The Cowboy Mystery Tour- Vacation 2015

 

Why "The Cowboy Mystery Tour"?
Mystery because
usually we leave for truck-camper travels in June,
our destination and route decided,
applicable books read,
notes taken,
music chosen.
This year
we left as soon as Paul's family moved to Taiwan,
the last week of July,
with absolutely no idea of destinations
except that we would end up
at Uncle Jack's kitchen table
to drink coffee
and talk.
The routes there and back again were a mystery.

Uncle Jack is my dad's oldest brother,
a Korean War veteran
who fell in love with my Aunt Shirley
and his job with Utah's Department of Fish and Game.
Now retired,
he helps run the Ogden Nature Center,
drinks coffee,
goes birding,
and cruises Costco.
He is one of our favorite people
and regular phone conversations were not enough.
Seeing Jack and Shirley was a priority.

Our first stop,
the Altoona AAA office for maps and tour books,
aimed us south,
so we continued to West Virginia,
the Blackwater Falls environs,
places about as far from civilization as you can be
and still be east of the Mississippi River.
That night when I looked at the map
I decided I wanted to see Arkansas's Crater of Diamonds State Park
as every year I tell my first graders
that you can hunt for real diamonds there
and keep whatever you find.
Our journey to Arkansas went through Kentucky,
a place of caves and cookies,
Lincoln's boyhood
and Ale-8
and the George S. Patton Museum in Fort Knox.
(Note: You cannot visit the Patton Museum
if you have a gun in your vehicle.
Ironic.)
Tennessee was front row seats at the Opry,
the Gibson Guitar factory,
Martin Luther King
and Beale Street
and Memphis barbecue.
We crossed the Mississippi River
and entered Arkansas,
and after a tour of Hot Springs,
rib-and-fry at McClanes
(Oh! McClanes!)
and a stop at the hardware for a bucket and trowel,
we pulled in to Crater of Diamonds.
It was 97 degrees and mostly sunny.
The truck's dash said it felt like 106.
Den opted for a nap in the shade
with the cat
(Did I mention we are traveling with a Siamese?)
while I went diamond-hunting.
Crater of Diamonds is an actual volcanic crater,
plowed to expose new rocks.
The introductory movie I watched
said that most diamonds are smaller than matchheads
and that they shine in the sunlight after a rain.
Just weeks before,
a Colorado woman had found an 8.52 carat diamond,
slightly smaller than an inch-long pencil
which is huge for a diamond.
I joined about eighty people sparcely scattered in the 38 acre field
and soon realized that it hadn't rained for weeks,
that trash shines even when it hasn't rained,
that the dirt was in hard clumps,
and that matchhead-sized objects are beyond my focus.
I quickly broke my trowel blade off by smacking it on the dirt clumps--
three dollar trowels are apparently not meant for smacking--
and decided to walk the perimeter of the field
smacking clumps with the trowel handle instead.
If I'm going to find a diamond,
it's going to be a big one!
At the far edge of the crater
I asked a middle-aged man
if he wanted to jump up and down
and yell "Wow!" with me
to see if we could get anybody to run over.
He declined.
I ended up at the shady sluice trough with the park ranger
and a Serious Diamond Hunter.
The Serious Diamond Hunter had a screen
and was sluicing
and swirling
and using a scalpel to examine his bits of gravel.
They looked with amusement at the colorful fist-sized rocks in my bucket
and told me they were mostly jasper.
After a geology lesson
and a history lesson
and a trade with the Serious Diamond Hunter--
his old working trowel for my broken new trowel blade--
and a discussion about how armadillos are startled
and kill themselves
by jumping up when a car passes over them,
I left the crater with a new reason for the chicken to cross the road:
to show the armadillo it could be done.
A girl sat at the counter with her tweezers and eyepiece;
I dumped my bucket of fist-sized mostly-jasper in front of her.
"I don't think I have any diamonds here," I said.
"Ummmm, no," she replied
and gave me a strange look.

A bucket of jasper

An hour later it rained.









We then re-aimed for Utah,
choosing the roads not taken before:
The Oklahoma panhandle.
A south-to-north trip through Colorado.
Enroute we sang "This Land is Your Land" at Woody Guthrie's birthplace,
hiked Capulin Volcano's rim in New Mexico,
went to a square dance,
had breakfast with Den's cousin,
and started to notice a pattern
that we then focused on:
cowboy stuff.

Oklahoma City Cowboy Museum

Oklahoma City's Cowboy Museum started it,
with original Remington and Russell art
and Tom Selleck's gun
and Hoot Gibson's chaps.
We then had a Colorado adventure to the end of a road
where we met four dogs
and three cowboys
who invited us to sit on their porch
and listen to stories of
Great-granddad's acquaintance with Butch Cassidy
and how Butch shot up the saloon in Baggs,
then covered each hole with a gold piece.
We visited cowboy museums in Craig, Colorado
and Baggs, Cody, and Sheridan, Wyoming.
We went to a rodeo,
ate a cowboy dinner,
went to a cowboy concert,
bought cowboy books
and cowboy boots
($5 at Sheridan's Salvation Army Store)
and bandanas
and a picture of Lonesome Dove's Gus McCrae,
went to a saddlery
and a rope maker,
and visited locations where Teddy Roosevelt,
the Cowboy President,
had been.

Five dollar thrift boots

Dogs, cowboys, and stories

We did get to Uncle Jack's.
We spent hours each morning
at his kitchen table
eating Fortified Oatmeal
and drinking coffee
and watching black-chinned hummingbirds visit his feeder.
Jack showed us the arrowheads he had serendipitously found
and the trees he had transplanted
to make urban Ogden
an oasis of quiet.
Aunt Shirley prepared seafood linguine
and served it on Grandma Maud's dining table.
As I ate,
I slid my toes up the curves of the table legs
and felt like I was twelve again.
Artistic cousin Jill joined us twice a day
and brought her three affectionate Yorkies
who served as both pets and dustmops.

Morning coffee and talk

Utah Rensels-Jack, Shirley, Jill

Ogden oasis

Penny, arrowhead

We are a bit compulsive on trips.
Journaling is essential
and various items are tallied.
Here is The Cowboy Mystery Tour by the numbers:
5,927 miles travelled
$1,059 for gas
80 pounds of interesting rocks
71 pronghorns on the southern loop
        between Creston Junction and Wallcot, WY 
65 miles of Absolutely Straight Highway west of Guymon, OK
47/50 state license plates spotted (missing VT, ND, and HI)
36 hikers in Waterfall Canyon
26 beds stacked in a German bus
19 roadkilled rabbits
18 cords on the $2 Thai parachute at the Presbyterian rummage sale
17 states travelled
15 miles per gallon
10 point mule deer
9 bridges to the end of the road
7 KOAs
5 satellites and
4 shooting stars in the Medicine Bow National Forest
3 wild horses on a hilltop
2 women visited Den while Sue showered    "Cats are a chick magnet."
1 overpriced trick rope
(cue music)...and a buzzard in a dead tree.

What did we learn on The Cowboy Mystery Tour?
1. Planning can be overrated.
2. The West is more than topography.
     It's sun and shade and wind and rocks and far-off rain
     ...and an occasional historic saloon.
3.  Don't even try to count giant windmills. Or cows.
4.  If everything else is equal, travel the highest passes.
5.  Look for local cars at restaurants.
     Ask the waiter what most people order, then order that.
6.  Use a GPS as back-up, not your primary source of information.
     Our Garmin, "Carmen,"
     (as in Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?)
     gave good advice in Nashville
     but was not appreciated in Vail
     or Cody, where we followed her crackpot advice through six tunnels.
     Like a cat always on the wrong side of the door,
     Carmen was often discontent.
     If we were on a four-lane, she wanted us on the parallel side road.
     If we wanted to travel the byways, she insisted on interstates.
7.  McDonalds has free, easy internet.
8.  You can lead a cat to water, but you can't make him drink--
     and the leading is more like dragging.
9.  South Bend seems to be an iffy place to sleep.
10. Abe Lincoln's mother's last words were "Be kind to one another."

Oh, and one more thing.
Write your memories down so you don't forget them.
Done.
More pictures below....

Morning coffee in Kentucky

Chai the Cat, chick magnet

Grand Old Opry, Nashville

Den started a Gibson sales pitch

Donkey democrats in Arkansas-- Bill and Hillary?

The longest straight road in the USA is west of Guymon, OK. Sixty-five miles. The perfect perspective drawing

Ten point mule deer in Colorado

At the rim of Capulin Volcano

Collecting some of the eighty pounds of rocks

Light and shadow in Flaming Gorge

Halfway up Waterfall Canyon, Salt Lake in the background

Destination reached! Shoes off, water and snacks consumed, short nap to follow

The waterfall of Waterfall Canyon fame

Butch Cassidy danced in this Baggs, Wyoming room. So did Sue.

This ain't Butch

A mountain, a fire, clear skies, two hours to meteors

Rodeo!

German bus with front seating, twenty-six bunks, kitchen and picnic table storage beneath

Cows. Fortunately, Sue speaks Cow. It's always good to have a second language.

Big Horn Canyon, Montana-Wyoming border

We predict Big Horn Canyon to be the next place the Californians discover.

Can you spot three wild mustangs on the hilltop?

Some rocks are too big to haul home

Den talks rope...

...and admires the variety.

The back room at King Saddlery, Sheridan

Saddle workmanship

Apparently the Japanese need reminded as well

The Occidental Saloon, Buffalo, Wyoming

(cue music)...and a buzzard in a dead tree. Without the buzzard.

You're Welcome, Sweetie Pie!

 I had three goals for this summer.
1. Learn to ride a motorcycle.
I burned my leg 
and broke Den's brake handle 
on my first lesson.
2. Get my Movement Learning website working.
Sadly, 
when I had knowledgeable people here, 
the internet was down 
and/or the website wouldn't let me on. 
3. Be flexible.
This is the only goal that has been mostly successful.
Flexibility was especially important
as we wanted to be available
for whatever our son Paul
and his wife Kate
and the grandgirls,
Anna and Lucy,
needed to facilitate this summer's move to Taiwan.

Flexibility allowed us to make more memories with the grandgirls:
Drip sandcastles at Parker Dam.
Baby swallows named Wendy, John, Michael, and Peter...

Wendy, John, Michael, and Peter

guess who's into Peter Pan?
Bike shows with no training wheels
and scooters
and spinning tricycles.
(Advice:
Any time a used Razor bike product is for sale,
buy it.)
Woods walks that allow us to find puffballs
and blueberries
and round leaves
and sticks that look like the letter F.
On walks,
the grandgirls liked to pretend
that they were the girls in The Boxcar Children books.
I was always the little brother Benny.
Benny lisps
and they found that hilarious
even when the lisp sounded like Lucy.
Treks to the swimming hole
to float the current
and make mermaid pools
and rock stacks.
Daily trips to the raspberries,
abundant this year.
Lucy liked to be in charge of the bucket
and then put the berries in ziplock bags,
squish them up,
and take them to the freezer...
Anna liked to eat them.
Mountain backroad jeep rides
that allowed girls to have their heads above the windshield
with a kite flying behind.

Lucy and the jeep

On one jeep ride
a red fox,
Lucy's favorite animal,
crossed in front of us
and then stood in the woods,
peering out.
That night
as I prayed with her,
"Thank you, God,
for letting Lucy see a real fox,"
she piped up
"Thank you, God,
for letting me see a real fox!"
and then immediately became the voice of God:
"WELL, YOU'RE WELCOME, SWEETIE PIE!"

This morning at 12:30 AM
we left for the Pittsburgh Airport
to begin what Den called
The Big Jump.
Waiting at baggage check-in,
Anna and I put googly eye stickers on their luggage.
(Full disclosure:
I barely resisted putting them on airport signs.)
Goodbye hugs occurred at 4:00
with big-and-little tears
from six Shaffners
and Shelby-the-amazing-driver/friend.
For the many people
who have prayed for our adjustment
to our family's Great Adventure,
thank you.
Thank you.
THANK you.
Bless you.
We are at peace.
We confidently hand them off to their Asian family,
to grandparents Victor and Joy,
and to the hand of God.

Last night,
Paul and Kate decided to let the girls stay up
so they would sleep more on the plane.
Ten o'clock found us in the garage
painting our pinkie nails
to remind us of each other.

Polished pinkies except for Foxy

Anna soon disappeared
into the house
to resume
her new-found friendship
with Calvin and Hobbes,
but Lucy hopped on the Razor trike
and spun around the driveway
in the dark,
admiring the stars.
I began to sing
the simple children's song
"God made the stars..."
when she took over
and bellowed
"Thank you God
for the stars
and the MOOOON
and Grammy
and BO-O-OP..."
I raised my hands
to the One who made the moon
and joined her in thankfulness
imagining God's response:
"Well, you're welcome,
Sweetie Pie!"

When someone else is driving
and you have no control,
be thankful for the company.
Throw your hands in the air
and enjoy the ride.
There is joy in the journey.

Paul, Kate, Anna, and Lucy  now live in Kaohsiung, Taiwan

May you find joy in your journey.

Denny and Sue

Mange and Primroses

Most evenings
as dusk approaches
we look to see if the evening primrose flowers have started to open
and we look north, east, south, and west
for bears.

Uncle Jack taught us about evening primroses.
New flowers open each evening,
quickly.
The buds split and fold back
and four papery yellow petals unfurl,
exposing stamens
and the cross-shaped stigma;
a closer look reveals strings of pollen
strung across the flower like webs.
The whole process takes about a minute and a half.
Calming.
Fascinating.

We sometimes miss the bears
as they aren't on as predictable a schedule
as the primroses.
Bears may come in the mornings
or afternoons
or during the night
and all we see are their tracks
or broken branches on the Juneberries
or the birdfeeder on the ground.
The cracked corn
that Den scatters on the driveway for the doves
sometimes disappears overnight,
licked clean.
This week, though,
we have spotted a yearling cub
visiting at dusk.
One evening Den found him in the garage
next to the spilled sunflower seed container
and named him Little Bear
like the bear in the Minarik/Sendak children's books.
The next night I saw him
as he moseyed from the driveway
to the back woods
where I had thrown old eggs
and some ham fat.
The cub was not easily frightened
but stood up,
curious.
He reminded me of the pictures from my youth
of starving Biafran children
with sad smiles
and skinny limbs
and distended bellies.
His limbs and belly
were almost hairless,
his ears white
with mange.
Den wanted to fatten him up;
I wanted to stroke him,
to teach him to come when I call
like a pet cat--
not that our cats come when we call--
but instead we called the game warden.


Officer Stewart and his deputy came yesterday morning
with a large metal tube on a trailer,
a humane trap.
It was baited with dogfood
and fat
and beaver lure
and tasty sunflower seeds.
In the late afternoon,
Den added a opened can of tuna
but no bear came at dusk.
I settled for the primrose show.


This morning at 7:15
while lying in bed
we heard a clunk.
"Got him!" 
We dashed outside in the rain,
peered through the holes
and saw his white ear tips.
"It's Little Bear," Den said.
"Let him alone. He's scared."
But I couldn't.
I peeked in one hole,
then another,
talked to him,
told him I was sorry he was so sick.
His nose appeared,
curious.
and I blew on it.
He made some noises.

Den couldn't let him alone, either.
He thought that Little Bear's mom
may have been the mountain's mangy bear
that circled but wouldn't enter last year's trap,
that she hadn't survived hibernation,
and that the cub had been on his own for months.
"Poor Little Bear.
He must be hungry."
Den dropped half a pound of good bacon into one of the holes.

Officer Stewart came this afternoon
and took him away.
He will determine
whether Little Bear is a candidate for rehabilitation--
medicinal treatment--
or not.

Not long ago
I made my evening trip to the windows
and looked north, east, south, and west,
but saw no bears.
I said a prayer for Little Bear
and looked at the primroses.
They stood tall in the raspberry patch,
shedding raindrops
like tears.

---------------------------------------------

Follow-up to this story, two days later:

When we called to report another bear,
Middle Bear,
about 250 pounds
with slight mange
and tags in both ears,
Officer Stewart told us that Little Bear
had received two mange treatments
and was released in the gamelands.
When he was given a dead beaver,
instead of eating it,
he snuggled down with it.

We now have another cub in the trap
instead of the Middle Bear
we have Tiny Bear.
He, too, is mangy
and loves bacon.

Hopefully,
by the end of the summer,
we will have caught and treated them all.

Cross One Off the Bucket List

Good spot to read during rainstorms

Earlier in the week during yet another rainstorm
I was curled up on the
new-to-us-Paul-and-Kate-won't-need-it-anymore loveseat--
reason here --
reading James Barrie's Peter Pan
and came upon the line
"Would you like an adventure now
or would you like to have your tea first?"

I like to think that I am always ready for adventure.
Earlier in the month
I went with my friend Leslie
to the Episcopal church's "Trunk to Treasure" sale
and found a bucket with pockets.
I am a sucker for any organizational gizmos
and upon returning home
immediately washed out the dead spiders
and filled it with jeep adventure essentials
Yes, if you haven't heard,
Gilda the Adventure Car is gone.
See link here.
...essentials like Sharpie markers and paint,
wire and wire cutters,
tape and scissors,
granola bars and dog treats,
leather gloves,
quick mix cement,
a garbage bag,
shovel,
towel and toy boat and three swim noodles
(used to be four but one blew out),
bug spray and aloe and hand sanitizer,
and two parafoil kites
which don't fly as well as you would think out of an open jeep,
but when they do,
oh! So cool!

The bucket

This morning
was what all mornings should be:
an adventure morning.
I dressed in a no-waist dress
(comfort,
plus yesterday's surprise--
I am three pounds over pregnant-with-a-nine-pound-baby weight,
part of the reason I needed an adventure today)
and a foldable sunhat
(hoping for sun,
covers up mischievous hair)
and Croc sandals
(go anywhere!)
and set off in the jeep toward Clearfield.
Two miles down the road
I saw the Rockton Mountain rock man we call Gouger
and decided that he needed hair.
I wired some mountain laurel twigs to his head,
easily snapped off
because the power company
SPRAYS the mountain laurel on its right-of-ways,
grrrrr,
then walked down the hill
to get a better look
and build a rock stack
when I saw a black snake
sinuously paused
about eight feet away.
Not a blacksnake
but a black phase rattlesnake
about four feet long
and an inch and a half in diameter.
Mid-sized.
I stopped. 
I have seen rattlesnakes before--
along the fence,
crossing the highway,
one along our sidewalk became Luke's third birthday entertainment--
but those snakes I had seen with a group.
This one I found alone,
by myself,
an experience that was on my bucket list.
Yay!
I wanted to make him rattle
so I reached down
and picked up a small chunk of wood
and tossed it near him.
He coiled up and buzzed.
When he was quiet,
I tried it again.
He could buzz longer than I could hold my breath.

Den says he takes his pictures in his mind
but dang,
I wanted a real picture.
I own no cell phone
and the camera was two miles away
on my desk.
"Look before you leap"
has never seemed so appropriate
as I jumped the ditch
and raced home.
Five minutes later
I was back with the camera
and a London teacup
to make James Barrie proud

but the snake had disappeared.
Maybe tonight a bear will come.

The snake was in front of the rock beside the teacup

Last Day Thoughts, Creek Walks, and Curious George

Wilson Run

The last day of school is tomorrow.

We began first grade in August
reviewing letters and sounds
and by spring
the class could handle one of my favorites,
Curious George.
George was a good little monkey.
He had only one fault.
He was too curious...

This year we have read hundreds of stories,
solved hundreds of math problems,
written hundreds of words,
learned the fifty states,
the seven continents,
the nine,
umm, eight planets,
all four verses of My Country, 'Tis of Thee
and put on two plays,
A Christmas Carol
and Peter Pan.
Perhaps the favorite memory of the year, though,
was the walk across the highway
to Wilson Run,
the creek behind my friend Deannie's house.

A century ago,
where the highway now is
a railroad ran
bringing timber to Bennett Branch.
We find pieces of metal in the creek
and wonder what they used to be.
The trains are gone
but tracks remain--
though now the tracks are animal.
 "Mrs. Shaffner, a BEAR was here!
...or maybe a dog..."

It's fascinating to watch the kids in the creek.
After we all walk upstream
(even the timid boy comes back in to join us)
and listen to the water gurgle over the rocks,
the kids scatter.
Some rush to find the deepest part,
curious to see if they might approach the knee-depth limit.
Some build a dam--
who can bring the biggest rock?          

Two dams on Wilson Run

Some stomp
and watch the mud
swirl to the surface
to the irritation
of the crayfish catchers.
The current carries the mud away
and territories are established.
Some holler under the bridge
to hear the echoes.
Some throw rocks,  
mostly away from their friends.
Anthony walks upstream and down,
comparing the water's pressure on his legs.
Three girls are fascinated
by what can be found
on the undersides of rocks:
Snails.
Jellied eggs.
Larval forms of mystery insects.

Creatures on the bottom of a rock

One girl with goatlike tendencies
goes for the highest spot,
a tree,
and looks down on her classmates,
grinning.
Kay is crouched over the water,
looking intently.
She holds up a
one-inch-square rock.
"Look, Mrs. Shaffner!"
There are infinitesimal regular markings,
a plant fossil.
It has been here for millions of years
and Kay
is the first person
to notice it.
We take it back to the classroom,
make crayon rubbings,
and learn it is called Lepidodendron.
We divide it into syllables
and read it slowly:
Lep-i-do-den-dron.

We were privileged to be there on this Noticing Day,
Deannie and I.
The kids were curious,
like George,
and it is not a fault,
it is a blessing.

Tomorrow
my kids will spend their last hours as first graders.
I am glad they've learned to read
and write
and spell
(well, mostly spell)
and add and subtract.
These skills form the base
that they will add to over the years,
but their skills will grow faster
and wider
and deeper
if the child,
the grownup-yet-to-be,
remains curious.

I hope the child in you
remains curious.
Stop
and look
and listen
to whatever-is-in-front-of-you,
the minutia of life,
with wonder.


 

 

Goodbye, Mr Cook

The serendipitous path

I learned to appreciate nature when in college.
Yesterday on the way home from school,
I crawled under the bridge next to the Penfield gas station
and released two tadpoles into Bennett Branch.
The day before there were over a hundred.
We found them in the Black Moshannon while wading,
then took the hot dogs out of the cooler
and filled it with tadpoles.
The next morning
there were only a handful still swimming;
I must have shocked them when changing their water.
Sadly accepting my tadpole mass murderer status,
I justified it
by thinking that fish would have eaten most of them anyway
and they were fascinating
for my first graders to examine with a hand lens.

Last night for our after-dinner entertainment,
a groundhog scurried to the barn
when Den talked to him,
the first groundhog we've seen in the decades
since the coyotes moved in.
A half hour later
a cheeky red fox
was hopping
and digging
and sniffing the groundhog's trail.

Today after school
Den was out for supper
so there was no reason to hurry home.
My serendipitous path
looked like the dotted lines
that Charles Schulz drew behind Woodstock.
I stopped on the Dubec Road
to pray for Den,
our kids,
my friends,
and the two people that don't like me much.
I zigged down another back road
to look for interesting rocks,
then zagged into the woods
acquiring some "Pennsylvania pinstriping"
by scraping a few branches,
then built a rock stack at the township line.

As I re-entered the jeep I noticed a stand of blue-eyed grass,
Sisyrinchium.
(I have trouble remembering why I entered the room,
but I can remember Latin names learned forty years ago.
Go figure.)
I love plants
and took every botany class Elizabeth Cook offered.
Professor Cook taught me to notice details in flowers,
in foliage,
in seasons,
while her Business Department husband Arnold
drove us on many of our field trips.

Den took a class from Mr Cook,
Educational Media,
and learned to make a colored overhead transparency
when that was the cutting edge of technology.
Mr Cook was perhaps the most patient man on the planet.
He sat with a twinkle in his eye
as the border patrol made us unload
Every Single Thing
en route to a botany class
in Ontario's Bruce Peninsula.
"Plan well
and then be flexible."
We have used the phrase
"I'm being Mr Cook"
many times
when we are struggling to be patient.
He modeled how to persevere with a smile,
hiking trails on painful feet.
He taught us to identify birds
and to find the best restaurants
by checking the parking lots for local license plates.
He went out of his way to take us to Niagara Falls
when he found out we had never been there.
He loved traveling
and sharing destinations with others.
He also could come up with a pun every six seconds.

Upon the Cooks' retirement from Houghton College,
they moved back
to their beloved Cascade Mountains
and continued to travel
as their health allowed.
We visited them a few years ago
in their assisted living apartment
and noticed that,
now in his nineties,
the twinkle was still in Arnold's eye
and puns still sprinkled every topic.

Yesterday we received a letter with a Washington postmark.
"This can't be good,"
I said.
A letter from Mrs Cook confirmed what we had guessed;
Mr Arnold Cook died on May 7.

He will live on when I celebrate our mutual birthday
or when we make a pun,
see a meadowlark,
stub our toes,
find a great breakfast spot,
drive a mountain pass,
remember a Latin name,
...and he also lives on in heaven.

Therefore since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, 
let us throw off everything that hinders 
and the sin that so easily entangles 
and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.
Hebrews 12:1 

Blue-eyed grass, Sisyrinchium spp.

 

Morning. Good.

This morning is a
dip-pretzels-in-the-jelly-jar-breakfast kind of morning,
a coffee-in-the-hot-tub start
uninterrupted by crows discovering a bit of meat in the compost
or by a Siamese alarm clock demanding food.
We watched the shadows shorten,
the frost disappear from the yard,

Twoey waits

a deer venture into the field,
the crazy starling
bring yet another load of sticks
to the downspout.
Shouting didn't deter him.
Twoey the cat
climbed up the twigging
to investigate the possibilities
but soon gave up.
A beautiful-but-frustrated cardinal

Frustrated cardinal

flew from oak to birch
still hoping for a mate.
He has spent the last two weeks
frightening the identical cardinal
who lives in our window reflections.

The Gouger

May is full of good mornings.
Two bent-kneed hours-old fawns

stagger across the dirt road
following their mother.
The rock man we call Gouger
now stands in a fragrant cloud
of wild pinxter.
Nearby,
a red-tailed hawk
glides over the road.

Dubec Road fog

Yesterday
Den squinted at two eagles,
dots in the sky.
Other mornings,
fog obscures all but the closest branches.

Monday morning
was especially good.
We were awakened

Small visitors

by small voices
and then small hugs
as Anna and Lucy spent the night
so that Bop could take them
to see my first grade's performance
of Peter Pan.
Never was Hook so nasty,
Tootles so endearing,
or Pan so enthusiastic!
Before the show,

Velma's bleeding hearts

Peter introduced each classmate
to his hundred-year-old
great great grandmother
who is living proof
that we DO grow up

Heart, bunnies, earrings, ballet shoes, paintbrush

and that life can be a great adventure.

During morning recess yesterday,
Madeline and Lara
ventured into the wetland edges
to gather huge bouquets
of buttercups.
We dissected them for science,
then compared them
to the pink bleeding hearts

in the vase on my desk.
These flowers from along our walk
were transplanted years ago
from Velma Bargerstock's garden.
When Den was a boy,
he'd walk to Velma's for a visit
and a cup of coffee.
She'd pour hot water
through the same grounds all day.
Her bleeding hearts
have been on this mountain
for over a century.
We pull the hearts apart
into bunny slippers,
earrings,
ballet shoes
and a paintbrush.
There is yellow pollen paint
on the paintbrush.
God's creations are amazing.

Peace,
Sue and Denny