloon, flying low, began to float over the fairgrounds. So perfect.

See the lens flare?

Someone in our row of cars had a phone app with a timer and she was counting down the time out loud for the rest of us. I heard someone else scream, “It’s happening!” The sky grew darker, like dusk, and then poof, it was as if someone turned out a light. The street lights came on, and the otherwise silent crowd began to clap and cheer and holler out a collective, “Oh my God!” (including me).

Much like the first time I saw the Grand Canyon in person, I cried when it happened. I was awestruck, tears streaming down my face, and I experienced the sensation of being insignificant and interconnected, all at once. I kept saying to myself, it’s so beautiful, I can’t believe it, oh my God it’s wonderful. It really was stunning, like nothing I’ve ever seen before, almost otherworldly.

It was over much too quickly, everyone agreed. Some people left right away, ready to the hit the road. We stayed for a while longer but not until the end. One more trip to the restrooms for good measure and we headed out, hoping not too many people would be on the same road home, which I learned is called “the back way” to/from Casper. No such luck!

Hundreds of cars ahead of us
as we passed a wind farm

Dave said he never imagined the worst traffic jam he would ever experience would be in Wyoming, of all places. We chugged along at speeds from 15 to 50, but I would say we averaged around 20 mph most of the time. It was a long slog but I enjoyed having a daylight view of the same area we drove through in the dark that morning. Stark. Empty. So very Wyoming.

It took us nine hours from the time we left Casper until we made it home. Apparently we fared better than others, as I heard stories of people taking upwards of 12-14 hours to get home, presumably on I-25. And here’s a fun footnote about the folks who watched at Glendo: apparently it took 3-4 hours to get from the Glendo State Park campgrounds along the frontage road and onto I-25. Yes. Just to get from the reservoir to the highway. And you can see the reservoir from the highway. Holy cow.

I hope you can see this video by NPR:

One Nation Under The Sun

It’s a collection of experiences across the country. I watched it this morning and cried, again, remembering an experience I will never forget.

Keep Calm and Stare at the Sun

What A Hoot

For at least the past week, I have heard one or more Great Horned Owls calling in the early morning hours. The sounds wake me up around 2:30 or 3:00 AM. Last night, there was a new sound, one which was more than a little creepy. Listen to the sound on the third button at this link:

Great Horned Owl Sounds

That shrieking sound was disturbing. I opened the window to listen but could not be sure. It did sound like a bird. Naturally I thought it might be an injured animal or some prey they had not yet killed. Perhaps an owl fledgling, calling to its parents. There were are least three separate calls, all very close. I've stepped outside in the past in hopes of seeing the shadow of an owl in one of the trees. Unfortunately, they are masters of disguise and good at hiding in the dark shadows.

The owls always make me think of this song, a personal favorite:

There's been a hoot owl howling by my window now, for six nights in a row.

Thank you, owls.

The Sister

Me, Ted, Dave (March 15, 2013)

Brother Ted is two years older than me. Except for the occasional teasing and his insistence that I was adopted after they found me on the doorstep, he's been a great brother.

And boy is he ever smart.

Ted was every parent's dream. Thoughtful, persistent, talented, artistic, studious. He received nothing but straight A's throughout school, with maybe a hard-to-believe A- or B+ to mess with his perfect record.

We never had classes together. Because of the way our school system was set up, after a certain set of grades were completed, you advanced to another school in a separate building. We were at the same school while I was in 1st and 2nd grade, but rarely saw each other. When I advanced to 3rd grade, he moved to 5th grade in a separate school. When I advanced to 5th grade, he moved to 7th grade in yet another school. And on it went.

Ted was famous, though. Oh yes. All the teachers loved him. I was painfully shy and terrified of tests, especially timed tests. Although I was a fairly good student, I never seemed to pass muster when it came to being Ted Thompson's Sister.

Yes. That was my name throughout the years. Every class I was in, the teacher would ask, are you related to Ted Thompson? I would nod my head, yes, thinking... here we go again. As Ted Thompson's Sister, I was expected to be good at science and math and homework and studying and speaking up in class and even to excel at enthusiastically erasing the chalkboards. But, I was not.

By the time I got to 7th grade, junior high (middle school as it's called now), I had grown weary of the comparisons. It was the late sixties and I wanted to be a flower child. I deliberately screwed up in math class. I ditched choir (yes, choir). I began to get into trouble regularly and mom was having none of it.

Then, something miraculous happened. As a high school freshman, back in the same school with brother Ted for the first time since 2nd grade, I signed up for beginning typing. We had to learn on manual typewriters, you know the kind: with a platen you had to slam vigorously from left to right using a handle poised on the left. Only in subsequent classes were you allowed to use an electric typewriter.

Ted was a junior now, well established in high school and famous in his own right as an artist and athletic trainer and overall smart-guy extraordinaire. The miraculous circumstance was that Ted also signed up for beginning typing that year. There we were. Side by side. In the same class. Learning the same thing. And let me tell you what, I kicked his ass up one side and down the other at typing. While Ted fumble-fingered his way through one semester of typing, I was a natural. Finally, finally (thank you, God) I found something I could do that Ted could not. I was on my way!

A career choice had been selected. By this time, I knew I'd never be a veterinarian, what with my sketchy grasp on science and our family's complete lack of funding for any type of higher education. But business classes, oh yes! I excelled at everything in this arena, and threw in some Spanish and literature and writing and social studies for good measure. I finally realized I didn't have to be as good as Ted. I only had to be as good as me...

And it worked!

Years later, a reunion was scheduled for all students attending our high school in the seventies. There I was, milling about the crowd, with a nametag proclaiming "Debbie Thompson, Class of 1975." Still, some people looked from my face to the nametag with a puzzled look, until I would announce, "I'm Ted Thompson's Sister." Oh, oh, yes! Now I know who you are.

It's become a badge of honor.

Polite Conversations

Today I walked the dogs at the open space near our house. It has been so dry and windy; wildfires have been springing up here and there across the state. The wind calmed down a bit and we strolled down winding paths here and there. Much sniffing was accomplished.

Back at the main trail, an older fellow on a bicycle pedaled slowly towards me. He wanted to know about the dogs: whether they were male or female, their ages, breeds. Tonka pushed forward to get a scratch; Daisy held back.

He said he had just returned from a trip to the grocery store on his bike. Up the big hill. He was tired. It's been cold. He needs to do this more often. He's 72, going on 73. His birthday is in May. Told me that, twice. I said I just turned sixty. He said sixty is pretty good; seventy is a lot harder. I told him sixty was good, so far.

Then..........

Him: Are you a Christian?

Me: [silence...thinking, where did this come from?] Not really.

Him: You must have been a Christian at some point. [why, because I'm a blonde?]

Me: When I was a kid, yes.

Him: What kind?

Me: [what kind? really?] Episcopal

Him: Well, Jesus loves you [there seemed to be an implied, "anyway" here].

Me: I'm sure he does.

Him: You should read his word.

Me: [silence]

Him: I pray every day and you should too.

Me: [silence]

Him: We need to pray for our country. Things are so bad. The world is dangerous. Our leaders don't even try to work together for our country.

Me: No, they don't. And it's going to get worse with that new guy in charge.

Our polite conversation ended abruptly at this point.

Him: [takes to the pedals] Goodbye.

Me: You have a good day.

Him: [silence]

Our lovely walk resumed. I did not look back.

Here We Go

Good morning. Today is my 60th birthday, which I've been anticipating for a while. Since a number of family members died in their fifties, I figured if I could make it to sixty, I'd be set for a while. Fingers crossed.

So here's a question: Is sixty still considered middle-aged, or am I now a senior? Not quite ready for the senior title just yet.

Brother Ted tells me that I'm now "advanced" middle-aged. He is 62 and considers himself a senior.

Oh, and March came in like a lamb, as it usually does. Here's a post I wrote in 2011:

In Like A Lion

Year of the Rooster

Right now I'm staring at the screen, as I have for the past four years or so, with nothing to say. Nothing to tell the world, nothing to tell myself, even. My head is a jumble of thoughts careening wildly from my current state of health to the state of affairs in our country and indeed in our world. I feel lost and confused and lonely.

My birth year, 1957, was the Year of the Rooster, and again this year, 2017, is the Year of the Rooster. In one more month, I will turn sixty years old. From what I've heard, this is an auspicious time in Asian custom; age sixty marks the completion of five life cycles, twelve years each. So this year, I will attempt to add notes to this new and private journal in hopes that some of the words swimming around in my head can be released to "paper" as it were.

For today, I have no definite plans other than the usual: laundry, shower, run errands, walk the dogs, attempt to stay away from the internet which is a cause of much stress in my life, and to eat better. I may or may not be successful at any of these tasks.

We shall see.

Morning Hearse

Every weekday morning as I'm sitting in the "office" enjoying my morning computer time, I see a black hearse drive down the street (there is a mortuary about four blocks away). I don't know where it's going every morning, maybe just for coffee? In any case, I'm always pleased that it passes my house and keeps moving right along.

From the Kitchen to the Ocean

Reflections on a rewarding and enjoyable year, for which we are grateful.

In the spring, we decided to vanquish the last remaining traces of the color blue from our home. The kitchen had blue walls, a dark blue/gray vinyl floor, and baby blue countertops covering pale yellow cabinets. Behind the sink was a backsplash featuring lemons and other assorted fruits. Although not a color we would have chosen, we decided to keep the cabinets and replace the countertops and flooring with earth tones, while adding a snazzy backsplash made up of hand painted Mexican tiles. The best part was creating a new pass-through from the kitchen to the dining area. It opened up the room and added a nice touch.

This year we chose to go on our annual trip to Salida in late July, and boy was it hot! After checking into our favorite cabin at the bottom of Monarch Pass, we took the dogs downtown for a swim in the Arkansas River. Tonka loves the water, although he is timid in strong currents. Daisy stays by the shore but loves to splash and chase Tonka. Dave and I brought water shoes and joined the dogs in the river for a chance to cool down. Later we stopped for a beer and takeout at Moonlight Pizza then returned to the cabin to laze about.

On day two, after brunch at the Salida Café, with yummy food, sketchy service, and a pet friendly patio, we took a bumpy ride over rugged, rocky Marshall Pass, located south of Mount Ouray (elevation 13,961). The pass is named for Lt. William Marshall, who in the fall of 1873 mapped the route while making a journey from Silverton to Denver to visit a dentist, rather than have a blacksmith pull his tooth in Silverton. Here’s hoping Lt. Marshall had lots of whiskey on hand, because that’s a long trek on horseback. The summit of Marshall Pass is near the Colorado Trail, which on this day was filled with happy wildflowers, free range cattle, backpackers, and mountain bikers zooming along at breakneck speed downhill. The west side of the pass spills out onto Highway 50 near Sargents, Colorado, a non-descript town featuring a post office, a trading post, and no noticeable inhabitants.

After we finished our glorious trip overseas in 2014, Dave and I decided our next visit would be a little closer to home: the Oregon Coast. We didn’t have much of a plan until we met an Oregon native at our favorite local hangout. He directed us to the town of Seaside, on the northern coast. Dave’s sister, Barb, was interested in our trip plans and agreed to join us. We booked a fifth floor beachfront condo for late September and spent relaxing evenings on the balcony drinking local wine, watching beautiful sunsets, and listening to the surf. The weather was windy but otherwise nearly perfect.

Dave served as chauffeur for our day trips up and down the coast. Our first trek was to head north across the mouth of the Columbia River to western Washington, where we visited Cape Disappointment State Park. We hiked out onto the north jetty, which helps create a protected channel for ships into and out of the river. After being blown by wind back from the jetty to shoreline, we hiked a steep trail past the Cape Disappointment Coast Guard station to the lighthouse. The lighthouse keeper told us the day’s warm, sunny weather was unusual for the area, normally socked in by fog or subject to fierce winds, even worse that what we experienced on the jetty.

Everyone told us that we absolutely must visit Mo’s Restaurant in Cannon Beach in order to experience the best clam chowder in existence. Off we went, stopping first to hike along the beach and admire the breathtakingly beautiful Haystack Rock. None of us are big fans of clam chowder but Dave tried it and said it was mostly okay. After hiking up and down the beach and taking endless photos of Haystack Rock and the Needles, we were grateful for a chance to sit inside and watch beachgoers fly their kites. On the way back, we scoped out the site for the next day’s adventure: Indian Beach at Ecola State Park.

After first enjoying a late breakfast at the local Pig n’ Pancake, we headed south to Indian Beach to enjoy another warm, sunny day. Surfers in wetsuits weaved about in the waves; off came our shoes and socks and we waded into the cold Pacific waters. Waves splashed high as our knees at times, while up and down the beach we strolled, only stepping out to let our toes warm up before heading in again. On a rock outcropping off in the distance stood the former Tillamook Head lighthouse, known as “Terrible Tilly” because of its dangerous location. The lighthouse was decommissioned in 1957 and is now a privately owned columbarium. What a stunning place to leave your ashes for all eternity.

The next day we drove to Tillamook to tour the Tillamook Cheese Factory, where we sampled Tillamook cheese and Tillamook ice cream, purchased Tillamook memorabilia, and posed for photos with the Tillamook factory’s resident plastic cow. Cheesy, right? Then we were off to the coast again, this time to visit the lighthouse at Cape Meares and the nearby Octopus Tree. First we stopped at the beach in Oceanside, where Dave collected seashells and we wondered about the abundance of hillside homes for sale. The lighthouse headland offered spectacular views of the vast Pacific Ocean and the Three Arch Rocks, although alas, we could only see two arches.

Our last day was spent scurrying up the coast to catch a ferry from Bremerton, Washington, across the sound to Seattle. What a beautiful way to view the Seattle skyline. We spent the afternoon on a whirlwind tour of the waterfront: drinking margaritas and sangria at the Copacabana, strolling through the Pike Place Market, and riding the monorail to the Space Needle.

As dusk fell, we returned to the waterfront in time to see the Seattle Great Wheel lit up at night.

The next morning we headed home to begin planning our next vacation.

Gettysburg, anyone?

(more vacation photos here)

We hope this year treated you well, and as always wish you

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave

Tonka

Daisy

Cloudless Skies

August, Colorado: You can almost hear the grass gasping, tiny rusted shoots stranded in a high, dry desert. The sky is bright blue with nary a cloud, and the sun sears itself into your skin, like a branding iron from above. Omnipresent waist-high weeds undulate to and fro in a lover's dance with the hot breezes. Autumn seems so far away...

Adventures with Daisy

Adventures with Daisy, Day Two. A sweet little girl wearing cowboy boots ran up to meet us at the park. She asked if my dogs were friendly. Daisy freaked out and backed up, ending up lodged beneath Tonka's belly. She let out her best scary "woof" while I untangled them. I let the girl pet Tonka but told her Daisy was afraid of strangers. She then said, "I have two dogs and my dogs are just like yours, only different." :-) What a cutie!

Scary Santa

While out on bunny patrol, Daisy was distracted, sniffing like crazy. We passed a house with a plastic Santa clinging for dear life onto the gutter. Well, just as we walked by a breeze made Santa flap noisily in the wind. Skittish little Daisy jumped to the left and knocked Tonka into the gutter. Santa and Tonka are both okay. Daisy is resting quietly in her room.

Two Years Gone By

Since we didn’t send Christmas cards last year, this year we plan to bore you silly with a summary of activities for not one but two years at French Manor. Those of you with a strong constitution may continue reading at your own peril, or skip right to the pretty pictures and spare yourselves the agony of yet another silly Christmas newsletter.

Sunroom with Colorado and Manx flags

The Home Front. Our lives have been a flurry of home improvement projects over the past two years. We added a second shed in the back yard, remodeled the hallway bathroom, replaced an old wooden patio fence with a pretty white trellis, painted the sunroom and installed new carpet, replaced the wrought iron front gate with a wooden gate, created a memorial rose garden (which includes Raven’s ashes), installed a new garage door with windows, painted all three bedrooms (colors: Melted Butter, Outback, Toffee Crunch), and removed a dying elm tree from the back yard. To clarify, we did not do all this work ourselves.

Ships That Pass in the Night. Dave worked the swing shift through all of 2014, which we both hated but the dogs loved. They were never alone for long, since Dave left for work at 2:30 and I returned home at 4:30. Dave started to look for a new job with better hours, and finally was offered a good job in early 2015. His new company is stable, secure, and includes great benefits. The best part, Day Shift! In early March, they sent him to Atlanta for a week to learn a new digital press the company purchased. He likes the company and the hours, and hopes to stay there for the long term.

Reclamation Day. I languished in my accounting clerk position at a local non-profit, where I planned to continue working until age 60. But after much soul-searching and number-crunching and encouragement from friends, I decided to bid farewell to the daily grind earlier than planned. Since the end of October, I have been enjoying my early retirement with plenty of quiet time at home, basically doing whatever I want whenever I want. The dogs love having consistent human companionship and more frequent walks. A dear friend suggested using the term “reclamation” instead of “retirement” since I am now reclaiming my life after 40 years in the workaday world.

The Calf of Man

Ellan Vannin. “And there rises like a vision, sparkling bright in nature’s glee, my own dear Ellan Vannin with its green hills by the sea.” So goes the poem Ellan Vannin, which is the Manx-language name of the Isle of Man. Situated halfway between England and Northern Ireland in the Irish Sea, the Isle of Man is my mother’s ancestral homeland.

When I was little, mom told me tales of this magical, mystical faraway place called the Isle of Man, where her grandfather was born. I remember hearing about Viking raids on the island, at which point I declared “I’m a Viking!” to no one in particular. It seemed unlikely that I would ever visit until I met my second cousin from Connecticut, Faith, via genealogical research. Faith suggested we explore our roots in person.

Houses of Parliament

Dave had never been overseas and wanted to come along, so we added a few extra days to visit London. In late June 2014, we flew from Denver to Reykjavik, Iceland. The airport layover lasted long enough for us to buy Icelandic souvenirs before continuing to London. We bunked at an old hotel in London’s Bayswater neighborhood, near Paddington Station. Our first tourist trip was to Buckingham Palace, where we arrived just in time for the changing of the guard. Dave mastered the Underground quickly and we were off here and there, strolling through Hyde Park near Kensington Palace, staring with wonder at Parliament and Big Ben and the London Eye, then touring Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Captain Dave aboard the ferry, Ben-My-Chree

After a whirlwind tour lasting three days, we met Faith at Victoria Station and boarded a train to Heysham Port, north of Liverpool, for a ferry ride to Douglas, capital of the Isle of Man. It’s about a three hour journey across the Irish Sea, which on that particular day was smooth as glass and so lovely. Faith said she wanted her first glimpse of the island to be as our ancestors would have seen it, from the sea.

Peel Castle ruins

What a beautiful place! After settling into the Cubbon Guest House on Douglas Promenade, where Dave and I had a room on the top floor with a view of Douglas Bay, we began a week-long tour. Relying on foot power and public transportation (horse tram on the promenade, electric tram along the east coast of the island, the old Victorian steam train to parts south and west, and buses everywhere else) we explored the most amazing sights: Mt. Snaefell, the highest point on the island; Cregneash, an old working village that doubles as a living history museum;  the Calf of Man, a small island and bird sanctuary just off the southwestern tip; Port Erin with its magnificent beach and western views; Castle Rushen, a well-preserved medieval castle on the southeast coast; and the ruins of Peel Castle, built in the 11^th century by the Vikings. We climbed Peel Hill above the castle where far off in the distance we could see the Mountains of Mourne, Northern Ireland.

Faith, Debbie, and Dave at Niarbyl

The three of us were joined midway through our stay by our Manx third-cousin, John Creer. John has done extensive studies of our family history and gave us a personal tour of the island, focusing on places that were personally relevant to our family such as where our ancestors lived, worked, and worshipped. Thanks to John’s knowledge, we visited the mine where our shared great-great-grandfather worked, the grave where he is buried with his wife and two of their thirteen children, and the church where long ago the Creer family had a pew in their name.

We had to return to London for our flight home, so Dave and I stopped in a city north of London to spend the last few days with a long-time friend of mine from Boulder. Robbin has lived in England for nearly 30 years. It’s a rare treat to see her and I truly enjoyed our lively conversations. Dave had a great time and we plan to return, next time touring Scotland and the Home of Golf, St. Andrews.

Along the Mill Creek Trail

Back Home Again. While we were overseas, the dogs were comfy cozy at home with their favorite live in pet sitter, Auntie Barbara. They were so happy to see us again that we took them on a family trip to Salida in September. Staying at our new favorite rental cabin near Monarch Pass, we made a side trip to an area north of Gunnison, the Mill Creek Trail on the way to Storm Pass. We had been there years before with Raven, in the summer, and Dave always wanted to return in autumn to see the aspen groves ablaze along the way. Those autumn colors were breathtaking, as was the hike.

Kindergarten buddies

In 2015, I celebrated my 40^th high school reunion (gasp!). An informal potluck lunch was planned in late July at the home and property of a classmate. The day was hot, the food was good, the beer was flowing, and the reminiscing went on and on. The best part for me was sharing the day with my lifelong friend, Peggy. We met in kindergarten and have known each other forever.

Chimney Rock National Monument

Instead of our annual autumn trip to Salida, this year Dave wanted to head down to Pagosa Springs in southwestern Colorado, not far from the New Mexico border. Other than a bad experience at a so-called “pet friendly” motel, we sure had fun. The dogs cavorted in the Piedra River, we visited the ghost town of Pagosa Junction, were treated to a personal tour of an old church on Southern Ute tribal lands (St. John the Baptist Catholic Church) and climbed to the top of Chimney Rock National Monument. The area surrounding the monument is beautiful and the guided tour was so interesting. We both returned with some tourist paraphernalia and a card proclaiming “I Made It to the Top!” (not really too difficult as Colorado hikes go). You can safely say that a good time was had by all.

So, if you haven’t dozed off by now, we wish you

Debbie and Dave at the Calf of Man, July 2014

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave  *  Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

Daisy

Tonka

A Visit From Katherine Jane

Katherine Jane Snyder, the neighbor who lived behind our family in Thornton, Colorado.
I can still hear her laugh and see her smile.
Kathy was a close family friend until her death in November 1986.
Photo courtesy of her son, Bill Snyder.

What follows is an account of a weird, rambling, vivid, and elaborate dream I had in the early morning hours of Thursday, November 19, 2015. Please do not expect much of this to make sense. I am transcribing it at the request of my friend, Bill Snyder.

==========

I am walking my two dogs, Tonka and Daisy, up the hill on Palo Verde Street in Thornton, Colorado. In the third house from the top of the street, west side, lived the Snyder family, our close friends and backyard neighbors.

At the front door, I encounter two of Kathy's nieces. I do not know their names; they are young and walking small dogs, perhaps a Shih Tzu and a Silky Terrier. They step up to the silver metallic screen door and press the doorbell. I tell them, well, I'm pretty sure Kathy won't want my big dogs inside, so I scoot around to the left of the house where the driveway is located.

On the right side of the driveway are large plants with pale green leaves, a type of lily I believe. I steer clear from the plants as there are a number of hornworms crawling about on top. The fence to the back yard is a tall, wooden privacy fence. I let myself inside and am greeted by the most amazing scene.

What was once a small yard is now at least an acre, if not more. My parents' house, which is due west and up a retaining wall with a ladder and gate for easy access to one another's yards, seems so far away. The Snyders' yard stretches far to the north and west and is hilly, filled with ponds and berms.

Suddenly Dave is by my side, and I tell him that we have to keep Tonka from the muddy pond up ahead. I turn to the right, and next to the side of the house is a lush pond with wetland grasses alongside. Daisy has already jumped into the water. Further to the right is a huge cement goldfish pond. There are a number of small goldfish eating from a fish feeder at the right side of the pond, next to the covered patio which runs the length of the house. A large black crow is perched above the fish, waiting to pick an unsuspecting fry from the school of fish.

It looks like there is renovation being done on the north side of the house. I leave the dogs to play and head inside.

Construction is in progress. I show Dave around, although much of what I see is completely unfamiliar to me. Here is where the kitchen used to be, I tell him. Now it seems to be a large open cafeteria area, with fine wood paneling on the walls. In the living room, there remains a long stereo player, which the family had for as long as I can remember. I walk down the hallway and where there used to be two small bedrooms, you now see a coffee shop, with small round tables and espresso machines against the wall.

The master bedroom has been expanded to create a new conference center. In walks Kathy, greeting me with a smile and a hug and a hearty laugh. How do you like my new place? she asks. The room is huge and appears to have church pews along the north wall. There is light streaming through the many windows, and now you can see a stage and pulpit up ahead. Several people are milling about, preparing the room for a meeting. Kathy tells me that she wanted to transform the house into something useful.

Now my childhood friend Peggy has arrived in the room. Someone makes a comment about the speaker scheduled to address the congregation, making disparaging remarks about a book he wrote and whether his faith is genuine. Peggy defends the man, proclaiming him to be a true Christian in every sense.

I ask Kathy where the master bedroom has gone, and she shows me an addition being built near the luscious back yard. It is small but enough, she says, to suit her needs. She says she can always look outside and see her beautiful surroundings.

After we leave through the back door, I look and see my parents' house, oh so far away, and the homes of our neighbors: Riojas, Staab, Lister, Blunt, now only tiny little houses off in the distance.

Kathy waves goodbye as I walk down the driveway with my dogs. It was so good to see you again, I say.

==========

Thank you for visiting me, Katherine Jane.

Will Work for Marijuana

Oftentimes in the mornings on my way to work, I see a certain fellow. He is a long-haired guy with a faded Tim Tebow jersey, pushing his bicycle and cart with a handwritten sign: "Cheap Labor. Ask."

This morning I saw him at about the same location with a different sign: "Will Work for Marijuana."

Ahh, the new Colorado.

Creamy Chicken Noodle Soup

Dave and I have been sick with some creeping crud, a brutal cold/cough combination that is lingering. With the big snowstorm this weekend, I decided to take a stab at some homemade chicken noodle soup (this is not something I've done before--yes, I said it).

Here's what you'll need:

1.5 lb. boneless, skinless chicken breasts or chicken tenders
2 cups chopped carrots
2 cups chopped celery
1/2 large white onion, cut into long slivers
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
2 packages low sodium chicken broth (32 oz.)
1 can cream of celery soup
12 oz. package of egg noodles
1 stick butter
Seasonings: salt, pepper, parsley, 1 bay leaf, paprika, garlic powder

In large stock pot, add the broth, carrots, celery, green pepper, onion, bay leaf, and season to taste with salt, pepper, parsley, and garlic powder. Stir in the cream of celery soup.

Cut the chicken into spoon-sized pieces. Melt the stick of butter in a skillet, add the chicken, sprinkle paprika and garlic powder over the meat. Cook chicken until the outsides are white. Pour chicken and butter mixture into the stock pot.

Bring contents of the pot to a hard boil. Cover and simmer for 1.5 to 2 hours. Add egg noodles about 20 minutes before eating.

~ Optional: Serve with rolls and butter. We also had a dish of chilled cranberry sauce as a dessert side.

=== MAKES 10 SERVINGS ===

Burrito Dreaming

4:38 AM: Awakened by a vivid dream in which I spent a ridiculous amount of time wending my way through an elaborate build-your-own-burrito buffet, frustrated in the end with an empty plate owing to the fact that I never found the essential building block: a tortilla. Sadly, I am a hopeless dork... even in my dreams.

Least Favorite Words

In no particular order, except for kiddo. It's definitely nails-on-a-chalkboard-first for me. Don't ever call me kiddo. Thank you.

Kiddo
Actually
Literally
Walkability
Moist
Phlegm
Incentivize (or just about anything with "ize" tacked to the end)
Syringe
Fondle
Soiled
Recoup
Panties
Word. (when used as a reply or a statement)
Bromance
Hubby
Wonk
Newbie
Delish
Uber
Chillax
Webinar
Awesome
Vacillate
Fungible
Retard

And yours would be?

Dog Days

Two vehicles pull into the lot at the same time. A champagne-colored Nissan spits out a woman accompanied by two eager white poodles. "Wait, wait, just a minute, hold on now!" she barks at her wiggling charges while juggling leashes, poop bags, keys, and a fanny pack.

A few spots over is a van with Missouri plates. The driver lights a cigarette, opens the hatchback and says calmly, quietly, in a matter-of-fact voice: "There will be no eating of other dogs." An elderly German Shepherd hops out of the van.

Let the games begin.

(at Majestic View Nature Center, Arvada)

Missouri Hash

Missouri Hash

1 medium onion, chopped
1 lb. ground beef
1 large can crushed tomatoes (about 3 cups)
1 cup uncooked rice (I use Minute Rice)
1 packet chili seasoning
1/4 cup chopped pickled jalapenos --OR--
     1 small can diced green chilis (if you prefer a milder flavor)
1 cup grated cheddar cheese

Brown ground beef and onion together, drain. Stir in the chili seasoning and cook a couple minutes longer.

In 8x12 greased baking dish, stir together the tomatoes, rice and jalapenos (or chilis), then add the ground beef mixture.

Cover with foil and bake at 375F for 35 minutes.

Remove foil and sprinkle cheese on top during the last 10 minutes of baking.

Optional: Serve with salad and rolls.

=== MAKES 6 SERVINGS ===

A Comedy of Errors

Photo courtesy of the Internet (not my license plate)

Monday evening I met a friend of mine for dinner. On our way out, we stopped near the back of my car to chat. For some reason, Terri was drawn to my license plate and read the number/letter combination out loud. Then she said, "Do you realize that your plates expired in September?"

What? No! That can't be right. I looked down and yes indeed, even at night the evidence was plain as day. September 2013. Here it is Presidents Day 2014, and I'm cruising around with expired plates.

I drove home, sheepishly, carefully, certain that now--after nearly five months driving around as a scofflaw--I was jinxed simply by knowing.

Once home, I dug through my paperwork to try and figure out how the hell this happened. I am meticulous and careful about such things. This was a near impossibility.

Nope. It had not been paid. We moved a little over a year ago. Somehow Dave's license plates had been renewed in that time but what happened to mine? No matter, it was time to deal with the problem.

Dave volunteered to go to DMV first thing Tuesday morning. I wasn't sure if it would be a problem, since his name was not on the registration. He took my registration and the checkbook.

Apparently the first day after a holiday is THE worst day to visit DMV. Dave later reported around 75 people were waiting to be served. He stood around for a bit, talking to another fellow in the queue, explaining our circumstances. That man told Dave it was unlikely they would allow him to renew the plates without my driver's license. Dave left.

I was not at all comfortable leaving my driver's license with Dave so he could return the next day. That would surely be flirting with disaster. Expired plates + missing driver's license = flashing cop car lights in the rear view mirror. I would do it myself, first thing Thursday morning.

But wait, while I'm there, why don't I see about adding Dave's name to the title? That way there could be no question in the future. I found the title, safely stashed away in our security box.

Turns out Dave's name was already on the title. I looked again at the registration. Both our names were there. Apparently neither of us were observant enough to notice this little detail.

Oh well, I still had to take my punishment. There is a hefty penalty for allowing your plates to expire. Plus, who knows if one of the notoriously grouchy DMV workers would give me a hard time for being incompetent. Nah, they would just want the money.

I looked online to make sure I had everything necessary to renew in person. Proof of insurance! I located the insurance certificate, lounging quietly in the glovebox, noted its expiration date was March and left it on the table with all the DMV paraphernalia.

Thursday morning dawns, time to get organized. I rechecked to make sure I had everything. Then I looked again at the insurance certificate. Expiration date: 3/30/13. Oh good lord, I tell myself, please come to terms with the fact that it's 2014 already.

When I signed up for electronic notifications from our insurance company, apparently that also applied to the evidence of insurance certificate. I logged online and printed a copy.

Off to DMV. Thankfully only a handful of people were inside. I waited less than five minutes for service, explained the situation to the no-nonsense clerk as she changed our address in the computer. When I slid the insurance certificate her way, she told me that her happy little computer already confirmed that we had insurance. No need for a paper copy.

I paid the $100 incompetence tax, plus an additional $102.35 retroactive ownership tax so that DMV could collect the money they missed out on from September to February. My new expiration date is February 2015.

Never again.

(Gratuitous photo of my car, isn't she a beauty?)