Confessions of a Golf Widow

Let's start with the obvious: I married a golfer.

I'll admit to having precious little knowledge about golf. I recall learning the game in our high school gym class, the teacher demonstrating how to throttle the end of a golf club in a bizarre grip while hunched over in an unnatural position, then admonishing the students that didn't produce a sufficiently relaxed swing. Occasionally my dad could be found watching a weekend tournament on television. But after sitting through five or ten minutes of the sport, I'd wander off and leave him to watch alone.

Never could I understand the attraction of chasing that little white ball over hill and yon, dragging along a heavy bag of clubs, half of which you may never use, scribbling on a tiny scorecard with a miniature pencil.

Then I met Dave.

He and his longtime friend, Keith, played every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. Even in winter, if the course was open and there was no snow on the ground, they headed out bundled in thick clothing that I imagine would prevent you from making even a halfway decent swing. Yet they never missed an opportunity.

Dave's father was a golfer, and his grandfather before him. It was on those annual trips to Sun City, Arizona, to visit grandparents where Dave learned the game of golf. His grandfather remarked that of all his grandsons, Dave was the only one with any natural talent for the game.

A few times I accompanied Dave on golf outings, where I was given a cushy assignment as golf cart driver. I paid little attention to rules and statistics, but rather spent most of my time observing how the players interacted with one another.

It is a calm, quiet, nearly serene environment until something goes horribly wrong. Next thing you know a frustrated player, cursing loudly, tosses aside the unholy club involved in a ruined shot. Or an even more heinous breach of golf etiquette may occur: talking while someone concentrates on the final putt of a complicated par 5. At this point otherwise happy, fun-loving people suddenly turn deadly serious. It was all I could do to stifle the giggles and steer the cart, without laughing, to the next tee.

During the early years of our relationship, Dave continued playing every weekend, often both days. Once I complained to his mother about the prolonged absences, especially what I considered excessive time spent on the Nineteenth Hole. I mentioned to Marge something along the lines of, "Sometimes I wonder if he's ever coming back." Married to a golfer more than 50 years, she informed me in that calm, quiet way of hers, "Oh, they always come back."

Dave tried to teach me the basics of golf. We ventured out to the driving range where on the few times I actually connected with the ball, it never went far. We played miniature golf together. But these pathetic attempts to learn how to play the game he loves made it painfully obvious that I have no latent golfing skills.

Just as well. Over the years I came to appreciate and understand his love of golf. We have many common interests but there really is no need to share this too. It's something I believe Dave should have all to himself.

More recently I have begun to savor the days when he is golfing. On those days I have a chance, briefly, to live as a single woman again. My golf-day activities might include shuffling about in my pajamas for as long as I like, watching favorite tearjerker movies for the umpteenth time, writing silly stories like this one, or engaging in any number of unproductive pursuits.

Being a golf widow has taught me a few things about the game of golf. The rules may be complex but the rewards are sweet. It is less about competing with others and more about competing with yourself, learning to achieve success in areas that have proven to be your downfall in the past. It's a game that requires patience, concentration, focus. Although at times Dave may seem a bit like an absent-minded professor at home, he does well on the course because deep down inside, he has those qualities in abundance.

As for my confessions, they are really quite boring:

• Sometimes I really enjoy watching golf.
• It's nice occasionally to have the house all to myself.
• I'm proud of the man who made me a golf widow. He is a good golfer and committed to his game. And in my experience, golfers are quality individuals.

Wonder how he played today? I'll find out soon enough. Because, as a wise woman once told me, they always come back.

A Fine Day for a Road Trip

Saturday was a "free day" at Rocky Mountain National Park, along with many other national parks around the country. Instead of opting for the usual mundane weekend activities such as grocery shopping, yard work, and laundry, Dave mentioned the free day and suggested we take a trip to the Park.

Now I'm not one for big crowds. Rocky Mountain National Park is a beautiful place and its proximity to the most populated area of Colorado makes it crowded all summer, especially on weekends. I couldn't even imagine how many people would be there on a "free day" but after the past few hectic weeks at work, I was definitely ready to escape.

We passed through Boulder on the way. Just north of the city, everywhere you looked were people dressed in their finest spandex outfits, furiously pedaling expensive-looking bicycles along the shoulder. At first I wondered to myself if this was some kind of bike race, then realized this was nothing more than a typical Saturday morning in Boulder, one of the country's most bicycle-friendly cities.

Our ride was filled with lots of banter about such fascinating subjects as whether Allenspark is one word or two (we saw signs spelled both ways and agreed: one word), which summit is Longs Peak and which is Mount Meeker (Dave is always better at identifying mountains), and where we went for sixth grade camp (mine was at a beautiful location just outside the Park).

The Park Ranger greeted us with a handful of brochures but as we pulled away he yelled "Wait!" ... he had seen Tonka in the back and wanted to make sure we knew that dogs are not allowed on the trails. Yes, we knew. He gave us a flyer just in case we were tempted to turn Tonka loose and let him chase after elk or some such nonsense.

Speaking of chasing after elk, do you know how to tell when a tourist has spotted wildlife in a National Park? Just look for all the cars parked in crazy fashion along the roadway, usually in a place not designated for parking. Near the summit of Trail Ridge Road, where many elk can be found during the hot summer months, we saw a few such parking configurations.

Sure enough, at one location we witnessed tourists traipsing across the delicate tundra, running to snap a picture of four bull elk sporting impressive antlers. Never mind that the pretty tundra flowers can take years to recover from human activity. Never mind that the elk might not take too kindly to the whirring noises coming from your camera and decide to gore you in the backside as you attempt to run away, breathless, at an extreme altitude. In my mind's eye, this imaginary scenario had me secretly rooting for the elk.

Trail Ridge Road, which runs through the Park, is the highest continuous highway in North America, with a maximum elevation just over 12,000 feet above sea level. We stopped in a parking area not far from the summit to take some pictures of our own. It's always blowing a crazy wind on top of Trail Ridge Road and this day was no exception.

A small group of flatlanders (our affectionate term for folks not from the mountain states) were huddled together in their jackets listening to a Park Ranger explain the geology of the Never Summer Mountains. The clouds coming over the mountains were beautiful and fortunately didn't seem threatening. The weather on Trail Ridge Road can change in an instant, transforming a beautiful summer day into an unexpected taste of winter.

The western side of the Park was less busy as we descended in the direction of Grand Lake. Once more we spied a group of cars doing u-turns in the road and pulling over haphazardly; I predicted this time it would be a moose. Sure enough, there was a female grazing in a wetland meadow. Fortunately, this group of people were smart enough to keep their distance. Good thing, because moose can be quite cranky.

Dave and I had not been on this particular Colorado journey in about four years. We could not believe the devastation from the mountain pine beetle that had occurred in that period of time. Basically the pine trees in forests throughout the Mountain West are being starved by this voracious insect. Rocky Mountain National Park has not been spared. The worst case scenarios have all of Colorado's lodgepole pine forests being completely wiped out in as little as five years.

We stopped in the charming town of Grand Lake to eat our picnic lunch at the park on main street. Everywhere we go Tonka seems to be quite the rock star. People come up to us and say "What a cutie!" and "Isn't he cute?" and "That sure is a cute dog!" Yes, we agree, a bit nutty but cute nonetheless.

Next stop was the lake itself. Grand Lake, originally formed by glaciers, is the largest natural lake in Colorado and serves as the headwaters of the mighty Colorado River. We walked down to the marina and strolled along the boardwalk. Our destination was the pier where dogs are allowed to swim. Dave threw sticks to Tonka; he had a blast playing in the cold mountain water.

Have you ever noticed that ice cream seems to sell itself? After Tonka's water party was over, Dave announced that it was time for an ice cream cone. When we first arrived in town, it seemed that nearly everyone had ice cream. It was our turn now. As we sat on the boardwalk licking our yummy treats, we overheard passers-by exclaim to each other "look, ice cream!" The local ice cream vendors obviously have a booming summer business.

The trip home was quiet, peaceful. Tonka slept on his doggy bed in the back as we listened to CDs. We were all tired, in a good way.

It was a fine day for a road trip.

More pictures here: Rocky Mountain National Park

The Weakest Link

Over the 4th of July holiday weekend, Dave and I took a trip to Guanella Pass, near the Continental Divide west of Denver. The highest elevation on the pass is 11,669. The summit is a staging area for hikers planning to climb Mount Bierstadt, a "fourteener" (Colorado mountains 14,000 feet or more above sea level). Its closeness to the Denver area, plus the fact that it is considered one of the easier climbs, makes Bierstadt quite popular.

I have long dreamed of climbing a fourteener but will never possess the type of physical condition required for such a feat. The only fourteeners I have been on are Mount Evans and Pikes Peak; both mountains have a road to the top. Realistically, those are the only fourteeners that will ever know my presence.

Over the past few years I suggested Dave find us a relatively easy "thirteener" to see if we can make it that high. On our trip to Guanella Pass, we discovered a thirteener, Square Top Mountain, that seemed like a possibility. So on Monday we took an exploratory climb.

Our goal was to make it to the Square Top Lakes, somewhere above 12,000 feet in elevation. Comparing our pictures, satellite imagery and topo maps, we felt confident we knew where the lakes were located: just over that ridge in the distance, at the bottom of that rock chute.

Off we went.

We estimated the trip to be about 2.5 miles one way, a fairly easy hike until it came time to climb the highest ridge. Dave and Tonka set out ahead with me bringing up the rear. This is the best place for the weakest link, as I require more frequent oxygen breaks. And I usually have an excuse handy, something along the lines of "time for a drink" or "just admiring that pretty little wildflower" or "might be a rock in my shoe, better sit down and check." At each stop Tonka circles around, growing impatient with his slow hiking companions.

Eventually the boys abandoned me as we approached the steepest part of the hike. By now I was taking halting steps, counting out 15 to 20 paces, then stopping to rest. I encouraged Dave to forge ahead and let me know what he could see. He and Tonka found a nice flat rock near the top of the ridge and sat to wait for the weakest link to catch up.

After a few minutes I joined them on that comfortable flat rock as we watched two hikers descend from the ridge. Having just returned from where we were headed, the hikers assured us the lakes could be found just beyond the rock outcropping above. That last bit of trail was steep; I told Dave I wasn't sure I could make it. I handed him the camera and told him to take some pretty pictures.

But... it was so close! I watched Dave trudge up the path, Tonka weaving left and right in serpentine fashion, until they both disappeared from view. I pulled myself up and struggled to follow, now stopping after each set of 7-10 steps.

Nearing the top of the ridge, I looked up and saw Dave returning. "There are no lakes up there!" he shouted, frustrated. I couldn't believe it. I had to see for myself.

Standing on the ridge, we realized the lakes must be in the bowl beyond the next ridge, previously hidden from view. Another 30 to 40 minutes on the trail might get us there but we were already tired. Plus we did not bring nearly enough water for such a hot day. We decided to return to the car.

Gravity is an amazing thing, an incredible force that you barely notice from day to day. Yet the way it pulled and dragged us on the way down reminds me how firmly the earth holds us in its grasp.

The sun is hot at that altitude and we were running out of water. Nearly there... almost there... when my legs began to cramp, succumbing to the effects of dehydration. Muscles barking at me like an angry dog, I took deep breaths to help ease the pain. One last steep hill remained before we reached the parking lot. Dave held my hand as I limped back to our car and its bounty: a cooler stashed with ice cubes and a picnic lunch.

Despite my secure, unchallenged role as the weakest link, I always manage to have fun.

But maybe we should look for an easy "twelve-er" to climb. Then tackle it on a cool, cloudy day. With extra water.

More pictures here: In Search of the Square Top Lakes
and here: Guanella Pass

Haircut Remorse

I was blessed with a thick head of hair. Mom was surprised by that fact. According to her my baby hair was thin, fine, nearly non-existent. Mom brushed and brushed and brushed, but she could do little more than massage my baby scalp with the soft bristles.

Eventually my hair grew in. As a child I had a shock of white hair, resembling that of an albino. In early pictures my hair was often unkempt, sticking out wildly in any number of directions. Mom was crazy about a hairstyle known as a "pixie cut" and swore that was the finest look for me, ever. This was the hairstyle she resorted to when it came time to tame her little girl's icy mane.

Looking back now at the hairstyles that were my mother's patio inventions, I have to laugh. When I finally reached an age where I was allowed to be master of my own hair destiny, I let it grow. Thick and straight as a poker, my hair either hung down my back, was bound in single or double ponytails, or was woven into Indian braids. During my flower child days, a string of leather or colorful yarn was twisted through those braids.

Yet mom still preferred short hair. "You looked so cute in that pixie cut," she would reminisce. No way, mom.

A few times I relented and cut my hair. Mom raved; I felt ridiculous, naked, exposed.

Like most women I attempted an occasional perm; most made my hair look like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I have vowed to never again do such a thing.

Over the past two decades I have alternated between long and short hair, letting it grow until the weight and thickness becomes nearly oppressive. Then it's time for a trip to the salon where I boldly pronounce: "Chop it off!" Not surprisingly, I wake up the next morning barely able to recognize the image in the mirror. Each time I have spent countless months growing out layers--in between planned hair trimming sessions--all in an effort to regain the same amount of hair I had whimsically paid someone to remove from my head.

What is it with women and their hair? All I know is that somewhere along the way, the mop on my head had been transformed into this tomboy's feminine touchstone, my only source of attractiveness, my one saving grace. To this day when I look in the mirror, I rarely look at much else beyond my hair. From my perspective, the rest is not worth more than a passing glance.

Increasingly the forces of middle age have come to dominate my life. Last week I could no longer tolerate the combination of summer heat and the heaviness of my hair, waking up in the middle of the night with the nape of my neck bathed in sweat. So I was off to the salon where I informed the stylist with unwavering confidence, "I need to lose this mop!"

She cut my hair exactly as I requested. During the process I could feel the wet, weighted whisps dropping from my head, could feel myself becoming cooler. At the finale I ran fingers through my hair; they were quickly released to the air, nothing left to hold onto. "Perfect!" I exclaimed.

The next day in front of the mirror I was overcome with remorse, nearly in tears, mourning the loss of my one saving grace.

It's silly, really. My new hairstyle is not bad at all. It has just been a long time since my hair was this short.

Even now I can almost hear mom: "I love it! You know, it's short enough that you should have gone ahead and asked for a pixie cut....."

No way, mom. Starting today I'm growing it out. Again.

Little Dog on the Prairie

Time to share a little bit of history and a few pictures of the resident four-legged creature that shares our home, Tonka. He has been with us just over a year now and last week we celebrated his imaginary birthday (imaginary in the sense that it was borne from the depths of our imagination). We have absolutely no idea of his real birth date so we selected June 11 based on a smidgen of algebra, a hint of sorcery, and a quick game of pin-the-tail-on-the calendar. With our vet's concurrence, we believe him to be three years old. Tonka's not sayin'.

A cattle dog/aussie mix, Tonka is a "prison dog" we found through the Colorado Prison Trained Dog Program. This program rescues, trains, and adopts dogs. They save both pure and mixed breed dogs from humane shelters and other animal rescues all over Colorado and surrounding states. Each dog is adopted by a team of inmate handlers who socialize and train. The dogs live in the cell with an inmate but also are exposed to the general population and daily institutional living conditions.

Knowing we wanted to adopt from this particular program, we made arrangements to meet three dogs that seemed to have what we were looking for. As we were walking Dog #1 (Olive), we strolled past the crate that held Dog #2 (Tonka). We knew right away it was him; the black masks on his face were a dead giveaway. Dave remarked, "Tonka's pretty cute!" We held off making a decision until after we met Dog #3 (Doc). In the end, Tonka won our affection.

Tonka was a stray found on the eastern plains of Colorado near Lamar. He was given to a local rescue organization. The woman who fostered him said a ditch rider discovered Tonka. The poor dog was thin and covered with fleas but he was smart, willing to learn, and so eager to please. We have often wondered how he came to be a stray out on the plains and what his life was like. Our main speculation is that he was dumped out on the prairie, a common occurrence in the rural parts of our state. Nor do we know how long he had to fend for himself. He is quite focused on birds and once caught a dove in mid-flight in the back yard, so we suspect birds may have been a source of food for him.

Our little Tonka-man now leads a privileged, happy, comfortable life filled with lots of love, lots of toys, his very own swimming pool, and frequent hiking trips in the mountains. Much like his predecessor, Raven, we believe Tonka grabbed the brass ring on the dog adoption carousel.

When they could not find him a forever home, the rescue group turned Tonka over to the Colorado prison dogs program, where we picked him out of a lineup. And the rest, as they say, is Tonka history...

The Tonka Movie from Deborah French on Vimeo.

Slip Slidin' Away

A little over three weeks ago it was snowing here in Colorado but the past few days we were treated to daytime temperatures above 90 degrees. After a long, cold winter, the weather warmed up very quickly. Now spring runoff is in full swing.

Dave and I decided to escape the city heat and take a drive in the mountains. We ended up near the Moffat Tunnel, a railroad and water tunnel that cuts beneath the Continental Divide near Rollinsville and emerges six miles west near Winter Park.

At this location on the eastern side of the Continental Divide is the James Peak Wilderness Area. Neither of us had hiked here and decided to check out the trail. Since we hadn’t planned a full-blown hike when we left, we did not bring our hiking boots or backpack or any of the other amenities we typically consider necessary if we are planning to go any distance. We did bring along our trusty sidekick, Tonka.

The wilderness trailhead entrance sported a sign proclaiming, “GET MUDDY! Please stay on trails and hike through mud, water and snow rather than around…” A mere 20 feet into the hike and already we had muddied our white sneakers. The trail dried out for a while but off in the distance we could hear the roar of cascading water, a sure sign the runoff was high. Soon enough we found ourselves immersed in an area wet with mud, with small feeder creeks tumbling downhill toward South Boulder Creek. We slogged through it all, grateful to be able to cross some of the creeks on makeshift bridges and risers that were built by the local chapter of the Colorado Mountain Club.

Next we came to a creek that was running fast and was a bit too deep for our silly little sneakers. Just a short distance up the hill were three small trees that had fallen across the creek; I suggested we take turns crossing on the logs. I went first and called Tonka, who had no problem running straight through the current. Then Dave crossed and walked off in a different direction.

Tonka noticed right away that we were no longer hiking together as a team. Wanting desperately to catch up with his best buddy, he lunged against his leash at the same time I was attempting to navigate a particularly muddy uphill section. I yelled at Tonka, my left foot slipped, and suddenly I realized that gravity had gotten the best of me.

Have you ever experienced a fall that seems to happen in slow motion? In painfully leaden movements, I dropped Tonka's leash, reached in vain to grasp a small bush just to the left of me, watched my not-so-white sneakers lurch out in front, then let out a loud “ooofff” sound as the backwards impact forced the air from my lungs. The next thing I felt was the cool gushing sensation of mud on my backside, down my legs, and along the side of one arm.

Tonka bolted away, leaving me to wallow in the mud as he ran off to reunite with his favorite person. Well, there you have it. I was unhurt, except for the slight bruise to my ego as Dave turned and saw me sitting all gooey and muddy in the midst of a spring runoff mess.

That "GET MUDDY!" sign flashed before my eyes. Never did I intend to take the advice quite so literally. Had I followed the instructions in that sign and not strayed from the trail, I probably would not have found myself in this situation. Not only was I muddy, now I was also guilty of breaching wilderness trail etiquette.

After I had righted myself, with a hand up from Dave, we walked a little further until the trail disappeared beneath banks of dirty snow. At that point we decided that we already had about as much fun as we were going to, so we reversed course back to the car and our picnic lunch.

We agreed to return and try out the trail again, perhaps in August when it’s completely dry, or maybe September when we can fully appreciate the autumn gold that is sure to be seen, thanks to the many stands of aspen along the trail.

Next time I'm staying on the trail. And next time, Dave can manage the dog for the entire hike.

My New Little Garden Friends

Ahh spring, a time when this not-so-young girl's fancy turns to... gardening tools and the heady, intoxicating smell of spring-moistened Colorado dirt.

Now, I don't know what it was like in your part of the world, but here in Colorado it was a long, cold winter. Not so much in the snow department necessarily but good grief it was cold. Or maybe it's just that these middle-aged bones of mine can't handle the extremes any more. Or possibly, a combination of both factors.

April showers were mostly April snowshowers and blustery cool days. May was chock full of rain and colder temperatures than we are used to, with the snow giving us one last hurrah on May 12. Then it suddenly shot up in a few days' time from about 45 degrees to more than 80 degrees.

Okay, enough about the weather.

Sunday morning I plopped down in a ten-foot-by-ten-foot plot of land that I refer to alternatively as either “the vegetable garden” or "the compost." Last year my vegetable garden was a bust (owing to the unusually wet, cool, cloudy spring and damp, humid summer). This year we have rather unceremoniously assigned ourselves a mess of new yard projects to accomplish, so the vegetable garden will have to be sparse. Originally I planned a salsa garden but I’m opting for just tomatoes and cucumbers instead.

So there I sat, ready to break ground on my Year Twenty-Ten vegetable garden, plotting the perfect location to root a recently acquired Juliet tomato and her tiny sidekick, a Burpless cucumber. A quick glance at the sky, now where is the sun? And where will it be this afternoon? Would this be a good spot to make sure Juliet is blissfully soaking up as much sun as possible without scorching the poor darling to a crisp? Yes, the spot I picked looked just about right.

I turned the earth and oh my! That scent! The gritty odor that simultaneously reminds one of childhood days playing in the mud combined with a whiff of last year’s decomposing kitchen waste: potato peels, green onions and peppers with a hint of melon rind thrown in for sweetness. The earthworms squirmed with surprise at their sudden exposure to light and heat, so I dug a little trench and sent them packing back to the land of cool, dark, damp feasts.

Now Juliet and her trusty cucumber companion, Mr. Burpless, have established side-by-side homesteads in the southwest corner of our backyard oasis. Honestly though, the tomato cage looks ridiculous towering over Juliet’s spindly 8-inch frame. The trellis--ready to corral Mr. Burpless and his wildly trailing vines--is vacant, bored. But soon enough there will be so much growth that I’ll have to decide which branches get to stay, and which must go.

It was a late start this year and I suppose come early September, I’ll be thinking about how nice it will be to dig up the gardens and turn the soil for winter, reverting the "vegetable garden" to its winter moniker, "the compost." I’ll be anticipating the heady, intoxicating smell of rotting, decomposing leaves as they fall from trees and swirl around the base of the vegetable garden, ready to help amend our hard-packed clay soil.

Until then, I will delight in watching my new little garden friends grow, and will be anticipating the delicious salads they are sure to provide. So let’s get growing you two!

The Ghosts of Anderson Street

Mom and dad moved our family from New Jersey to Colorado in the spring of 1958. We lived in my uncle’s basement until dad found a job. A few months later, my parents bought a brand new tract home in Thornton, Colorado, a small suburb north of Denver.

Our house on Anderson Street was a thousand square feet, constructed with red bricks topped by shake shingles. It cost $10,000, a hefty sum in 1958. Back then Thornton was out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by open pastures where horses and cattle grazed, a few dairy farms, and occasional wheat fields. We could hear cows mooing and roosters crowing early in the morning.

Many of the young families in that close-knit neighborhood were veterans buying their first home. A few families came and went but a core group remained. They held parties in each other’s basements, neighborhood receptions to celebrate any number of events from weddings to births to anniversaries. Dad was always inventing fun games for us kids to play. He loved the hubbub and commotion, a gaggle of kids surrounding him, eager to hear his silly stories and ready to try out the skis he fashioned from curtain rods.

The years passed and the neighbors grew older. Many began to retire. Their kids married and moved away, returning with grandkids in tow. Two of mom and dad’s closest neighbors were in the houses just north of theirs. Ruth lived next door. She was a divorced woman who had successfully raised three children on her own. Next to Ruth were Joyce and Paul, a busy, active, fun-loving couple who moved to Colorado from Minnesota with their eight children.

Dad had the gift of gab and loved to flirt with the neighborhood ladies. Mom mostly rolled her eyes and would admonish him to let others get a word in edgewise. Along with Joyce and Ruth, my parents enjoyed spending afternoons and evenings on each other’s front porches, sharing a cold beer, telling stories of kids and grandkids and the good old days, waving at cars as they drove by, whether they knew the drivers or not.

Ruth was a quiet soul with a sweet giggle, a woman who enjoyed playing songs on her old upright piano. With windows open in summer, everyone knew when Ruth was enjoying a musical interlude. Joyce was vibrant and full of life, a tiny, affectionate woman with a hearty laugh and a beautiful smile, perpetually on the move.

Dad was devastated after mom died, having lost the love of his life. He remained close friends with Joyce and Ruth and they kept up their front porch visits for a while. But now they began to discuss their losses, problems with aging and accompanying aches and pains, and how much the neighborhood was changing right before their eyes.

About the same time dad began to struggle with complications from congestive heart failure, Joyce and Ruth were both diagnosed with cancer. They fought their personal battles for as long as they could. Ruth passed away on a Friday in March. Joyce left this world three days later, the following Monday. My brother Ted took dad to Ruth’s memorial service at the neighborhood mortuary on Wednesday. It was a warm, sunny day. Dad visited with neighbors and old friends and by all accounts enjoyed the time he spent with everyone, in spite of the solemn occasion.

Outside the funeral home, dad leaned on his cane while Ted went to get his vehicle and pick him up. Ted turned the key, then looked over to see dad had collapsed on the grass lawn in front of the mortuary. He said to himself “Oh, dad…” and he was gone in the blink of an eye.

The last few years of his life, dad would tell us that he was too bad for heaven and too good for hell, so he was just waiting around until God figured out what to do with him. There is no doubt in my mind what God decided.

Ted and I spent a few months fixing up and emptying our childhood home then sold it to complete strangers. The last day I set foot in our house was surreal. It had never been so empty, so quiet. I could almost hear mom’s power machines whirring away in the basement, dad’s cowboy shoot-'em-up movies playing loudly on the television, Raggs barking at the front gate.

Dave took pictures all around the house, every nook and cranny, every outside angle, every etching in the concrete retaining walls, driveways, and patios where long ago each of us had marked our presence with a name or a handprint.

As we pulled away from the curb one last time, in my mind’s eye I could see mom and dad and Joyce and Ruth, sitting on the front porch, each with a beer in hand, waving at our car as we drove down the street. The ghosts of Anderson Street never looked so happy.

Birthday Memories

My old dog Bandit giving me a big kiss on my 40th birthday, March 1, 1997.

Today is my birthday. I was born on a Friday in Paterson, New Jersey, in the midst of a blizzard that roared across the eastern seaboard. My Uncle Ted, in port from his job with the Merchant Marines, was home with mom that day. According to mom he panicked at the thought of being trapped with a woman about to give birth. He shoveled and shoveled and then shoveled some more while they waited for dad to come home and take mom to the hospital. Mom said he was sweating furiously and she was afraid he might have a heart attack right then and there. Uncle Ted was so relieved to get mom out the door and on her way. Mom said she remembered lying in her hospital bed during labor and listening to nurses walking up and down the hallway singing
"M - I - C ..... K - E - Y ..... M - O - U - S - E ....."

I have been sorting through old family pictures and discovered lots of birthday pictures. Mom was big on birthdays. She liked to make each of us our favorite meal, and she insisted on the entire hoopla with birthday cake and candles and singing. I always adored the cakes but wasn’t real big on the part with the silly birthday song. Mom always marked each year by placing numbered candles or plastic decorations on the cake that showed our age. At the time it seemed kind of silly but it certainly makes it easier to identify the year. Good going mom!

Personally I am not much into birthday celebrations. I was never comfortable being the center of attention. When Dave and I are at a restaurant and someone has been pegged for a birthday celebration, I always tell him: “Don’t ever do that to me!” You know the kind of event, a group of waiters crowd around the table, place a sombrero on the birthday person’s head, then sing and clap their hands or ring cowbells. I’m sure lots of people enjoy this type of fuss but I’m not one of them.

Some of my favorite memories are a bit on the quirky side. For my 13th birthday, mom baked a cake that had little ribbons streaming down the sides, disappearing deep into the middle layer. When you pulled on each ribbon, out came a dime. That year I pocketed $1.30 in gooey coins, not good for much except an extra lick or two and then straight into the piggy bank.

For my 18th birthday, mom invited a group of high school girls over for her famous homemade “square pizza” and Coke. We were all pompon girls and used to posing in disciplined, organized, and fun group shots. First mom had us create a girl pyramid, and then she had us climb and pose hanging in various configurations off the limbs of our honey locust tree.

When I turned 25, I was certain my life was all but over. As a teenager, I had made any number of plans and schemes, all of which were going to be accomplished by the time I was 25. Not sure how I managed to assign 25 with such mystical, magical qualities, but by 1982 I had not accomplished one single thing. Being such an utter failure at age 25, I was depressed and whiney, so my brother planned a surprise birthday party to cheer me up. But instead of the usual tactic for a surprise party, he had a number of friends and family just show up at my apartment at an appointed time. Good thing I was home!

I was so excited when I turned 35 because that meant I was old enough to run for president! Not that I ever planned to, mind you, but I was happy to know that I could… if I wanted to. Turns out I never really did want to.

My 40th birthday was great. I felt so settled, so mature, as if I finally had a good, solid number to match the wisdom I had acquired. I still had lots to learn but felt good inside my head, if not my skin. My friend and I had a fun night out on the town in Denver. It was a great year, all around.

So much happened between 40 and 50, it was a whirlwind decade. Then before I knew it, I was turning 50. Dave’s parents both had fallen ill at the same time a few months prior. So how did I spend my 50th birthday? Ripping out carpet out in Dave's childhood home, revealing the pretty hardwood floors that were going to help us sell the house as his parents transitioned to assisted living and finally nursing care. Dave and his sister were busy meeting with nursing, hospital, and facility staff so I tore out all the carpet myself. Do I know how to have fun or what?

Without a doubt my favorite birthday memory comes courtesy of my mother. After I left home, mom would call me at the exact hour of my birth to wish me happy birthday. In the days before caller ID, it was the most reliable way of knowing who was on the other line. When the phone rang at 3:43 PM on March 1, I could pick up the the call and answer confidently, "Hi, mom!" We laughed about it every year.

My brother Ted also received a birthday call from mom, at 7:38 PM each January 12. Thank goodness neither of us were born in the middle of the night! Ted and I try to remember to keep up the tradition with each other, but we are not as diligent as mom was. I have to admit that this year, I forgot to make Ted's birthday call.

So today at 3:43 PM, I hope to get a call from my brother but even if I don't, at 3:43 PM I will be thinking of mom. After all, the day really was ours to share.

Sticks and Stones

Have you ever seen a moose in the wild? Here in Colorado, moose were introduced in the late 1970s. We now have a successful breeding population living in wide-ranging areas throughout the Rockies. I have lived in Colorado all my life but had never seen a moose. Dave and I traveled to Banff, Canada, the year we were married and I expected to see a moose there. No luck.

A few years later, we were traveling through Rocky Mountain National Park and there she was, a female moose wading in a marsh near the road. Dave crept a little closer to get a picture and that’s when we saw the baby moose, hidden in the reeds, tips of the ears barely noticeable above the tall, green shoots. I warned Dave not to get too close. Despite their size and unwieldy appearance, moose are really quite fast and can be aggressive. Dave snapped a few pictures and backed away. I then proclaimed that this moose would be known as Lucy Moose. A framed picture of Lucy Moose sits on my bookshelf at work, next to the photos of my husband and my dogs.

Now, have you ever been called a moose? Probably not. I have. It was spring 2004 and I was driving home from a shopping trip when I found myself in the crosshairs of a pretty, perfectly coiffed and manicured woman in a black BMW. She was in a hurry and I was in her way, not traveling fast enough. She tried to get around me without any success, then found herself trapped at a red light alongside me. Apparently I had ruined her chance of racing through the light before it turned red. The screaming commenced and this pretty bottle-blonde turned apoplectic. Her face contorted, she jabbed her bright red fingernails in my direction and spewed a series of angry rants followed by, “I hope you die, you fat moose!”

Seemed a little out of proportion to the event. You hope I die? I knew where the “fat moose” part came from but honestly, I didn’t consider myself to be a fat moose that deserved to die simply for not understanding the significance of beating a random red light on a random day.

This is not a society that easily accepts people who do not fit within the confines of its narrow, rigid standards of perfection. I never did fit those standards and often felt as though there were an invisible “kick me” sign taped to my back. Since I never learned to fight back and never took the initiative to argue my own case, I was easy-pickings for bullies.

I have been a big girl most of my life. Somewhere around puberty I began to gain weight. As a way to help me through the bullying years, mom taught me the phrase: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I would repeat the phrase in my head, yet I never believed it. Not for one minute. None of the bullies ever tried to physically hurt me. But the names, the taunts, the below-the-belt torments were relentless. I would have taken a smack on the head or a broken bone over that any day. Not to say that physical pain is a piece of cake. My ribs were broken in a horrific car accident when I was 21 and it was the most agonizing pain I have ever endured. Through a series of accidents, sprained ankles, surgeries and the like, I have suffered through pain any number of times. Although I remember being in pain, I don’t remember the actual pain.

But I do remember the words. Even now I can recite the worst as if I heard them only yesterday. Words like, “Wrap this towel around yourself, you are too fat for that swimsuit” or “Look at those gigantic thighs” or “She looks a little bit like her mother, except her mother was pretty at that age” or “Oink oink oink” or “You might be halfway pretty if you lost some weight” or “Get some Slim Fast” or “See Vanessa, at least you’re not fat like her” and my new all-time favorite: “I hope you die, you fat moose!”

For a while in my late thirties, following a series of poor decisions and bad relationships, I holed up in my townhouse and in the process gained even more weight. I left only for work and to visit my parents. I tried to drown my sorrows, not in alcohol or drugs, but in cookies and chips, donuts and candy. Food had become my drug of choice. The thing is, my sorrows kept resurfacing. One day I realized that I had to leave the house, face the world, and start to live again. It wasn’t easy at first. I bought an older home that required much more of my physical attention. I forced myself to quit smoking and to take daily walks, first with my dog Bandit and later with Raven and Tonka.

The other day someone asked about my picture of Lucy Moose, how a picture of a moose came to be poised in such a prominent location as if she were a member of my family. So I told the story of my road rage rendezvous with the pretty but angry California transplant. Having Lucy Moose on my bookshelf helps to remind me that a moose is a wondrous animal and I now consider any moose comparisons to be a form of flattery.

Occasionally I am still subjected to a drive-by taunt. A teenager will zip around the corner in their car and shout out an unflattering comment about my body as I’m crouched over my flower beds. Intellectually, I know their comment has less to do with my body and more to do with that person’s own insecurities. Rationally, I understand that no one can make me feel inferior without my permission. Yet my heart still struggles with that lesson and sometimes, the words still hurt.

So be careful with your words. Because at times they can be more difficult to deflect than a well-thrown stick or stone.