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...

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.

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)

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?)

Autumn Gold

Aspen trees at St. Elmo, Colorado

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Another World

Ted feeding me in our kitchen at 95 Kearney Street (1957)

The place where I was born is so foreign to me, it may as well have been in another country. My parents left not long after I had completed my first year of life, packed our belongings and moved the family to Colorado.

In late spring of 1982, I ventured to the east coast to visit New Jersey for the first time. Well, not really the first time, but at least the first time that is part of my consciousness. One goal of the trip was to visit my New Jersey relatives in their native state. In the years since we moved away, many of the Thompsons had come to Colorado, one family at a time, to see how we were holding up in the Wild, Wild West. Oddly different from my parents, yet remarkably similar in many ways, they were a boisterous, busy, animated lot. Once I set foot in their home environment, those characteristics seemed even more amplified.

My cousin Sharon--who must have drawn the short straw and was consigned to serving as the living history tour guide for her innocent, naive, wide-eyed country cousin--took me to see where we lived, where I was born, the graves of recent ancestors, and places that I previously considered as nothing more than the subject of my father's embellished stories. The cemetery was beautiful and peaceful, even though it was situated near a busy highway. The Great Falls on the Passaic River were as majestic as I'd always heard, and dad's school (PS#5) was stately and shabby, all at once.

Image courtesy of PatersonHistory.com

I was disappointed to learn that the hospital where I was born, Paterson General, had been razed many years ago. As we whizzed by in her fast, sleek car, Sharon pointed out the hospital's former location to me. On the corner where this lovely old building once stood there was either a gas station or a fast food restaurant (I can't recall now).

Off we went to 95 Kearney Street. Mom would tell everyone that we didn't really live in Paterson, we lived in Totowa Borough, as if that meant anything to outsiders, yet somehow that made our living arrangements sound better to her. Mom hated New Jersey, loved her birthplace - Connecticut - and grew to love her adopted state of Colorado even more.

95 Kearney Street (1982)

The area where we lived had deteriorated since the days when my parents held residence on Kearney Street, where we occupied the top floor of Mr. and Mrs. McNab's home. Sharon pointed out the building, hoping that would be the end of our tour in this particular section of the old neighborhood. But I insisted on having photographic evidence of my visit.

Standing on the sidewalk across from this place--a previously mythical, unseen edifice about which so many stories had been told--I was mesmerized by the notion of ever having lived here. Wanting to capture it on film so mom and dad could see how it looked now, I shuffled to the left, then to the right, in a quest for the perfect angle.

My picture-taking adventure was taking a while and cousin Sharon, perhaps noticing some threat undetected by me, leaned over to the passenger window and issued a calm yet stern order: "Debbie, get in the car. Get...in...the car." I finished my last shot, climbed in the car and off we sped, down the street and 'round the corner to another part of this foreign land.

95 Kearney Street (2012)
Image courtesy of Google Maps: street view

People often ask if I'm a Colorado native. I feel as though I am, but always admit that I was born in New Jersey. Recently one person asked, what possessed me to make such a leap, in location, in altitude, in attitude, in culture? I told her that it happened long before I knew a single thing about where we lived.

How blessed I am for the choice my parents made long ago. Colorado is part of my soul; I never tire of its magnificence and grandeur. And as for New Jersey, I'm so happy to have seen all these places for myself. But to me it will always be another world...

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.

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...

Canine Joy

Tonka and Daisy
at the Arkansas River near Nathrop, Colorado
September 2011

Senses

Three-thirty in the morning, my bleary eyes open slightly. Behind the blinds is a soft yellowish-white muted light, as if a lantern were glowing just there, beyond the darkness, inviting me to come see.

Snow, lots of it. This storm is expected to be a doozy. We’ll see.

I peer outside and marvel at the silent scene before me. The wind is blowing--not the destructive, gale force winds we huddled through over the past month--but enough wind to make the snow swirl silently from the eaves, performing a mesmerizing snow-dance in the air before settling atop the drifts below. Silence is my companion here in the light/dark of the night/morning, where the stormy darkness is illuminated by reflected city lights on thick clouds, busily pelting out a miniature blizzard.

Only three days ago it was warm, sunny, breezy--partly spring. I walked the park trail near work, after hooking myself up to an artificial source of music in hopes of drowning out the industrial city sounds surrounding this little pocket park.

It didn’t work, at least not entirely. My feet thumped on the sidewalk with a cadence to match the tune blaring between my ears: “Everybody’s talkin’ at me, can’t hear a word they’re saying…” and here comes a person walking straight toward me. I smile and keep walking past, faster now. Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch, is that really a sound I hear above the music? Or is it merely the sensation of gravel beneath my feet, having left the hard cement for the more natural feel of rhythmic walking on the unfinished portion of the trail.

The two ponds are still frozen in the center. A pair of geese squat on the thin ice, sleeping. Two squirrels run clickety-clack up the side of a huge cottonwood tree, one chasing the other ever upward with repeated chattering noises, so loud that the squirrel noises infiltrate the earbuds, providing a high-pitched backdrop to the next tune: "American woman, stay away from me..." Are those squirrels fighting or courting, I wonder silently to myself.

Off in the distance across the southern pond I spy a couple with a shepherd dog walking toward a single fellow, trying in vain to control an unruly puppy. The dogs greet, jump, sniff, then tangle one another in leashes, spinning and yipping with delight. Yes, I can hear this as well, above the chords strumming behind the words inside. “Well I keep on thinkin’ ‘bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise…” come the words in my head but what my ears really latch onto is the sound of dogs laughing, joyful creatures caught up in exactly that split second of warmth and camaraderie and a right-now moment that is even more perfect than the last. Oh to be a dog.

My nose is running and I clear my throat, having reached the section of trail where the walk turns head-on into the breeze. It seems more bracing, stronger than it was on the first turn around the twin ponds. The coolness hits my face; my hair swirls about this way and that. I reach to brush it aside, latch it behind my ears, but it swipes my face again and again and again.

I return to the present moment, in front of the window, and find myself twirling a chunk of tousled hair between my fingers as I watch the snow dance around then down, down, down.

"How much snow so far?" he asks from behind me.

"About a foot."

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