Ghostly Dreams

Looking at the calendar this morning, I notice we are just one week away from the next full moon. For some reason, over the years it seems as though my most intense, vivid dreams happen in the week before a full moon. Sure enough, another crazy one came to me last night.

I stood in a living room, my living room, yet at the same time not my living room. Well-appointed, lovely furnishings, a soft muted white light enveloped the room. The carpet was lush under my feet. I stepped toward a beautiful antique chair and suddenly became dizzy.

But unlike the vertigo I've been plagued with, this time I really did spin--slowly, ever so slowly--in a circle with my arms waving about. Down I went, onto the soft, forgiving carpet. I hollered to Dave, "I've fallen, come help me."

He walked into the room and I reached out to him. Just then my heart started pounding in my chest, faster faster faster and I reached again to Dave, standing stoically several feet away. I said to him, "My heart, it's racing, so fast," and then a horrendous pain sliced into my chest and I knew it was the end. "Goodbye, goodbye, I love you!" I said hurriedly to Dave but the last three words sounded garbled, as though they were spoken underwater.

And then I stepped away from my body. I was a ghost, drifting about the beautiful room, my room but not my room, as Dave returned to his work on the furnace near the back door.

I followed him, telling him not to worry and that he would be well cared for, when I spied a little person, no more than three feet tall; he could see and hear me. The remainder of the dream was spent channeling information to Dave, still busy with home repairs, using the "ghost whisperer" little person as my voice.

Until I awoke, in my bed, Dave fast asleep, the dogs snuggling and crowding us all together.

I was not dead.

When I told Dave about the dream this morning, he blamed it on the spicy Mexican food we both had for dinner. Okay, maybe. But part of me wants to believe it's something more mystical and magical than just latent indigestion. So I dug out an old New Age-ish dream book from years ago and consulted the reference chart:

• Carpet: Grounding, insulation, protection
• Chair: Your attitudes and position in life
• Death: Make way for new beginnings
• Dizzy: Going in too many directions, scattered
• Dwarf: Not seeing things in proper perspective
• Ghost: Part of self you do not understand
• Heart: Love, emotions, feelings
• Husband: Masculine part of self

Hmm. Yeah. Well, never mind, it probably was the Mexican food...

Dizzy

Photo credit to Tim Inconnu

Over the past week or so I have been afflicted with random spells of dizziness. It came on quite suddenly and was really upsetting those first few days. There I'd be, walking down the hall, when whoops! I'd swerve to the right and slam into the wall. Or I might be performing routine household chores--changing the bed, sorting the laundry, putting away the groceries--when the lightheadedness would appear out of nowhere, forcing me to grab something stable lest I tumble to the ground with a jar of pasta sauce in my hands.

Eventually the problem spiraled out of control, so I visited the doctor. Her diagnosis was that I suffered from a form of vertigo, mostly harmless yet supremely annoying, a disorder caused by the fact that calcium inner ear "rocks" had become dislodged and were now zooming around in areas they were never meant to visit. She gave me some home exercises to perform, with the hope of sending the rocks in my head scrambling back to their intended locale.

So far, I think the exercises have mostly taught me to self-correct my swerving, spinning reactions at a much quicker pace than before. Hopefully I no longer appear to outsiders as a dizzy, tipsy blonde who has been hitting the sauce a bit too heavily.

This adventure in less-than-constant equilibrium got me to thinking about childhood. Most kids, myself included, love to spin themselves rapidly in circles, hell bent on manufacturing the same kind of dizzy sensations I have been doing everything in my power to avoid.

I was probably six or seven years old, and mom had decorated our yard with cement creatures. One was a tiny cement donkey--white with black spots--yet another subject in my expansive and sometimes imaginary animal kingdom. Over time one of his ears cracked from the heat stress caused by the high altitude sun beating down on his tiny little cement self, exposing a section of rebar. This only made him seem a smidge less than real, as I was still quite capable of imagining him as my own personal pet donkey.

In my Charleston dance outfit
for the 4th grade spring fair,
with momma deer and baby deer
in the background.

We also had two cement deer, one large and one small, both lying calmly in repose under the honey locust tree. I called them momma deer and baby deer, although baby deer had a full set of antlers and so did momma deer. No matter, that's what I called them anyway.

So there I was in the hot breezy midst of summer, playing alone in the front yard in a pair of yellow stretch shorts with matching flowery shirt. Determined to make myself dizzy, I spun 'round and 'round and 'round, arms outstretched, feeling my stable grip on the earth slowly melt away.

As was the custom for this silly game, I stopped suddenly then staggered backwards and sideways in a fit of giggles until something unexpected happened: my backside landed directly on one of momma deer's antlers. The metal antler tore into my butt cheek and I let out a scream, falling to the ground with one hand frantically clutching a bloodied spot on my rear end.

Mom came to the rescue and provided much-needed comfort and hugs, before admonishing me on how dangerous it was to play the spinning game so close to a cement deer with antlers and how my yellow play shorts were probably ruined and she'd try to patch the hole as best she could but no guarantees.

(As an aside, I believe this event may have been the catalyst for those dark years when mom would sew "play clothes" for me using scraps of leftover drapery fabric, much like the kids in The Sound of Music wore.)

Fortunately, the gaping wound on my butt cheek did not require stitches but remained a sore spot for a long time. It also provided fodder for the neighborhood kids, who loved to poke fun at any child's misfortune but their own.

And lucky for them, I was always a reliable source for such stories...

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

The Appointed Hour

Ted in Paterson, New Jersey - January 1957 - just before I was born.

Today is my brother Ted's birthday. He's a few years over fifty now.

To me he will always be the big brother who looked out for me, tolerating his annoying crybaby sister as best he could while trying to grow up and have fun with his friends. "Take Debbie with you," was always mom's refrain, whenever Ted and his buddies were headed out to the crawdad ponds or to have big fun playing boy games somewhere in the neighborhood.

Ted would grudgingly oblige, and usually allowed me to participate if for nothing else than to serve as their imaginary game's "mascot." He'd say, "Debbie, you can play the part of the dog tagging along with us cowboys." And stupidly, I thought that was the best thing, ever. Woof, woof. I'd crawl around on my hands and knees and bark, thinking I had a major role in the activity. It never occurred to me how silly I looked.

After we grew up and moved away, mom established a new routine for our birthdays. She would still ask us over to celebrate with a homemade birthday cake and our favorite meal. But we worked now, and if our birthdays were during the week we couldn't always get away and spend time with her. She wanted so very much to still be part of our special day--a day, after all, that really she was the only one who shared. Back in those days, fathers were not a part of the birthing process. Although dad was present at the hospital, mom pretty much had to go it alone with the doctors and nurses. Eventually someone would find the father and announce the outcome. Seems silly nowadays, doesn't it?

Anyway, mom decided that one way she could be with us on every birthday was to call us at the appointed hour, the exact time of day we were born. Fortunately for all concerned, Ted and I were both born at reasonable times: Ted at 7:38 PM and me at 3:43 PM. When the phone rang at that exact time, it was easy to know who was on the line. Mom.

Since mom's been gone, more than 14 years now, Ted and I have soldiered on and have both taken a stab at keeping up mom's tradition. Sometimes if he's busy at work, Ted might miss calling me until past the appointed hour. I have often tried to call Ted at his appointed hour, only to discover that he is out with his family enjoying a birthday dinner. Now that technology is part of our everyday lives, we have both substituted the occasional text message in place of a phone call. Hey, it works.

So tonight, I'll call Ted at the appointed hour to give his official "Happy Birthday" notification. Somehow I imagine mom will be helping to dial the phone.

Happy birthday to my wonderful brother. I love you!

A Better Place

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

So long, dear old friend...

Reflections

Turkey Patrol

A Rose by Any Other Name

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it wasn't her only nickname, either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Golden Slumber

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

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

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

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

Myself included.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(gratuitous dog picture)

Even Tonka and Daisy are tired.

Where the Buffalo Roam

Click on the pictures for a better view

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good to know.

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

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

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


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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, what do you think?

See the (serious) pictures here