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.

New Horizons

What is your perspective on the rising sun each morning? For years we have viewed a beautiful sunrise brightening the world as seen from between two houses across the street. The sunrise may have changed each morning, but the perspective did not. That is, until this year.

Our biggest news of the year happened at the tail end. Almost on a lark, in mid-November we asked to tour a house for sale several miles to the west. That place was dreadful, but as a result of our visit we found another that looked promising. A mere six weeks later, we were living in our new home. Now our view of the rising sun is still between two houses across the street. Yet the perspective is completely different, at least to us.

You might recall that Dave was laid off in 2010. Since then, he worked part-time in the printing industry and later worked full-time as a househusband/personal doggy daycare provider to Tonka and Daisy.

In 2012 he took on a temporary assignment during spring and summer as a general laborer at my office. The summer was brutally hot, his supervisor was a pain and the grounds had been neglected, but Dave did a great job cleaning up. He also discovered a new passion: riding mowers. Hmm, maybe someday he can get a job mowing lawns at a golf course?

Before my back surgery in 2011, we had curtailed our day hikes as I was unable to walk or stand for long periods of time. Then in June, we decided to take my new bionic back out for a spin. We settled on a day hike in the Lost Creek Wilderness south of Bailey.

It was hot that day (well, it was hot pretty much every day this summer) and we weren’t sure how far we’d get. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I could hike just like in years past. Except for my feet being tired and sore on the return trip, it was a a fun, almost leisurely hike of about five miles. Plus, the dogs found some water to cool their fevered paws along the way. Turns out that Creek wasn’t really Lost after all.

No year would be complete without a trip to our home-away-from-home: Salida. This year we headed out to our favorite little mountain town in mid-July. It was hot, naturally. But at least the evenings were cool and we had easy access to the Arkansas River, to dip our toes and let the dogs swim a bit.

We ventured forth on yet another hike, this time to Agnes Vaille Falls. It was billed as an “easy” hike (obviously that recommendation was given by people in much better shape than me and Dave). We made it to the falls, enjoyed the view along the way, and managed to get back to the car just before the heavens turned loose a wicked rainstorm. Ahhhh…

Over the past year or so, I reconnected via Facebook with several high school classmates. One of them helped me get in touch with a fellow I had long admired, and even had a bit of a crush on, during our school years.

After exchanging emails with Stewart (the tall guy on the left, now living with his family overseas), I learned he would be in Colorado during the summer of 2012. So I made plans with some classmates and hosted a mini-reunion in early August. We all had a great time and enjoyed a hot but otherwise lovely day reminiscing and catching up on each other’s lives. In a couple of years, it will be time for our 40th high school reunion. Oh my.

Discussions began early in the year about how to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary, due in September. Originally the plan was to visit Hawaii, but circumstances dictated that we scale it back. So, what’s just like a visit to Hawaii without spending a small fortune, you might ask? Why, South Dakota, of course!

We drove to Rapid City, created a home base in a lovely old downtown hotel, then spent the week exploring Mount Rushmore, Custer State Park, Crazy Horse Memorial, Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, and even indulged in cheesy Americana at Wall Drug before finishing up our whirlwind all-American tour at the Badlands (phew, talk about hot!). Our favorite place was Devil’s Tower. If you haven’t been, you really should go.

So consider this our post-Christmas newsletter. Because we were too busy packing and moving, we skipped out on our usual holiday traditions. Still, we wanted to let everyone know that, almost out of the blue, we packed up and moved across town... to the place we intend to stay for the long haul.

Best wishes for the New Year ahead,

Debbie and Dave

Tonka and Daisy

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.

Tribute to a Friend

Her name was Carol, although at first I knew her only as "Lark" -- a pseudonym she created to conceal her identity online. I met Carol exploring an early version of social networking on AOL. We both shared a passion for computers and were intrigued by this brave new digital world still in its infancy. Carol served as an online mentor to me and we became fast friends. Eventually we decided to meet in real life.

In the southwest suburbs, Carol lived in a small tri-level home she and her husband purchased long ago. Don died at a young age, only 46, leaving her a widow at an equally young age. Their only child, a son, chose a difficult road; he drifted in and out of her life occasionally.

One of the sweetest, most kind and deferential people I have ever met, Carol was not one to put herself in the limelight. She felt more comfortable in the role of counselor, offering common sense advice, lending a sympathetic ear, or providing solace and empathy.

During a difficult year of my life, after losing both my brother and mother, Carol took me under her wing and became a comforting source of support. She confided in me a familiar set of tragedies: the loss of her mother at an early age, plus the dual sorrow of dealing with the unexpected death of her husband on the heels of losing her sister and only sibling to cancer.

Our deepest, most profound conversations took place in her hot tub on the back porch, Celtic music playing in the background, sipping exotic drinks whipped up in a kitchen whose cabinets were painted a lively shade of lime green. Carol was fascinated with European and Celtic culture, extraterrestrials, pagan rituals, and the Druids. She had a special affinity for the natural world.

I enjoyed spending time with Carol, strolling through her gardens, feeding pea pods to her lop-eared rabbit, watching her fingers work a giant loom in the dining room, admiring her latest silk flower creations, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the near-feral cat that moved in constant stealth mode throughout the house.

Carol was thrilled when I met Dave. She found him quite handsome and felt we were well-suited, a good match. As often happens with a new relationship, I spent more time with Dave and less with Carol. In the meantime her life had changed dramatically; she discovered that like her sister, she too had cancer.

Not wanting to burden her friends with the news, a long time passed before she told any of us. The cancer progressed quickly, leaving her partially paralyzed. After a brief stay in a rehabilitation center she returned home; her sister-in-law moved in to help Carol during the last months of her life.

Carol was too weak to visit or talk on the phone as the end neared. I called to wish her happy birthday a week before she died but never had the chance to speak with her. She came to me in a dream about the same time she left this world. Not long after I heard the news that she was gone. According to her wishes, no memorial service was planned, just a small gathering of friends to share stories and raise a toast.

When I first saw her grave marker, I was surprised to see her birth date etched in stone: the nineteenth of August. All those years I believed her birthday was the ninth of August. How silly I felt right then, knowing I called her every year on the wrong day! Still, I smiled to myself. How very like Carol to not correct me, sparing me any embarrassment.

Dear Carol, although you are missed, I want you to know that my memory is long and remains fairly accurate. I'm sharing one of your glamour shots in this journal. I know you felt they were frivolous and extravagant, but I always thought you looked beautiful in them. They captured an essence that maybe you could never see in yourself.

When someone talks about Las Vegas, I'm reminded of our fun-filled whirlwind visit that Memorial Day weekend so many years ago. When I hear the song of a meadowlark, see pictures of Stonehenge, read about crop circles, or listen to Celtic music, I think of you.

Thank you for being such a good friend. Most of all, thank you for sharing your generous heart with so many. I miss you...