The Foxfire Diaries

Moving to Tumblr

2010-05-11T09:11:00.001-07:00

For those that may still come by here from time to time - I have finally decided to move the entirety of this blog over to Tumblr. I am hoping the transition will inspire me to be a little more interactive with my blogging!

Come find me at: The Fabled Fox

See you there!

Ode to a Kidney Stone

2008-12-17T07:37:00.001-08:00

I had been feeling weird throughout Friday, and decided to go to bed early because of it. However, little did I know as I sank into sleep, that in a few short hours (3:30 a.m. to be exact) I would be awakened by a monumental pain not unlike a power drill being held to my innards.

I have never thrown up because of pain, but someone let loose the hounds that night. There was no decorum left as I writhed on the bathroom floor wondering what sort of devilry had sunk it’s claws into me. It was so much worse than that time when I fell on the center bar of my brother’s 10-speed bike. And it was WAY worse than the time my uncle mowed over my legs on an old fashioned runner-sled. Even worse than the time I flew off my bike and skidded 15 feet down the gravel road on my face. Yes, until now…those had been the pinnacle moments of pain. But no more. Now I had The Stone to contend with, though I didn’t know it yet. There on the floor in the bathroom I merely thought I was dying by being pulled through a razor-lined knothole backwards.

This, of course, had to happen during the first major snowstorm of the year! So my darling hubby rushed me (i.e. drove at a moderately safe speed, which was slower than if I had a snap craving for rhubarb and decided to mosey to the store on a sunny day) in the wee hours of the morning, trying to keep calm while his wife was a shrieking banshee of agony and weeping in the passenger seat. I tried my best to sink into a meditative state. I rolled the window down part way to hear the slushing sound of snow and ice, but my mind was a blur. Instead of a calming sussuration of thoughts, it was screaming “ICESNOWPAINOWICESNOWSLUSHOWOWOWOWWWWICESNOWDRIVEFASSSSSSSTEROWWWWWWWWW”. So tranquil.

I, of course, then had to endure the “Checking In” procedure at the emergency desk. Sure. Hand me a bunch of papers to sign when my body has literally formed a figure-8 from the wretched muscle tensing and desperate futile quest for relief. I could barely uncurl my fingers from the Fists of Agony in order to sign my name…which I am pretty sure came out as “AimeeOUCHOUCHOUCH”. I managed to choke on a laugh when she handed me the urine sample cup. But of course, I had to be a good cowboy and buck up for the cause. So I did, with much sobbing, yelping, and wishing sweet unconciousness would visit me…with a bottle of whiskey and a hammer.
Fortunately, once I got on a gurney the Angel of Mercy arrived in pale blue Crocs. She propped my arm up, thwapped a vein, and had the IV in like she’d just broke the record at the county cow roping contest. Considering I hate needles and going to the doctor, the fact that I had my arm out there like a willing heroin junkie should tell you something. GIVE ME THE BIG GAUGE NEEDLE!! Pump that sweet sunshine IN, NOWWWW!!!!!

I remember hearing something about narcotics and lightheadedness, but ohhhhhhhhh sweet jam, it was bliss. In the blink of an eye, a woosh of tingly, numbing delight flew through my circulatory system and banished the pain away like that old lady in the Clapper commercials. I melted like butter onto the gurney, and proclaimed undying love for Nurse Wonderful. She smiled, and smooshwalked her Crocs out of the room while I giggled and hubby rubbed my feet. After two solid hours of the most excruciating, frightening, unrelenting pain I could ever imagine… to have it suddenly and swiftly lifted from me was life altering. I could practically see into the future. Everything was golden and good, and I wanted to run around and give everyone in the ER hugs and cupcakes. Of course, exactly 25 minutes later it wore off and I was ready to dropkick fluffy bunnies if that’s what it took to score more drugs. (Public Service Announcement: No fluffy bunnies were harmed in the making of this post, or in the banishing of my kidney stone! I love them, and cuddle them, and wish them all rapturous lives in fields of fresh clover.)

So that is how Aimee was introduced to her first ever CT scan. First ever IV! First ever official hospital gown. Egad. Those are hideous drapes of mortification and humiliation aren’t they? AND – the BEST moment ever – the hospital is undergoing construction on a new wing. That means the CT Scanner was outside in the cold and snow, in a glorified medical trailer park. So my aching, drug-dizzy self was pushed in a wheelchair, hospital gown flapping in ALL the wrong places, out into the snowstorm, down a bumpy parking lot driveway, onto a lift where the whole parking lot could get a glimpse of the fabulousness of my 3:00 a.m. hairdo (which looked quite like I was breakdancing on my head, on a burlap carpet). HELLO, WORLD! BUY MY ART! WEE!

Ultimately, after many refills on the IV, and reassurances by the doctors that I did NOT want to have this stone removed physically by them…. I was sent to continue this whole lovely process in the privacy of my own home. Which I did. And hence, the shockingly tiny ‘Gomer’ was born into the world, promptly greeted by my tongue sticking out at it. Rudely. And deservedly. TAKE THAT, ugly jabby thingy. Your reign of terror is OVER! Clap off!

There's no place like home...

2008-10-10T07:27:00.001-07:00

A Rally Cry for Artists!

During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.

At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it in a way that served both as a historic record and a celebration to the determination and grit that kept people alive and the tiny coals of hope aglow.

Even beyond the government sponsored program, artists of all kinds heard the call of need and desperation. People needed escape. They wanted something that could transport them in that dark hour, to a place where their mind's could take flight, their hearts could mend, and they could forget the growling in their stomachs and the tears that stained their children's cheeks.

It was during this time, in 1939, that The Wizard of Oz came to the silver screen. With it's opening of a black and white life for Dorothy in the dustbowl of Kansas to the sudden sensory tsunami of color as she was whisked away to Oz, it was an epic journey that would make people's hearts burst open with possibility if only they would believe in it.

The message behind all of this is a poignant one. In a time when Big Business grinds to a halt and the hands of hard working individuals wring in worry and despair, it is a rallying cry for artists everywhere. The gift of muse and creativity that comes to us freely can be the glimpse of color through sepia tinted glasses, and the melody that lifts tear stained eyes. It can be the crazy cartoon that still makes children laugh despite the worn threads of their clothes and the worries that are beyond their years.

Art knows no limits. It does not need Wall Street to buy and sell it's heart. It does not need oil barons to back it's worth. It is oblivious to the deception of mortgage companies, credit card telemarketers, and gas titans. It exists, because it is the very essence of the world we live in. It is the rose that continues to bloom in drought. It is the blazing sunset that paints the sky over a closed factory. It is the dance of mist and sparkle of frost over homes in foreclosure. It is the diamond sky and pearl moon above a war torn city. Art exists, because our world exists. Our universe exists. We exist. And to those of us whose lifeblood runs in rainbows through our veins and our every breath is a technicolor sigh, it is our turn to be the infusion of hope in these anemic times. We don't have to wait for a government to set up a program. We don't have to wait to see our neighbor in tears. We know what to do. It is in our very nature to be empathetic to the shift in global consciousness. Now is the time to grab our paint brushes, our pens, our trumpets and blast away the tornado twisting at our back door with a rush of color, light, and song.

The tornado is not here to take us to Oz. We are here to bring Oz to the tornado, banishing it away with a click of our ruby red shoes, singing and dancing all the way home.

~Aimee

Mooncow

2008-09-24T07:47:00.000-07:00

Why did the cow jump over the moon?
Why did she end her fun so soon?
She could have aimed for a much better place,
right on the Man in the Moon's bright face
For don't you think, if given the chance
a cow on the face of the moon would dance
with all four hooves stomping the ground
sending rainbows of moondust and starlight around?

And don't you think she'd want to see
if the moon was really made of cheese?
For if it was true, it would have to be
from the grandest cow in eternity!
A gigantic, celestial bovine Queen
making vats of skymilk so pristine
That many a song would praise it's glory
and authors would include it in all their stories.

But no, instead, the cow...she just jumped
right over the moon, and back down with a thump
in a field in a place far away from the moon
where cows are just cows, and sunrise is soon
and the farmer will come to fetch milk for the day
in a simple, absolute, ordinary way
not noticing the glimmer and glint of proof
of stardust shimmering on his cow's hoof

And the cow, for now, will just have to wait
To head back to the moon and investigate
Whether Mooncow is there, making moonmilk sublime
for that magnificent, luminous cheesewheel divine
in a field full of comets and shooting stars
where she chews on Venus and nibbles on Mars
And maybe then Earthcow will stay
and dance out her days in the great Milky Way.

Aimee - Sept. 24, '08 (Morning writing exercise)

Happy Dance Freeflow

2008-09-22T07:25:00.000-07:00

Sassy, frassy, happy dance. Magic springing forth in heel-toe, heel-toe. Quickstep across the boardwalk, springkick to the air, landing in sand with one fell swoop. Pause, tiny grains flicked from freckled arm... then moving once again. One-two-three-four, foxtrot over shoreline, deftly circling sanddollars and polished pebbles. Sparkling smile flashed at chubby cheeked children digging moats around makeshift sandcastles, frayed seagull feathers standing in for regal flags. And the dance continues, toward the tidepool... where barnacle speckled crabs scuttle sideways to avoid shuffling feet. Shoes kicked off with ease, toes sink in, water droplets flying as footwork meets water. Sunsparks glance on the water, drawn to happy feet highstepping to a tune of their own across mirrored pools soon shattered with glee.

Smooth sand churns beneath the thump of dancing soles. Swish-STOMP-swish-swish-STOMP! Elderly couple pauses a few strides away, trapped in the spectacle of it all. Buttoned down in matching sweatsuits, wrinkled faces shift with amused confusion at the dervish skiffing along the shoreline. Dancer spots oglers, and leaps to the air - highKICK! - before falling into zootsuit prance, fingers snapping, body swaying to thumping inner drums. Couple moves on, husband craning neck before tugged onward to the promise of clinking teaspoons and T.S. Elliot.

Patrons at seaside diner peer out floor to ceiling windows, spoons hovering above breadbowls of clam chowder. Laughter ripples. Fingers point. Check that one out! Pinwheel color prancing in seafoam. Music trickles in to collective consciousness. Young man taps out rhythm with fork to waterglass. Waiter's fingers drum over menus on the front desk. Telephone rings, front door cowbells chime, cellphones erupt, baby shrieks, seagulls squak on rooftop. And the dancer boogieoogieoogies, throwing in a two-step cowboy stomp for good measure. Redneck from Alabama yeehaws with approval. Quiets down when onion rings arrive.

And then in the roar of wildoceanwhitewatertumblewaves...cartwheels, pirouettes, jiveboogie sashay times eleven. Fancyshmancy Rockette finale in the breakwater, highkicks galore, droplets flashing sunlight like paparazzi bulbs on opening night. Arms thrown wide, ready for the closeup, jazzhands matched with a Broadway smile. They love me, they REALLY love me.

Two people applaud unheard in the restaurant. Kids jump up and squeel with joy as they mimic the dancer, on top of their fifteenth massacred castle. Dogs race by, chasing a green blur of tennis ball.

Shoes scooped up from the sand, a little Charlie Chaplin shuffle as dancer heads back towards town... following the trail of happydancetracks in sand.

Anything Is Possible, Just Ask My Dog

2008-07-24T06:14:00.000-07:00

Last night while I was making dinner (barbequed burgers, mm!) I dropped a couple of Scoops tortilla chips on the floor. Of course the automatic instinct is to sweep them up and dispose of them, but my aussie shepherd Griffin is usually there hoovering up anything that falls to the ground in a methodic and obsessive manner. However, this time he was outside, and missed this golden opportunity. On a whim, I decided to leave the chips there (we don't have an ant problem...or else I'd be insane to do that!), to see how long it would take him to find them.

So, this morning - 5:50 a.m., I'm in the kitchen making my husband's lunch, when a grand and enthusiastic crunching breaks the silence. I glance across the kitchen, and there's Griffin...savoring his delayed prize. I chuckle and point it out to my husband who is putting on his shoes. And then I notice Griffin turning, and making a thorough sweep of the area.

Me - "Ah yes, just look at that dedication. It paid off this morning, with two chips found. Now he must sniff every inch of the floor becasue... you never know! There might be something else there!"

Hubby - "It's true. He's a total optimist. There could be all kinds of things hidden around here worth looking for!"

Me - "Yeah. For all he knows, there could be a steak dinner under the table..."

Hubby - "Salisbury steak!"

Me - "...all on a plate, with mashed potatoes and gravy. Pre-cut so he doesn't even have to work very hard. Really, it could be there. For him, it's worth looking for."

Hubby - "I guess that's how we should look at life. Don't think of the odds, just trust that anything is possible. The Salisbury steak dinner is there, somewhere."

Me - "Keep hoovering. Eventually it'll pay off!"

Hubby - Turning to Griffin... "Ya teachin' us life lessons today, boy?"

Heh! And, then...Griffin got his two non-wheat apple treats that he always gets in the morning, and hubby went to work. The house is quiet again. Griffin's already back asleep behind me on the floor, and I'm still laughing to myself. And then I remember the Carrot Cake incident. Years ago, we purchased a gigantic carrot cake
from Costco. They are massive sheet cakes, almost two feet long it seems, and so thick one slice could be a meal in itself! We bought it because we had company over, but we only ate a fraction of what was there. So, it was wrapped up on a big cake plate, set on the kitchen table, and left for the next day.

Hubby had to leave for work early that day, so it was one of those rare mornings that I slept in. When I finally came down the stairs and into the kitchen, I was greeted by the site of a clean plate, the plastic peeled back and on the table. 'Hmmm - Lar must have taken it to work with him for the guys but... he could have used that plate, I wouldn't have cared!' And so the morning went on.

Later in the day, hubby calls for a chat while he's taking a break. 'Hey hon, did the guys like the cake?' I said.

'What cake?'

'The carrot cake you took this morning! I bet they were stoked!'

'I didn't take the cake - I thought you guys ate it after I went to bed or something.'

'THAT much cake? Holy cow, who do you think we are? We didn't touch it!'

'Well then what happened to it?'

'I have no idea! The plate's clean...although the plastic looks kinda weird. I mean, it's not in the fridge, it's...' - and right about then, Griffin comes sauntering in. I hadn't really paid attention, but he hadn't been frequenting the kitchen like he was accustomed to. Now, he slunk by the table with a little sidelong glance to me, and I stopped in my tracks.

'Ooooo....nooo.'

'What?'

'I think I know what happened to the cake...'

'What?!'

'Griffin....'

'No way!! No way!'

At this point, I was starting to laugh, hard. I went over and inspected the cake plate. Licked so clean, you'd thought it was washed and jet dried. The plastic had been neatly pulled back to expose the bounty, and not a crumb was spared.

I put the phone to the side and called for my dog. "Griffin... c'mere boy! Did you eat the cake?"

His eyelids drooped in that guilty-but-gawd-it-was-fun look.

I burst out laughing. "Our dog... scored the biggest score of his life. I'm amazed he's not sick!!"

"I can't even blame him. If I were a dog, and walked around the corner to find a giant carrot cake sitting there... I'd do the same thing."

...and so, I washed the plate, put it away, and didn't run our furry guy as hard during his afternoon play time. After all, a gut full of sugar doesn't exactly make you want to run right out and play frisbee!

So, after remembering that, and then thinking of him diligently surfing the floor on the notion that something good might turn up at any moment... I figured there was a lesson to be learned. Yes, why question the odds of a carrot cake showing up on the table just for you, or plate of steak dinner just sitting on the floor, waiting to be snarfed up by a hungry pooch? Just believe. Just hoover like there's no tomorrow, and believe.

Firefly Rising

2008-03-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

Eclectic

2008-03-21T09:08:00.001-07:00

I've always liked the word 'eclectic'. There used to be an art gallery in an old farmhouse near where I live called "Arts Eclectia". It was filled to the rafters with an assorment of odds and ends that would make a pirate jealous. All kinds of sparkling baubles, flowing scarves, richly painted canvasses, and a woman behind the counter that wore so many rings on her fingers that you couldn't see the flesh on them.... only the long burgandy nails sticking out from the tips.

I used to love wandering through that shop. It gave me a sense of being a well travelled place where the collections were plucked from every corner of the earth to create a jumbled story told from the floor to the ceiling, and every nook in between. Peek around a corner, and you'd find a new twist to the plot in the form of an old teacup from London, or a scarf from Rome. Open the door to one of the many antique armoirs that were there, and you'd find the heroine of the story in the form of a delicately beaded clutch from the 1800's, or a shock of yellow silk from China. Look up at the ceiling, and there would be the splash of color in an abstract painting. Nothing matched, and yet it all flowed together beautifully; a feast for the eyes, and the imagination.

My life has pretty much always ran that same course. Little bits and pieces of inspiration have come from all areas. A veritable gypsy's skirt woven from fabrics of all kinds. And the older I get, the more varied my taste becomes. I've stopped being defined by specific genres a long time ago. I've realized the wonderful freedom of simply letting my mind, heart, and imagination do the choosing for me. Music, books, artwork, creativity of any kind... all of it is free game to me now. The only steady prerequisite that is woven through everything I collect into my life...is that it needs to somehow inspire, resonate, and move me. There is a great lyric in a song by one of my favorite bands that says "it'll either move me, or move right through me...", and how true that is. There are fantastic resources of inspiration, fun, joy, depth, passion, empathy....all over the world, in every manner of unexpected places. You just have to be an open receptacle to the wonder of it all. If you automatically judge something because it falls outside your preset genres of appreciation... you stand to lose out on the amazing gift of simply enjoying something for what it is.

But make no mistake... not everything has to be anchored by deep meaning. Sometimes, I cherish something because it is just plain fun. Whimsy can be such a precious possession. I love frivolity as much as I treasure the echoing moments of life when something bittersweet taps into the core of my soul, and brings tears to my eyes because of a melody heard, or a poem read. I think it is a huge gift to enjoy the range of all these emotions, and even better still...sharing them in my artwork.

I used to worry that my portfolio was too varied. I worried that since I jumped from subject to subject in such wide degrees of seperation, people might get confused. I would hold back in going too far one way or another, afraid of isolating people who watched me because they liked a certain look... a certain style. And then I woke up and laughed at myself for having completely missed the whole point of being me. I am eclectic! I am that girl who listens to improvisational jazz one moment, and ABBA the next. I am the one who equally loves the plastic Hello Kitty on the shelf, and the antique carved elephant from India that stands next to her. I am that treasure packed farmhouse. How could I possibly be afraid to let it all out? Why not just throw the doors open, and let people decide what they will come in to see. Some might wander to the first thing they see. Others might walk right past the pretty baubles, and head straight for the shadowy closet. Others will see a sparkle of color by the stairs, and see how many other sparkly things they can find on their way there. And some might peek in the window, and decide to come back another day. And that's okay! That's what being eclectic is all about. Something for everyone.... right?

So these days, I create whatever comes pouring out of my carousel mind at that moment. Could be fanciful... could be romantic... could be poignant. It is as much of a journey for me, as being in a foreign country and deciding which road to walk down. One thing for sure... is that I can't hold it back. And I have never loved being creative as much as I love doing it now. It is thrilling to see what new jewel I can pluck from my imagination, or what well-loved treasure I decide to bring out for a polish. Either way... it's bound to attract some curious onlookers, who will either stick around to see what comes next, or who will head on down the road to find their own eclectic collection. All I hope is that I can at least tuck a little inspiration in their pocket before they go.

January

2008-01-24T15:47:00.000-08:00

While the allure of winter sports eludes me, I confess to having a real fondness for sledding. Nothing like grabbing a $5.99 saucer sled, and careening down an icy slope...shrieks of laughter freezing in mid air as the inevitable crash-and-burn happens at the bottom of the sled run.

Not that I've done this recently. I think the last time I actually went sledding was about six years ago. Fun stuff, though I felt a little bit like I was cheating, because they had a snowmobile ready to go, to come fetch those of us who ventured down the hillside.

Part of the great adventure of sledding when I was a kid, was having to haul your sorry, sore patoot back up the hill step by slogging step. Moon boots, puffy ski jacket, snow pants, gloves, itchy knit hat.. it's amazing I could even walk a step in all that confining gear. And boy, was it sweaty in there. No chance of getting too cold. While I might've looked like a Yeti, what with all the snow clinging to every nook and cranny... it was all Bahamas up in my snow suit. I'd yank that itchy hat off and toss it on the nearest snowbank, and let my stringy brown hair fly free.

Endless energy to burn. I wonder what that would feel like now?? I could slide/climb/slide/climb/slide/climb for hours on end, until the light started to fade, and the glow of the lights in our house started to beckon me. Then it was the slow trek back across the empty field, past the neighbor's house and across the road, letting my dog lead the way. It was such a snail's trudge... I never really wanted to go back inside, but snow pants can only hold back the wet snow so long.

Then there was the whole routine of climbing out of all that gear out on the porch. Moon boot liners always pulled out, making the boots look like exhausted dogs with tongues hanging out. And one by one, everything went into the dryer, leaving me standing there in my turtleneck and jeans - feeling about fifty pounds lighter. The warmth of the house drew me in, and the smell of mom's cooking reminded me that I was actually famished. She was a great cook, but of course...being a kid, what's the fun of homemade dinners? I danced in delight if I found out I could have a TV Dinner, with the peel-back foil. Salisbury steak, with corn, and chocolate cake. The thought of it makes me cringe now, but back then... that was a fun feast.

Makes me laugh to think about it all now. I wonder, when was the last time I went sledding on that hill? The last time my German Shepherd went running ahead of me across the snowy field? The last time I shrieked with my best friend down the icy slope? I'm sure it was a fun, exhausting day... enjoyed in a way only complete obliviousness to the finality of it could provide.

Snow and Owls

2007-12-15T15:24:00.000-08:00

(a video a slapped together, with some photos and video I shot of our recent snow...)

The snow has begun.

Just as it started to get dark, little snow flurries came swirling out of the sky. I had hoped it would start snowing earlier in the day, but at least it gave me time to get my errands done.

Just a moment ago I opened the door to let the dogs go out for a bit, and heard a familiar ‘whoooooOOOhoOO - whooOOooOOOOhoooo’. A Great Horned owl has been residing around here for the last few months. I had seen him several weeks ago, perched atop a telephone pole down the road… no doubt scoping the surrounding orchards for his next meal. I stepped out on the porch and peered up at the top of the three story double pine tree that grows here in front of the house. Sure enough, I could just see the outline of him perched at the very tiptop of the tree.

The wind kicked up, and some freshly fallen snow dusted around my bare feet. Just like me to walk outside in the freezing cold with bare feet, because I’m excited to hear an owl. But I wasn’t ready to go in. I just stood there with my neck craned, listening as the visitor hooted into the night sky every few seconds. Then with a stretch of huge wings, he flapped once, silently circled the top of the tree, and landed on the other side. It was just enough to put him out of view. And it had been long enough for my feet to start losing feeling.

I called the dogs in, and shut the door. I hope the owl stays around a little while longer. Our bedroom is on the top floor, that much closer to the top of the tree, and I wouldn’t mind listening to that meloncholy, muffled call as I fall asleep tonight.

The Cakester

2007-09-08T22:29:00.001-07:00

I was doing good. I really was. I mean, months would go by before I'd cave in and sate my Oreo desires. I could leave them alone... I really could! But then I saw this insidious little ad, with kids whispering about Oreo Cakesters...and I knew it would only be a matter of time before marketing genius coaxed my brain into reaching for the blue packaged goodness.

Today was that day.

I had spent fifteen minutes in the fresh produce aisle, feeling really good about my bags of radishes, lettuce, cilantro and other green healthy things. I even stopped off to pick up more Naked Juice, with it's all natural splendor. But as I tried to bypass the cookie section, there was some otherworldly force that steered my squeeky shopping cart wheels down the aisle. And there they were.... jutting out in a display that almost sang of their delectableness. They were on sale, even. How could I deny their siren song?

I stuffed the box in my cart behind the green onions and bananas, and tried ignore to them. Tried to kid myself that I would actually make it home and perhaps have one with coffee. But as soon as I paid for my groceries and navigated my way through the parking lot, I ripped that box open and plucked one of the packages out to ride up front with me. I swear I heard it call shotgun.

But really, it never even made it that far. I shut the car door, tore open the packaging, and held aloft the vision of sweet delight. A giant, fluffy, creamy Oreo. Almost glistening. What kind of madmen work at Nabisco? Genius men, I'm telling you now...because these Cakesters are destined to be the go-to snack for many, many people. I can hear it now. "Dude... I need some Cakesters like...pronto."

They are evil, I tell you. Evil. Pure wickedness with creme filling and moist cakey layers. Don't even get me started on what kind of milkshake this will make.

Fun With Dentistry

2007-07-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

The Ibuprofen has finally kicked in, so my upper right-hand jaw no longer feels like it was lovingly scraped along a cheese grater. I'll take this respite from the pain to tell you about my little visit with the dentist....

The ink had barely dried on my insurance forms when I was sashayed to the exam room by a dark haired young woman in a festive frock. While she was taking the first inital round of x-rays, I spilled my guts as to why I hadn't been to a dentist in soooo long. I guess the low-dose radiation gives off a confessional type vibe or something. At any rate, she nodded, made notes on her chart, and then led me away to another x-ray machine. This time I stood up, bit another plastic thingy... only now I got to hang on to handlebars! The machine clamped down on my skull (I kid you not!) and then did a little waltz around my head. I had the urge to start humming that crazy song Willy Wonka sings on his wonderous boat ride... you know the one...

"There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction we are going
There's no knowing where we're rowing
Or which way the river's flowing..."

Anyway, back in the chair I sat - and told the assistant to bring on the laughing gas. She said she'd start off slow, and I just chuckled. I knew I'd have that gas machine at full throttle before the fun began. So she settled that little plastic cup down over my nose, cranked my chair back so my feet were in the air, and I started inhaling like Jacque Cousteau going down for the deep plunge. After about five minutes, I was giving her the thumbs up to crank the gas. I did that two more times... and suddenly.....

..........wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Aimee has liftoff.

"There is nooooo drug I knooooow, to compare with
purest nitrous oxide...breathe it in, you'll be free
if you truly wish to beeeee....."

There is a certain sound that I hadn't heard nor thought of since the last time I was at the dentist a billion years ago... which occurs when I've entered Laughing Gas LaLa Land. It actually has a name! It's called "flanging" [link] - and everything I hear starts to echo and reverberate, or "flange", in my skull. This is when things start to suddenly get very funny.... and even as the dentist's voice drifts in from somewhere far away to tell me he's going to give me a filling in one molar AND carve out the second molar to prepare for a crown for starters.... I simply feel like I'm hovering about five feet out of the chair on the sheer power of the Jack Wagner song that was suddenly invading my entire consciousness.

"Allllllllll Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed....is just a little more time.... to be sure............what I feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel"

Oh man - how appropriate is that?? And suddenly a running commentary of the situation begins in my head. Flashbacks from my dentists visits in the 80's remind me that Jack Wagner has, in effect, been at my side at every dentist visit I've ever been at... even while the needles are poking, and the face is numbing, and the machines are starting to whine...

"Is it all in my mind
Cause it seems so hard to belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve....
that you're all I need..........."

I don't know how this music seems to be so loud in my head, even as the dentist's drills and grinders are shrieking away doing their job. Maybe my brain just automatically tunes in to some faded 80's FM station that broadcasts on a funky nitrous oxide channel? Air Supply was there, and so was vintage Whitney Houston. All the same people who crooned in my ear all those years ago. And then, just as I was swirling away into the old Stevie Wonder staple "I just called to sayyyyyyyy I looooove youuuuuuu".... I suddenly wondered why there was a midget (little person, dwarf, etc. etc.) standing in my mouth. And this thought was exceedingly funny. It literally felt like one of their little feet was planted right on my face...and I started to laugh outloud. Of course, the sound that I actually heard was more like a muffled gargle, and for half a second all the machines stopped and they asked me if I was okay. I let out a high-pitched giggle and nodded somewhere beneath my nitrous mask/terminator glasses/plastic mouth sheild...and all activity resumed in a sudden squeeling roar that was not unlike a 747 powering up for takeoff.

Everything was in a blur after that. At one point I was actually roller skating with Stevie Wonder...and this too was exceedingly funny, because Stevie was leading. And then as I peered through the dark Terminator glasses they had me wear (to block out the Hollywood Premier spotlights blazing down from overhead, and to keep the tooth chunks from blinding me) I swore the patterns on the dental assistant's blouse were morphing into crazy Brady Bunch paisleys.

My arms started to go tingle, and I was glad I had my hands jammed in my pockets. I could tell that there was a real danger of having one just go into a random flailing seizure, and there was no telling what it would hit, or what havoc it would create there beneath the assortment of gleaming torture instruments and drool-tubes.

I was just barely coherent enough to follow their instructions to 'open wide', 'bite down', 'tap tap tap' (whatever the heck that was! But when it was asked of me... I taptaptapped like a good little soldier), and 'breath through your nose Mrs. Stewart, you are fogging up my glasses." BWaha!! So I did... and then Jack Wagner started singing AGAIN! I honestly don't know if I heard that song over and over like I feel I did, or if it was just on some musical loop whilst tripping on nitrous... but it was all good.

Then, someone said they were turning the gas off... and they moved my chair into the upright position, just like someone flipping up their dinner tray on an airplane. I kept laughing to myself as I cleaned up like a trouper at the tiny chairside sink. They gave me chapstick to take with me, and ushered me down the hallway to pay. They had put a temporary crown on my molar, and scheduled me for next Tuesday for the real deal. And then they'll schedule for all four wisdom teeth to be pulled. YAY!!! More nitrous.... and more Jack Wagner. I'm so thrilled.

So now I'm home, with my new chapstick and $25.00 worth of gourmet potato, minestrone, and chicken soup as well as Tillamook Peanut Butter and Chocolate icecream to keep me happy over the next few days..(try navigating the checkout line at the grocery store with half a frozen face! I think the cash register lady thought I was going to mug her with my Elvis Presley sneer). My tongue keeps snaking over to feel the smooth, plasticy temporary molar that has latched onto my gums. I think I need a nap. I have an overwhelming urge to download some Air Supply as well, which may or may not be worthy of a lawsuit. Time will tell.

Rememberance

2006-09-11T07:00:00.001-07:00

(New York - October, 1990. I was 19 years old. Eleven years prior to the day now known as "9/11". The following writing is the story of the day I took this picture.)

The morning light flickered in my eyes as our shuttle crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, allowing me only a staggered view of the skyline. I leaned against the window of the bus and stared at the towers of the World Trade Center. They drew the horizon up above the rising sun itself, as if holding the warmth of the day aloft for all the other buildings below.

We were swallowed into the swarm of the city, and I shifted to the aisle of the bus so I could look straight ahead of us. I was used to canyons and coulees... a way of life when living in Washington State - but this canyon was as alien and beautiful as anything I had ever witnessed in nature. The skyscrapers won the battle between their height and my craned neck. Try as I might, I couldn't see the top of them as our bus slinked through the traffic to the hotel. I suddenly had the feeling of being lost in a labyrinth. Alice, falling right down into the rabbit hole.

Five days blended into one singular rush of color. Giggling with my friends in the back seat of my first taxi ride... my first trip to the subway, all three of us afraid to unlink our arms... my first coffee with cream sipped while sitting at a sidewalk cafe. The pretzel vendor who dropped to his knees as we walked by, begging me to come back and marry him. The tiny heart necklace I bought at Macy's, set with ten tinier rhinestones. My amazement that caviar was an option to put on your hamburger while feasting at Serendipity.. Standing in the glitter of Times Square. Feeling the wind rush through me as I stood atop the Empire State Building. Realizing I was actually looking at the Statue of Liberty with my very own eyes.

But within that rush of color, was a swath of light that cut right through and slowed every heartbeat down into a long held breath. Today it is a pure playback of memory that retains every detail, which has come to be one of the most meloncholy rememberances of the trip.

It was during the proverbial "three hour tour" of Manhattan Island by boat. I was sitting up front on one of the smooth wooden benches, watching the city as we quietly drifted by. I had my camera ready... snapping pictures of the varying skyline - wanting to preserve it all to show everyone when I returned home. It was early in the day, because we wanted to make sure we left plenty of time for other things, and so the sun was hovering above the tops of some of the skyscrapers.

It was then that I saw the Twin Towers.

They were so tall, I realized the sun was going to be just cresting at the top as we passed through their shadows. I lifted my camera, peering through the tiny view finder. I waited a moment as the boat chugged onward, and then I saw it. The sun poised perfectly between the towers, at an apex that joined them together by the rays that were shining down. I snapped the picture...then slowly dropped the camera down. For that brief moment in time, I was caught in the stream of light that was funneled between the towers, and flowing out across the water. It was dazzling... and gone in the next breath.

We finished the boat tour, and disappeared back into the city to live out the rest of our whirlwind trip. Once we were back in Seattle, I stepped off the plane so changed. A love of travel forever rooted in my heart, but a deep appreciation of my quaint home tucked in the middle of a large apple orchard. A balance was struck between the two... a bargain that no matter where my adventures took me, this valley would give me a comfortable shelter to return to. I settled back into life, developed the pictures I had taken... and eventually forgot the picture I had taken that day, in the shadows of the World Trade Center. It would be eleven years before I would realize just how extraordinary that image really was.... as I knelt by my old wooden trunk in the bedroom, tears streaming down my cheeks, the picture taken carefully from it's sleeve and held so tenderly. It was as if that small kindness could transfer across the miles, and into the chaos of that one infamous day.

The lyrics to Elton John's song "Empty Garden" fit so well. Originally a tribute to John Lennon...I think of it now in the light of 9/11....

Empty Garden

What happened here...
As the New York sunset disappeared
I found an empty garden among the flagstones there
Who lived here?
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And now it all looks strange
It's funny how one insect can damage so much grain

And what's it for
This little empty garden by the brownstone door
And in the cracks along the sidewalk nothing grows no more
Who lived here
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And we are so amazed we're crippled and we're dazed
A gardener like that one no one can replace...

And I've been knocking but no one answers
And I've been knocking most all the day
Oh and I've been calling... oh hey hey johnny
Can't you come out to play

And through their tears
Some say he farmed his best in younger years
But he'd have said that roots grow stronger if only he could hear
Who lived there
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
Now we pray for rain, and with every drop that falls
We hear, we hear your name

Johnny can't you come out to play in your empty garden...

(Here is a link to the song on Youtube, if you wish to listen.
)Empty Garden Link

The Farmhouse Adventure

2006-06-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, hubby, myself, and our good friend Jeremy packed up our camera gear and got ready for a little expedition. With the coolers full of snacks, and a rough idea of where we wanted to go, we took off in the Jeep into the perfect summer day.

We drove across the river towards the high plateau farmlands in the east. There were some old abandoned farmhouses sitting out in the wheat fields that we wanted photos of, and today was the day for getting the pictures. Even though the temperature was going to be in the high 90's, we had on jeans (well...hubby and I did, Jeremy was the brave one with shorts on!) and shoes just in case we had an unplanned encounter with a rattlesnake.

An hour later, we were pulling up to the first homestead. The day was already blazing with a dry heat intense enough to peel skin, but we trudged across the recently toiled field anyway. We all split up and started taking pictures of whatever caught our eye, and I have to say I felt somewhat like a National Geo photographer, going the distance for a picture of a falling down house in the middle of nowhere! Eventually we all ended up inside the house, picking our way carefully across the non-existant floorboards, making sure we weren't going to go crashing through to the scarifying 'cellar' below. Dust motes were swirling softly around us, the silence was thick. All I can hear is the click of shutters as the guys do their thing. I am standing there, eyeballing what I want to take a picture of next, when I notice a dusty lump on the floor, nudged up against the wall on the opposite side of the little room we were all standing in. There was something familiar about the largish lump...and as my eyes travelled up along the curve, to where it turned narrow, I realized I was now looking at a neck. And when I realized that, it took me only a couple of seconds more to understand that I was also looking at a little head, and that I was being looked at in return. My first thought was that this creature had died here, and had basically been mummified in the dry heat. But then it binked.

I remember half strangling, half yelping in surprise - and both guys whipp around to see what I'm spazzing about. I point, finger shaking....at the big dusty peacock staring at us.

A PEACOCK!! All covered in dust, and so still that had he not blinked, I would have thought he was totally stone dead. It's spooky when you think you are totally alone, and you aren't. Even when it's a big ole' feathery bird. So the guys get over it fairly quickly, but I'm totally entranced. Of course, our immediate hunch is that it's sick, and not to touch it (OHMYGAWDAVIANFLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!), but I just can't help leaning in a little to see it closer.

I look at it. It peers at me. I lean a little closer. And all hell breaks loose.

Next thing I know, there is a giant peacock body flailing past me. I know it's happening fast, but I see it's big eyeball move by me in slow motion. I'm shrieking. Of COURSE I'm shrieking...and laughing, and dodging the flotsom and jetsam that is stirred up in it's wake. The peacock bolts out the nearby back door (which actually isn't a door, but just a gaping hole), and I look down at the floor where it had been. Three big peacock eggs lay there in a little cluster. AhhHAAAAA!!!! Yes, Sherlock, the bird was sitting on it's nest. Duh!! Geez, so much for being a National Geo photog. Had this been a Walrus, I would have been gored and filleted by the time I realized what was happening.

So Jeremy asks "Was that the peacock making all that noise???"

Um. No. That was me, thank you very much.

Of course, I can't leave well enough alone. Even though the guys go back to taking pictures, I stalk this poor creature out the back door and into the tall grass outside. It's like some sort of freakish movie. I walk outside, and I catch a glimpse of the peacock fluidly gliding through the grass and around the next corner. So I follow in hot pursuit. By the time I get to the corner and peek around it, Mz. Peacock is standing fifty feet away, craning her neck over the grass to watch me. The minute she sees my beedy little eyes, she goes floating on around the next corner. And yes, this continues on like some sort of cartoon, until Mz. Peacock heads in the front door of the house. I call out to the guys "The peacock's coming back!!!!" and Larry turns to see her craning her neck at him, before disappearing into the bowels of the house somewhere.

So, we end up leaving, and reminscing about our near death experience. Well, okay - MY near death experience. Er... well, my near getting-pecked-to-death-by-a-boat-bodied-bird experience. At any rate, it was fun. And besides getting a bad case of heat exhaustion a little later in the day, I'm quite pleased with the pictures, and the stories of the day.

------

Today I'm putting the final touches on the new designs for my website! Hope you like it. You know me, ever changing. And hopefully it won't be 104 degrees here like yesterday, because I was one miserable pup, I'm tellin' you! But the thunder and lightning rolled in at about 3:00 a.m. last night, and I laid there watching it through half slitted eyes, seeing the big pine tree outside my window light up in intervals. It's still storming right now, with thunder rolling in the distance, and the breeze coming in through the window smells like rain and earth and cherry trees.

Travel Journal 5

2005-09-29T18:02:00.000-07:00

(Scroll down to the beginning of the September 29th posts, in order read the journals in order. :) )

(my apologies for the weird characters appearing in the text. I cut and paste these entries from my word processor, and apparently Blogger doesn't like that very much. I'll try to edit them.)

-------------------
September 3rd, 2005 Balham, London

We visited Cafe Moka again this morning. We’ve nicknamed the young Indian man “Trevor”, because he reminds us so much of our good friend in Wenatchee. We sipped our latte’s and chatted with “Trevor” while we watched people commuting to work through Balham.

‘Trevor’ asked us where we were heading today, and we told him that we were going to check out Portobello Street Market. His eyes widened and he nodded approvingly. “I’ve only been there once, but it was great stuff!!” We couldn’t wait to experience it for ourselves, and so we bid him a good day, and trekked on towards Victoria Station via the train at Balham junction.

I braced Larry for the prospect of riding the Tube today, since we had skirted around doing so for the past two days. But after showing him on the map the distance between Victoria Station, and Notting Hill…he agreed to give it a go. So, purchasing our day Travel Cards, and after sorting out which line we needed to be on… we were off.

Now I can see why everyone grimaces about the Tube during summer. It wasn’t even 9:30, and it was already stifling hot! But, after an achingly long time(and somewhat claustrophic for Larry), we arrived at Notting Hill Gate.

What a great part of the city! We instantly followed the flow of people down to Portobello Road, and were greeted by the sight of a ‘living statue’ on the corner. She was completely dressed in white, draped from head to toe in elegant rags… and was slowly moving in the most graceful poses. We spent awhile snapping pictures of her, before heading down to the stalls set up on either side of Portobello.

Truly the most amazing street market I’ve ever seen! Of course, there was lots of bric-a-brac, and cheap tourists trinkets… but the overwhelming thing was the amount of ancient (to us!) antiques, set out in bargain bins! Hand painted prints from the late 1700’s, on sale for a steal at 20 GBP. Old leather footballs (real American style footballs), baskets of old crooked keys, and rows of first edition books such as Dickens’ “David Copperfield”. Larry drooled over that one for quite a bit, and we struck up a conversation with the old book dealer who was sitting nearby. His eyes lit up as we asked him if we could look at the book, and he told us to help ourselves. Can you imagine?? This book would be under glass, lock and key in America… and here we were, carefully leafing through it’s fragile pages.

Larry and the book dealer talked about Charles Dickens for some time, expounding on his brilliance, and his genius at making money. The book dealer confessed that his ‘second home’ was in New York - and that the moment he hears the taxi drivers honking their horns, he knows he’s home. I had to laugh at this, for that’s exactly how I feel whenever I hear Big Ben chiming the hour in London.

We wandered further down the road, and after a few twists and turns… we realized this market literally went on forever. Since the street was looking like a cattle drive, we decided to call it good, and head out for something to eat… but not before I bought a beautiful scarf, rich in gold and copper threads, with beadwork sewn on in paisleys.

We settled on a noisy café called “Tom’s”, which turned out to be delicious. We both had the “Tom’s Toasty”, which was a toasted panini with ham, cheese, and rocket. We washed that down with iced tea and brewed lemon lime soda, and then we were stuffed, happy, and ready for more exploring. But I had to force myself to bypass the fairy cakes on display up front of the restaurant. Their pink icing was practically screaming my name.

We trudged back towards the Tube station, but were briefly sidetracked by a peculiar yellow car parked in a parking lot. It had one wheel in the front, two in the back, and looked like a hybrid Pinto. Larry snapped pictures of this oddity, and spotted it’s name. “The Super Robin”. Heh! I’d love to see what Ralph Nader would think of one of these.

So, we found our way back to the Tube… this time we boarded the District Line, rather than the Circle Line. Larry decided he preferred the District Line… and the phrase of the day became “Cheer Up, Chicken!” Don’t ask why.

We reached Tower Hill, and were awed by the first views of The Tower of London as we came out of the tunnel from the Tube. We weren’t going to be touring it, as it was in the middle of the afternoon, and the crowds were swarming. But we wanted to just admire it from afar for awhile. The first thing that really caught our attention was the ancient Roman wall that was still preserved out behind the Tower. Originally built around 200 AD, it was astounding to imagine the hands that laid the stones in place to build that wall.

We circled around and ogled the front of the Tower for awhile, taking refuge in the shade. A welcome breeze stirred up, just as we saw an old sailboat heading towards Tower Bridge. It was then that we were treated to the sight of seeing Tower Bridge lifting for the passage of sailboat. Of course, we snapped pictures, and then wandered toward St. Katherine’s Docks afterwards. Yes, we were typical Americans, and went to the Starbucks there… but I have to say, the place was full of people, and they all appeared rather ‘local’.

We rested in front of the Dickens Inn for quite awhile, being amused by the pigeons on the cobblestones, and trying to recover for the trip back home. We walked a little further to the actual locks, full of boats waiting to be let in, and were able to chat with an aged gentlemen who worked as the maintanance manager at the Tower of London. He was very complacent about the fact that he actually lived there, and said he was just waiting for retirement so he could head out of London. I was pretty certain at that point that we weren’t going to score any special passages into the Tower through him!

We finally decided to call it a day, and made our way back to Victoria Station, where we caught our train to Balham. We walked into the courtyard of The Coach House, and found our hosts dining outside with their grown children. Lots of greetings and pleasantries all around, and then we retired to our quarters, where I promptly collapsed on the bed and passed out (cheer up, chicken!). Larry took a shower, and then snoozed awhile, listening to the chatter of our hosts below in the courtyard.

I woke up a couple of hours later, refreshed and ready to head out to dinner. We settled on “Ferarri’s” - an Italian bistro, where I had a penne pasta dish wish savory salami, and a Mandarin Cosmopolatin. Larry had Lasagna Classico, and a ‘Cool Cucumber’, which was a drink that really did have a cucumbery taste.

With a slight buzz going on, and our belly’s full, it was time to head to Sainsbury’s, where we collected our wicked chocolately Mars Delight bars, Sainbury’s miniature lemon pies (YUM!), and other really bad snack food. We certainly have enough to keep us stocked in crap food for the rest of our stay here.

But, I confess I have now developed a nasty addiction to those mini pies. Ohhh yes. Yum.

Travel Journal 4

2005-09-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

(Scroll down to the beginning of the September 29th 2005 post, in order to start at the beginning of these journal entries from England. :) )

9.2.05 8:00 a.m.

Wow, what an awesome night's sleep!! This place is amazingly quiet at night.

We woke to the sound of a pigeon cooing. Glanced out the French doors and saw the fellow perched on the corner of Harley's roof. My word, what kind of pigeon is that? It's huge!! We decided he is a very proper pigeon, who likes reading Charles Dickens. His favorite book is no doubt The Pickwick Papers.

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9:10 p.m.

Started the day off with a long walk around Balham, and Wandsworth Common. Not realizing that we went the opposite direction the train station we were looking for, we ended up seeing lots of quaint neighborhoods. However, we did stop at a place called Cafe' Moka for some lattes, and had fun chatting with the young guy who works there.

Something I noted along the way; nobody has screens in their windows!! With it being 70-80 degrees out, all windows are wide open, but no screens anywhere. Oddly enough, I haven’t seen any flies yet, so maybe it’s not so much of a problem here??

We finally caught the train at Wandsworth Common, and I realized this was the same route Amy and I took from Streatham Hill when we stayed there in 2000. So, lots of flashbacks for me as we clacked our way down the train tracks towards Victoria Station.

Victoria was overwhelming and awesome as I remembered. People going every direction you could possibly imagine, with rail schedules and platform numbers booming from the loudspeakers overhead. We walked outside, and promptly headed in the wrong direction from the main sites…having forgotten our city map back at the B&B. But we didn't worry. It gave us a lot of chances to grin and each other and count back the hours to the time zone at home… and think about how everybody else was getting up and heading to work. And where were we?? Lost in London! How fantastic was that?!!

We finally found our way to the Thames, and followed it up past the Tate Modern, to Parliament. A gorgeous blue sky day, shining down on the gold trimmed glory of Big Ben. It gonged the hour as we crossed the bridge to eat lunch beneath the London Eye. What a view!! Massive summer crowds, but it made for lively people watching. We ate chicken curry rice bowls and drank tart lemonade.

After resting there awhile, we made our way to Buckingham Palace via St. James's Park. The green grass was covered with people seeking shade from the sun. We moved ahead until we reached the Palace, where the flag was flying high - so the Queen was at home! We gawked at the guards in their royal red attire, marching in their stiff legged tradition. Many pictures taken , until the jet lag started to make our feet feel like they’d been placed in cement. So, we found our way back home, got some food to eat, and are now sitting here readying ourselves for another night of coma-deep sleep. I still can't believe we're in ENGLAND!!!

Travel Journal 3

2005-09-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

9.1.05 Balham, near London England.

We are currently sitting upstairs at The Coach House, 9:30 p.m.... a beautiful two story cottage that has instantly become 'home' for us.

The flight over was as smooth and uneventful as I could have possibly hoped for - though the last two hours were difficult to have patience for. We landed at 11:15 a.m. sharp.

Our hired driver, Andrew, picked us up at Heathrow at 11:45. He was a young man, probably in his mid 20's, with a shy smile. We all chatted as he drove us through the labyrinth to Balham, laughing over the differences between American and British driving. He navigated us through the streets like a pro, and deposited us outside the gates of The Coach House.

Upon arrival, our host Harley lead us through a small grey wooden door into a pristine English courtyard. He is a greying fox-faced gentleman, with a low posh voice that made me grin.

He led us across the courtyard which adjoins his private home with their rental house, and unlocked the door. We stepped under the draping leaves of a blooming Clematis vine, and into our residence for the next ten days. Once introduced to our quarters, we bid him good evening, and passed out from exhaustion on the fluffy feather comforter of our bed.

I woke up once, completely bleary and travel drunk, to the telephone ringing. I picked it up, and it was a telemarketer looking for what sounded like "Mrs. Mudd". Sorry! I may have felt like mud, but I wasn't the lady he was looking for.

I rolled back over and fell asleep until 7:00 p.m., when I roused myself and called my mom to let her know we had survived. Then we freshened up, and wandered out to explore our neighborhood.

Larry got Indian take-out for dinner, which consisted of Chicken Doner on Naan bread, and rice. We then went to Tesco's, which was the nearest mini-market, though it was nothing at all like an American mini-mart. There were fresh baked goods, fruits and vegetables, and all kinds of easy meals and deserts to be had. We got some blackberry seltzer, Haagan Daaz ice cream, Salt & Vinegar chips... and other assorted things that we would need for the trip. Oddly enough, there was a huge line at the checkout stands. Probably close to twelve or fifteen people all waiting patiently for their turn. It went quickly though, and certainly proved the old adage that British people qeue up like nobody else!

So here I sit, completely stuffed and sooo tired. Took a shower, ate my ice cream, and am now reading The Sun and The Evening Standard while BBC drones away on the T.V. It's a beautifule vening. Strange not to have any wind... since it's always so windy around our house this time of night. It seems oddly still.

A cat meowled just now in the courtyard. Even it seemed to have an accent. Either that, or I think I really need some sleep.

Travel Journal 2 8/31/05

2005-09-29T16:17:00.000-07:00

8.31.05 - At SeaTac Airport, Seattle.

We're finally here!! Sitting at the airport, sipping a white chocolate mocha, glancing around at the other passengers. One older couple are pouring over their Rick Steves guide book. A man and his 3 year old daughter are heading home to England after visiting Spokane and Portland. She has the most adorable British accent.

Larry has on his "Flippin' Sweet" Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt, and just came strolling back to our seats in the waiting lounge with a Seattle Times newspaper. The headline is regarding New Orleans and the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

"Desperation Grows: We've Lost Our City"

Hard to imagine the tragedy of that, as we sit here waiting to go on the trip of a lifetime. My heart goes out to those poor people.

I'm surprisingly calm for being scared of flying. It hink reading up on the facts of air travel on scaredofflying.com has helped alot. Well, time to put this away, and get ready to head out over the clouds. England, here we come!!

Travel Journal 1

2005-09-29T16:14:00.000-07:00

Alright, at last - I am posting the first few pages of my travel journal! :: insert the scream and roar of a hungry crowd here::: heheh.

Now - the first two entries are from a hand written journal I took with me. After the first night, I realized that I would end up with curlykew fingers and lost memories if I tried to write everything out. So, after the first two entries... I switched to keeping my journal on my laptop. Things get much more detailed after that. ;)

So, on with the show!!

2005-07-22T18:13:00.000-07:00

So we're sitting at the DMV, waiting to get the husband's license renewed....when the following conversation ensued:

Him: "After it gets dark tonight, I want to light some candles in the kitchen, get out the silverware letters, and experiment with taking some pictures of them in that light."

Me: (Nodding slowly...looking at him, trying to figure out what 'silverware letters' were, and not wanting to admit I had no clue) "Yeahhhhh. Sure....that'd be cool."

---- silence for a few minutes, letting us absorb the smell of Lysol from the plastic seats we were sitting on, along with the dozen other people sitting and staring at the walls with zombie-wide eyes ------

Me: "Um.... what are silverware letters?"

Him: (Turning slowly to me, cracking a big grin) "CI-VIL WARRRRRRRR letters."

Me: OHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Lots of stifled laughter, eyes watering, and shoulder shaking).

Him: "Dearest Mother, it sure would be nice to have a fork...."

Summer

2005-07-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

I was driving into town yesterday, with the air conditioning in the Jeep on so strong my hair was whipping back like a fashion model at a cheesy photo shoot. It had reached 97 degrees in the valley, which meant flipflops would be melting on asphalt between the car and the glorious cool chill of the grocery store.

I contemplated the marvel of being icy cold in my car while in the middle of such blazing heat, when I had a 'eureka' moment. I realized, as I sat in bumper to bumper traffic in my little icebox, that summer whisked by at lightning speed not because of being older, not because of being busy... but because of air conditioning.

Yes. You read it right. Summer has been stolen by the air conditioner.

As a young kid, summer's triple digit temperatures drove us all outdoors. Not only during the day, but when we slept as well. The upstairs of our big two story house became a virtual furnace during the summer months, when only a brave soul would spend more than a few minutes up there in the stale air... grabbing some clean clothes off the pile on the floor before bolting back outside. Downstairs, windows were open wide, jars of sun tea sat on the counter, and screen doors served their purpose of keeping flies out, while providing the squeek-BAM soundtrack to the day.

I lived outside during summer break. I would drag a blanket outside, spread it out on the ground in half sun, shalf shade... and that would be my touchstone for the rest of the day. Whatever book I was reading was always nearby. A radio would be propped in the kitchen window, facing outward so I could hear the music. Sprinklers would be on, so that at any moment I could go racing through the fresh mowed grass and dance in the cold ditch water spray to cool off. If I was thirsty, I'd drink straight from the hose attached to the house well, with mom's words of "make sure you turn the spicket off tight, or the pump will run all day!!" ringing in my head. There has never been water so crisp and cold as the water that poured crystaline clear from that green garden hose.

Impromptu trips to the lake were always a treat. Mom would fill the cooler with a six pack of Tab, slice some cheese to top our Ritz crackers, throw in some Oreo cookies for desert, and we'd be off. Or, if it wasn't the lake, my best friend and I would be dropped off at the city pool, where we would join the rest of the thrashing amoebas in the chlorine rich waters for hours.

Even when Dad got home from work, he would join us outside more often than not, having a cool drink and talking about nothing. I'd do handstands out by the blooming hollyhocks, and catch grasshoppers as they skipped by. Mom would pluck weeds from the garden, and hand water the flowers. Nothing was so pressing that it couldn't wait until we had a leisurely evening.

Drives into town meant being blasted in a wind tunnel of hot air. Every window rolled down, arms hanging out the windows - you could tell which side of the car a person normally sat on because one arm would have a darker tan on it than the other. Car radios would be tuned in to the same local station, and you could hear all the cars in synch when we stopped at red lights.

And the stores were our oasis. The frozen food section was nirvana. That cold tile floor was heaven to my bare feet.

Evenings would be spent outdoors. We would sit back in the rust colored Adirondack chairs, eating popsicles and enjoying the cooling breeze coming down off the mountains. How I wished we could lift the roof off the house, so that breeze would push the stagnate heat out from within... but the rotating fans could only do so much.

Bedtime would find us dragging out the tarp to lay the sleeping bags on. There was no question of whether we were going to sleep indoors or out. Unless we wanted to spend a night sweating off five pounds, we were going to be closing our eyes beneath the stars. Pillows, blankets, dogs, cats.... everything was piled onto the sleeping bags, until finally I would zip myself up inside. Staring at the constellations and orbiting sattelites would lull me to a slow and deep sleep, interrupted only by an occasional peek through slitted eyes to see how far the Big Dipper had travelled since I last looked.

And then we got an air conditioner.

Suddenly, the house wasn't so uncomfortable to be in. The contrast between the chilly cold of the livingroom made the heat outside seem doubly intense. Time spent lounging on lawn chairs was traded for laying on the couch, watching TV. We still went to the lake, but instead of coming home and stretching out on the hot sidewalk to dry... we'd rush inside, shivering in the cold air while we changed into clean clothes.

Dad insisted on keeping every window shut, every door closed, so the air conditioner could do it's thing. He'd come home from work, fall into his Lazy Boy chair, and not budge from in front of the TV until we were all heading to bed. We still slept outside on occasion, but mostly just for amusement. Rides into town were climate controlled, and the grocery store slid back into it's mundane role, because it could never match the cold of the prized air conditioner at home.

So, one degree at a time, the air conditioner sucked the life right out of summer. Iced tea and lemonade didn't taste as refreshing, and I stopped drinking out of the garden hose. Sprinklers ran simply for the sake of watering the lawn. Books were read on the couch, and the blankets stayed folded in the closet. The sound of wind in the trees, and rainbird sprinklers chk-chk-chk-ing on the orchard trees around the house was replaced by the droning hum of the Whirlpool.

Of course, at the time, I didn't realize this transition was taking place. Days went by faster, and I couldn't put my finger on *why*. I sensed something was different, but mostly... I didn't care. I was young, the air conditioner was new, and comfort was key. I just didn't understand that it wasn't a fair exchange... that cold air, for the true essence of summer.

I think I'll slow summer down a bit, now. I'm going to turn the air conditioner off, and throw open the windows. Let the screen door reclaim it's squeeky-hinge glory. And you know what? There's a sprinkler going, and a good book is calling my name. Time to get a blanket from the closet, and work a bit of magic by slowing summer down to a crawl.

Once more, with feeling!

2005-06-29T10:38:00.000-07:00

Schubert's Serenade

Guess what I did this morning?

I played the piano.

That might sound like a simple thing, but... if you peruse back through these archives enough, you will come to realize that it is quite an occasion.

You see, I was rooting through the attic today, digging out some dishes that my older sister had stored here. As I crawled through the darkness, looking for boxes marked "Depression Glass", I found an open box with a blue plastic binder stuffed in the top. I pulled it out, leaned back toward the light filtering in from the attic door, and saw my name written on a file label stuck to the front.

I knew immediately what I had found. My old sheet music binder!

I set it aside, and fished out the rest of the boxes for my sister. Then, just before I closed the small attic door, I grabbed the binder and tucked it under my arm. I could almost hear the melodies drifting out of it already! All the songs I used to play by memory, saved here with all my old handwritten notes and reminders.

I went downstairs and sat at the piano, and opened up the folder. It still has the note in the front from my piano teacher, making note of eight songs which were to be played at my own private senior recital (which never happened).

The first pages of sheet music are actually copies, and for some reason the title is cut off. I believe that this piece is "Invention No. 14 in B-Flat Major" by Johann Sebastian Bach, Allegro... very lovely.

The next is a song by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, called Solfeggietto. An infamous little piece that I once played at a recital, nearly double the speed it was supposed to be played. My teacher said I nearly set the keyboard on fire with that one.

I flipped to the third piece, and smiled as I remembered the haunting Prelude in E Minor, Opus 28. No. 4 by Chopin. I instantly fell in love with this music when I was selecting a new recital piece all those years ago. Every time I played it, I could imagine Chopin playing the same notes, making them ring through the old monastery in Majorca that he was staying in at the time, in 1839. There was something so meloncholy about this melody... it almost seemed too much for a teenage girl to tackle, with any sense of what it really was trying to convey.

The fourth piece is a light, airy little tune by Homer Nearing, called "Falling Leaves". At the time, this was more of an 'intermission' song than anything. Something to break apart the heavy classical songs I favored, with something a little less demanding on the ears.

There there is the Waltz in A Minor by Chopin. It never struck me as the bright, rousing waltzes that were played at glittering galas. Rather, it too has a bittersweet ring to it... as if this is simply the memory of a grand waltz once danced, being recalled in the grainy light of a fading dream. Another reason I adored it.

Schubert's "Serenade" is the next. I have to say that this is probably one of my favorite songs I have ever learned. It can be played with all sorts of emotions, and the notes seem to form perfectly around whatever I am feeling at the time.

Then there is the fourteen page Sonata by Ludwig van Beethoven, Op. 49, No. 2. The beast of all songs I've ever learned. It took me the better part of a year to learn this song, and although it was never one of my true favorites... once you've played a fourteen page Beethoven song, you feel such an amazing sense of accomplishment. After I memorized this one, my teacher allowed me to leave the basement studio of her house, go upstairs, and play this on her mirror black concert grand piano that she had shipped over from Germany.

At last, another Chopin piece. Valse, Op. 70 No. 2. As I go through my songs, I see how much I leaned toward the languid melodies... always tinged with a bit of dramatic sadness. They were always so much more challenging than the 'tried and trues' of piano lessons, like Fur Elise. Come to think of it, I specifically never wanted to learn Fur Elise, simply because everyone else already had.

There are many other songs, but these... these are *my* songs. I sat down today, and was astonished to find that I remembered far more than I would have wagered on. And for the first time in many, many years... I felt that same excitement at thinking "I might even polish these up to perfection again". I even got a little twinge of anticipation at perhaps playing them for my family after so many years.

So, yes... a dig through the attic gave renewed life to my past as a mistress of the piano. Makes me realize how we can find priceless treasures in the most unexpected places, if we just open our hearts and let it happen.

Robin Redbreast

2005-02-28T16:42:00.000-08:00

The past month slid by me in a storm of grief and activity, broken by intervals of emotional voids. Moments of complete blankness, when the calm and denial of losing a loved one sets in... and it enables you to pick up their ashes in a small black box without shedding a tear.

Of course, I knew the tears would come eventually. I waited for it as I was driving down the road, and waiting at stoplights. I anticipated it while I stood in line at the grocery store with a bag of lettuce and a block of cheese. I opened my eyes in the quiet of night and expected a sting of tears down each cheek. But as it turned out, it took days before it struck. Long days of feeling nothing inside but an echo of duties and tasks that needed tending to, while having no set path to follow.

The moment came when I walked down the hall and saw my answering machine blinking. Nearly a dozen phonecalls had flooded in, all demanding my attention in one form or another. The callers had no idea that collectively they had shared in shoving me off the precarious edge I had been perched on. All I could do was sit and shiver in my chair, staring at the blank computer screen for the remainder of the hour until my husband got home. The tears came trailing after.

The weekend brought sunlight and exposed earth from the long winter. I avoided phonecalls, and instead followed the sunlight out onto the desert plateau that frames the river to the east. I let the sadness accompany me, so that perhaps I could diffuse it under the blue sky and receding snow.

This morning the blue skies had gone, and rain drizzled off the eaves of the roof. I drank coffee, nibbled toast, and felt myself drawing inward. I wandered around the house, unable to stay focused on any one task... until I found myself staring out the windows towards the north. I looked out across the slope of an apple orchard, where the limbs were already growing pink from the run of sap towards early Spring warmth. A black dog was roaming between the rows, and suddenly a flurry of birds shot up from the area he intruded. They winged their way past the window... and I saw a flash of ruddy red. The robins were here!

I smiled, and wandered to another window where I saw them land in the neighboring pear trees. Their chirps and chatter filtered through the closed doors and windows, and signaled the coming of warm days...flowers... fat worms being tugged up out of wet dirt. No matter what had happened in the past month, the robins were on time. For whatever reason, this made me very happy.

I pulled on my black sweater, tugged on my shoes, and asked my dog if he wanted to go for a ride. I followed him as he trotted out to the Jeep, laughing at the fact that we might as well be heading into the wild Outback... instead of driving to the local grocer for angel hair pasta and the evening paper.

All the way there I thought of the robins making nests out of twigs and dog hair, readying themselves for sunny days. And I figured it was a good path to follow.

A bit of writing....

2005-02-22T18:43:00.000-08:00

( I just wrote this. Don't know where it came from... but I can see it all clearly. I hope you enjoy.)

Rain soaked the pavement black. Kamion watched lights from passing cars sweep over the asphalt as if being sucked into a void. No reflection, just a river of shadow that swallowed the light. She always noticed times like that, when the streets weren’t just wet… they seemed to disappear into the storm. She tried to describe to her friends how beautiful it was, but none of them really believed her.

Walking through the steam of her own exhale, she tugged her scarf tighter and quickened her pace toward the club. The night smelled like lightning, but if it was out there….the city hid it from view.

‘Or maybe it disappeared beneath the streets, lighting up the sewers and electrifying the rainwater,’ she thought to herself.

‘…or maybe you just have an overactive imagination’, said an echo of her mother’s voice in her mind.

Kamion’s laugh stayed muffled beneath her scarf as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Those little barbs of wisdom came at unpredictable times, but what she said was true. Her imagination was off the charts. Then again, it also paid the bills…and then some. The reminder of which was still beneath her fingernails…half moons of indigo blue. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she moved through the glow of neon outside of the club, and passed by the bouncer with a nod and smile.

Lightning flashed high above the city, and glowed in the gutter below... just a step away from Kamion's heels.

Today is my father's memorial...

2005-02-02T13:02:00.000-08:00

...this poem will be read at my father's memorial today. I wrote it in the early hours of this morning, remembering him in a gentle way.

Quietlight
-for dad-

There is a time of quiet light
At every morning’s start
That calls upon the silent man
To look upon his heart;
To measure out the sunlight
In increments of gold,
And in the hush of morning
Weave the beauty to his soul.

Without a blink, he watches
This beginning of the day…
As mountains glow in the mist
Showing him the way
To seek out trails of fragrant pine,
Of rock and sage and sky
Where deer and coyote wander free
And eagles take to flight.

A simple pleasure, all his own
This moment of the day
When all the valley belongs to him,
And troubles drift away.
At last he turns to walk the trail,
His heart filled up with gold…
And he disappears into the wilds,
To the beauty that guides his soul.

- Aimee Alison Stewart -
February 2nd, 2005

Sorrow

2005-01-27T13:34:00.000-08:00

To all who read my blog... my morning has taken an unexpected, sorrowful turn.

I just recieved word that my father has passed away.

After I take time to deal with the situation, and make sense of everything, I will return. I am certain that writing will be a solace in this, and that if my posts take on a somber tone for awhile, you will know why.

Thank you for coming here, everyone. And thank you for understanding.

The Great Manilow Caper

2005-01-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

About eight months ago, my best friend Beth moved into a new townhouse. As I was helping her decorate her new bedroom, she came to me with her head hung low and her arm outstretched, holding out a CD for me.

"Take it," she implored. "I've begun life anew. I now have Bono and the rest of U2 for making my life complete. I want this to be the turning of a new leaf. Please... take this CD. Dispose of it as you will. I will never listen to it again."

I chortled as I took the CD. That large nosed, bad haired image of Barry Manilow smiled at me from the jewel case. He was 'Singin'With The Big Bands'... oh yes he was.

"But BETH! He was your main man for so long! Are you sure? I mean, are you really SURE you are ready to rid yourself of the last morsel of Manilow in your life?"

She glared at me from behind her glasses. "Don't rub it in!! I don't want to admit that I ever listened to him! Just...burn it or something!"

I cackled. I snorted. She biffed me on the arm. I tucked the CD in my purse, knowing I would find a fitting end for this chapter in Beth's life.

Later that night, as I drove to our friend Jeremy's house (which is the hangout for all the Halo addicted guys I know, including my hubby)... an idea flashed into my impish little brain. A few minutes later, the Manilow CD was being nestled under the corner of Jeremy's roommate's bed. Poor Trevor... little did he know we would begin the countdown to when he would find the Manilow CD, and no doubt wonder how in the hell it got there...WHY it got there... and who put it there.

All these months later, and the Manilow CD had been forgotten. Until the phone rang, and the message machine captured the best deadpan voice I've ever heard.

"Hi Larry and Aimee, this is Trevor. I found the gift that you left for me.... between my boxspring and mattress. I'd would like to thank you, but you both suck. So... take care."

BWHAHAH! Ahhhhhhhh.... yes. I can't wait to talk to Jeremy to find out how the Manilow Caper unfolded.

Lunaristic

2004-10-30T21:08:00.000-07:00

Funny how some things come together with no planning or scheduling. They fall into place, drawing you in with the ease of being bowled over by a balmy tropical wave.

That is how the lunar eclipse was a few days ago. I heard some snippets on the news about a full eclipse, and how it would not happen again until 2007. In the back of my mind there was a little voice saying "Oh that would be lovely to see...", but in the cauldron of work that had kept me embroiled for many weeks, I quickly forgot about it and rolled full steam ahead into my day.

That night I drove home in the same sort of daze that makes you blink about five miles down the road with no recollection of how you got there. Headlights blurring slightly, the familiar curves and straightaways guided me across the valley floor, over the bridge, and up the hill to home.

Once there, with shoes kicked off and no plan for dinner yet, both hubby and the dog reminded me that we had agreed to go for a walk after work. With the brisk winds coming down off the snowcapped Cascades, and dark falling early - we'd have a chilly, starlit stroll to snap us out of the work week doldrums.

It wasn't until I was putting on my walking shoes that I remembered the eclipse. A peek out the window showed a heavy moon already in a partial stage of shadow, suspended low over the north-eastern horizon. I realized we would be walking beneath the lunar eclipse, on a perfectly clear night... with no other demands on us other than to simply enjoy the moment as it unfolded.

So, heading out with huffs of breath visible in the cold air around all three of us, we set a comfortable pace heading east, the moon leading the way. The blur of the day suddenly focused, with frosty woodsmoke air filling my lungs, and the scattering of stars all so distinct in the sky. Full awareness came to me, and I could easily recall every step we took as we strolled down the road.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, and I kept glancing up as the shadow slowly slid across the face of the moon. It was a strange thought, knowing that it was *our* shadow I was seeing. That somewhere in the darkness, we were walking... footsteps on Earth, as well as the moon. I counted the time forward to various parts of the world, imagining who was waking to the sunrise, and who was already fast asleep. All the while, the stars grew brighter as the lamp of the moon dimmed.

It wasn't until we were returning home that we stopped and watched as the last thin sliver of light disappeared from the moon, leaving only a ruddy hue made by the simultaneous sunrise and sunset on each side of the Earth.

I felt very small there, with my dog and husband... staring wide eyed up into the heavens. I wondered who was watching it at the same time we were.

A shiver slipped along my spine to imagine all the things happening in the world, both good and bad... all compressed into that one turn of the shadow, which looked so lovely from afar. A vast sea of activity, backlit by the sun, and imprinted upon the moon in a slow celestial dance.

The chilled wind worked in past our sweatshirts and jeans, and at last we turned our backs to the dusky moon and retreated into the house. A tiny spot on a planet swinging ever onward to the next eclipse, with no idea what might fill the quiet shadow when next it arrives, like clockwork.

Daily Bread

2004-08-21T07:27:00.000-07:00

There are some days when the air is just right, or a scent drifts in from somewhere unexpected that makes me wonder, when was the last time I ever ate my grandmother's homemade bread?

All throughout childhood, that was a call to action. 'Let's go see Grandma for some bread and butter!' I would sit up straighter in the car, staring out the window in anticipation of that fresh bread with butter perfectly spread across the top.

Grandma and Grandpa lived just down the road. A fifteen minute walk at best, if we strolled and didn't just hoof it. But days when she made fresh bread, who had the patience to walk? Stomachs would be growling the whole way!

Oh the aroma when we'd walk in that door. In fact, before we ever hit the first step, it would envelope us. The scent of a dozen fresh baked loaves lined up on the counter beneath soft cotton towels. Could anything else smell so welcoming? So completely rooted in all that was good?

I'd run up the steps and past Grandpa's horse tack and cowboy hats hanging on the wall. Grandma Lela would be standing there, a tall willowy women crowned with white hair. Light blue striped blouse open at the color. Comfortable slacks, no doubt made of polyester. Red house slippers... and a green apron faded not because of age, but because of the flour it had trapped in its strands.

"Wellll Aimeebaby! Look what your Grandma has made today. Would you like a piece of bread and butter? Or will it be peanut butter and honey today?"

I would hoist myself up onto a barstool at the long bar in the kitchen (I rarely remember ever sitting at the actual dining table. The counter top bar was where we all congregated) and depending on the day, the decision was easy. If the bread had been made that very day, then it would be butter only. Nothing to overpower the flavor of that mouthwatering bread. If it were a few days after the fact, or even a couple of weeks and the bread had been thawed out of the freezer...then peanut butter and honey was a thrill. Not mixed together mind you! They had to be two distinct layers, so I could look through the honey like a stained glass window, to see the slight ridges that the knife had left in the creamy peanut butter below.

"Just butter please!" I'd say, and in a moment I would be handed a thick slice of Grandma's bread (at the very least, the same thickness as TWO slices of store bought bread) , topped with real butter. The kind that she kept in a butter dish on the counter, so it was always soft and spreadable.

Grandma and Mom would then get their own slices of bread and fall into easy conversation. I would just sit there, completely immersed in the joy of Grandma's creation. I had watched her make it before. It was a process I marveled at. Beginning before dawn, she would get out the big silver bowl and would soon be pounding her small fists into a giant, puffy conglomeration of dough. Every now and then I would ask for a tiny piece to play with, and she would rip me off a chunk. I would taste it every time, just to roll that yeasty flavor over my tongue.

For years, Grandma never bought bread from the store. I guess that is why I was always amused that she kept her bread in the plastic sleeves that came off store bought bread! Western Family, Wonderbread, you name it...she had the plastic sleeves. Saved from whatever family member had the audacity to bring a loaf of that tasteless, thin stuff into her house. So with the flare of humor that Grandma always had, she'd keep her heavenly bread in these bags. Even bakeries couldn't touch the flavor that they kept safe.

As I got older, these days became few and far between. Every now and then, I would spy an actual loaf of store bought sitting on the counter. When Grandma baked, it was an event never to be missed. "Someday she might not have the energy to do it anymore," my Mom would say, and I would be hard pressed to imagine it.

I wish I could say that I remembered the last day I ate Grandma's bread. That I could close my eyes and recall the afternoon, and what we talked about. Alas, like so many subtle things in life, the memory of the actual 'last time' has slipped away because I was blissfully unaware that it was a moment never to be repeated. I know I must have savored it as I always did, I know Grandma must have looked as lovely and proud as ever. I know it was the epitome of being at Grandma's house, engulfed in the very essence of good, simple food and the love of the person who made it for me.

But perhaps in my own way, I do remember it. Maybe that's why during the passage of a year... out of the blue the air will be just right, and a scent will drift in from somewhere unexpected, and I will find myself dreaming of Grandma's kitchen... the countertop bar, and a thick slice of bread with soft butter.

2004-08-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

Today is the tenth day of the wildfire that has been sweeping through the valley where I live.

Over the past week, there have been fire plumes and thunderheads boiling up over the mountains. The smell of woodsmoke is thick, and permeates everything... and at night the winds sweep it down across the orchards and through the windows thrown open to let the cool air in.

We could see the glow of fire advancing in on us from the North. Every night we would go outside and look to see if the glow had grown any... or if we could discern what canyon it was in. Eventually we could distinguish individual flames spiralling up to the sky. Trees burning like massive, instant torches.

Yesterday evening, I walked out the back door, and looked north beyond the orchard and to the small hill at the edge. Smoke was boiling up over it. This wasn't the smoke that drifted in a thick haze up into the sky. This was close. Close enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

We got in our Jeep and drove down the hill and around the corner. From there, we could look north again, where the valley cuts down to the river and main highway. The entire mountain range from the opposite side of the highway onward...was ablaze.
At least a mile of fire raging down the dry grass hillsides, and igniting every clump of trees in it's path.

We stood with friends who lived less than a mile away on the valley floor. We watched as the flames would literally lay flat on the ground and race up the hills with the smallest shift of wind. We saw, in a matter of minutes, the fire play leapfrog across the banks, and over to yet another canyon. As the sky darkened, the glow consumed all vision, and we were stunned at the power of it all.

We returned home, grabbed our cameras, and set out on the short walk along the orchard and to the small hill that overlooked this view. A total bird's eye view of the fire. With a river and main highway between us, there was no immediate danger suspected... although the thread of a falling ember or glowing ash made us realize how quick things could jump from that mountain range to ours.

My mother and Aunt, my husband and myself...along with our dog and a neighbor who knew of this secret spot as well... sat at the edge of mowed orchard grass and looked across at the raging fire. We watched it crawl up one mountain, and down the next, shooting flames so high into the sky that they easily tripled the height of the trees they were consuming.

We talked excitedly, about people we knew with houses down there. The people who were on evacuation alert (the neighbor's father... my mom's aunt and cousins...) in the next canyon over. And then, we eventually all fell into silence. Hubby and I snapped pictures, me with my digital, he with his SLR. We watched until our eyelids were growing heavy...and we eventually turned and headed home.

By the time we got to the house, the fire had climbed high enough for us to easily see the path it was taking just by looking out our windows. I fell asleep to the scent of fire smoke.
~*~

Below are just a few of the pictures we've taken over the course of the past ten days. The night shots are what I took last night. Blurry, but you get the idea. To put things in scale, the small white dots of light at the bottoms of the mountain shots are actually headlights of cars.

Click on the thumbnails to see the full images!

2004-08-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

The slanting afternoon sun cut through the haze of smoke from distant forest fires as we drove home yesterday. I looked down, and my skin was burnished with an amber glow. Simply beautiful... the kind of color only nature could create.

We skimmed along the bases of the cliffs, where volcanic walls rise up from the flat sage valley. The stark beauty traced by these red rock walls made me think of all the pictures which could be taken. Sky, rock, sand. Layers of color... of texture. But would a photograph whisper of the layers of silence that engulf a person who stands quiet on the dunes?

The river sparkled gently between it all. A necklace resting on the bosom of a dusky woman. I looked into the same amber light that glowed on my flesh, as it shimmered over the river. This too had a silence... leaving it's music to be played within the eyes.

It was as if I could walk over to the horizon, and the distance between myself and the Sahara would fold. Two distant points suddenly touching, because of the will of the one dreaming it into existance. Envy felt for the bird who could catch the streams high above, and float away. For them, the dream is reality. The fold occurs at whim.

I was home by the time the moon rose. It lifted up above the same cliffs I had drifted by earlier in the day, and it was enormous. It had the veil of smoke over it, with a dusting of clouds beneath. Amber, full, luminous. As if all the sunlight that had collected upon my shoulders was gathered into one heavenly spot, to gleam with the warmth that I could recall with a mere thought of the desert, and the quiet secrets therein.

2004-07-29T16:42:00.000-07:00

Go outside! Enjoy some of that summer sunshine.

Run through a sprinkler!

Dip your toes in the river/ocean/lake that you are closest to. Then take a running start and do a cannonball into the water.

Buy two popsicles, and share one with someone you love.

Don't let another day slip by without smiling into the sunlight.

Then, sit outside at night, and stare at the stars awhile. Find the star you used to wish upon as a child... and dust it off.

2004-07-24T21:32:00.000-07:00

At about 3:30 this afternoon, the heat had climbed to a new high. Even with the air conditioning on downstairs, and a veritable wind tunnel of fans strategically placed to guide a feeble stream of coolness to the upstairs bedroom.... there was no escaping the sweltering effect of the 104 degree day.

Yanking swimsuits and towels out as quick as we could, we were soon sailing down the road en route to The Swimming Hole. With the top off the Jeep, the hot wind rushed around us in constant reminder of just how wonderful it was going to feel to dip into the icy mountain riverwater.

When we arrived, we picked our way through the trees to the pebbly shore. In no time, I was knee deep in the water, sucking in my breath like I was front row at a horror flick. Boy that first dip into the river is a shocker!!!! Teeth clenched through a grin, every inch further into the river is a goosebump tsunami.   It's like taking off a bandaid. Best do it all in one go, or you're just going to sit there whimpering.

So, at last - after a good amount of whimpering, I 'whooshed' into the water with a banshee screech that lasted just as long as it took me to convince myself I wasn't going to die from the icicle plunge.... and then, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - sweet acclimation.

Fish were literally jumping right out of the water by us.  Flopping and splashing, big enough to make me think twice about swimming over in their direction. Not exactly sure I wanted to feel some freshwater salmon slap up against me!

Further up stream there was a huge nest upstream with osprey in it. The young ones creeled for quite awhile, until the sun started to dip behind the tall mountain peeks. Then they were oh so quiet, huddled together in the softened light.

The sun and clouds were providing fantastic rays of light and shadow across the blue sky. The literal 'silver lining' was trimming every puff of white.
I pushed out from the sand and rocks on the shore, and braved the depths to see how far across the river I could go. The current hit me about halfway, not exactly pushing me down stream... but certainly keeping me in one place as I swam into it. I didn't go any further, but floated back to shore and was content to drift in that cool eddy of water that curled around the boulders.

We swam until our teeth were chattering.... and then returned home for a bar-b-que of immense proportions. With sister and family visiting, along with other good friends in town, it was the perfect evening to celebrate with good food and better company. We could smell the savory smoke as we came down the driveway.   There was steak, chicken, pork chops... au-gratin potatoes, homemade cole slaw, mom's unbeatable potato salad, homemade pear AND zuchini bread, Aunt Rosalie's amazing baked beans (the kind with bacon....) and to top it all off, a tall icy glass of lemonade. I ate because I was hungry, and then I ate for the sheer glory of eating. After all, if you don't go back for seconds at a family bbq, something is simply off kilter!

My freckles got darker, and the rest of me got pinker. Tops of my feet are tingly from walking in flipflops all day. The hot, dry air of the valley felt fantastic driving back down the canyon from the chilly swimming hole.    And tonight, I'll sleep with only the lightest of sheets on the bed, and that lovely 'still cooled' feeling from having the river chill me to the core.

I will think of the sleeping osprey, and the fish who seek the deep still pools of the river to rest beneath the shimmering light of the waxing gibbous moon.

2004-07-14T16:44:00.000-07:00

The world looks different when you ride in the back of a truck.

I was helping mom move a desk today, and they brought up the old white Ford to the house. As we scooted the furniture into place in the back, I volunteered to sit with it for the short ride to my Aunt's house.

The sun was still on the curve to it's zenith, and was splashing lemon yellow light over the entire valley. I sat on the metal wheel well, arms extended to keep the desk in place. Really, it was heavy enough that it wouldn't have slid... but I just wanted to freewheel down the road like a kid again.

Wind in my hair, sun on my face... I remembered the days of loading up in the back of the truck with kids, dogs, beach towels and coolers. We'd ride for 45 minutes getting beaten by the wind and loving every minute of it as we made our way to the lake.

Today I felt a stirring of those days. Neighbors out on their porch waved at me. I looked around at the mountains and breathed in deep. The heavy rain the day before was still scenting the air with a trace of pine and earth.

Everybody should climb into the back of a truck and ride down an old country road sometime. No rush... just 'toodle along', like my grandma used to say. Makes life slow down, even if for just a few moments. It's like the sound of creeky screen doors in the evening, and the taste of lemonade under hot July sun. It just makes life better, somehow.

2004-07-04T22:17:00.000-07:00

Up the valley from where we live, is a place where the bend in the river is followed by the railroad tracks. Pine trees and orchards share the hillsides, and a vineyard or two can be seen flanking the roadside.

Here, perched on an overlook above the river, is a little weathered bench just perfect for sitting and watching the sun set over the Cascade mountains... as well as waiting for the trains to go rumbling by.

Tonight we arrived just a few minutes too late for sundown, but the horsetail clouds were still lit with the glow. There was even a sundog blazing up above one of the peaks. Had we not seen the sun dip down behind the mountains on the drive up, we would have been fooled by this trick of nature.

I mused outloud that it would be fun if a train were to come by while we were there as it had in times past. As chance would have it, I heard the approach of one within a couple of minutes of giving voice to my wish.

I walked down the slope a bit while my husband positioned himself to take a few pictures. When I saw the train glide into view, I grinned as I realized it was a passenger train with about ten cars including the engine. The sound it made while rounding the bend was a metallic hiss compared to the clank and whine of the cargo trains that normally rumbled along the tracks.

I started waving as the engine went by. In a flash, I could see people in the dining cars. Someone reading a newspaper. A man peering out the window, waving back at me. The last few cars had darkened windows, but there too I saw a few faces hovering in the windows. And then it was gone.

I walked back to the bench and sat for awhile as my husband turned his attention to taking a few pictures of the river. Tilting my head back, I watched a flock of swallows performing their evening acrobats against the fading blue sky. I thought about the stranger in the train as well. Who was he? Where was he heading? Did he have a travelling companion or was he going somewhere alone? Such a mystery, these times when two lives cross for a split second, then veer off into the unknown. I wondered if he will think of the smiling soul he saw standing on the green hill of the Cashmere valley.

We stayed awhile longer, and then headed for home. Hubby smiled at me, knowing how my mind loves to ponder over moments like this. I smiled back, then looked east toward the pink hues reflecting on the mountains. The train was heading in that direction, carrying one small moment in time with it down the whispering silver tracks.

2004-06-20T12:16:00.000-07:00

Things that make you go...ehhh???

As we were cruising down one of the main roads through town this morning, sipping our coffee and heckling the world in general, we came up behind a car that immediately captured our complete, undivided attention for at least five city blocks.

This giant green landboat was drifting down the street, going just slow enough to annoy us to the point of expounding about it.

"Check it out," my husband says. "The car matches the people inside!" And sure enough. The old grey haired couple inside were perfect companions for this ungainly '76 Mercury Marquis. It's the middle of June, and yet the back window still had the scrape tracks left in the dust from the last time they cleared the windshield of ice... say.... FIVE MONTHS AGO!

But the REAL coupe de grace was what we saw wedged behind their back bumper.

Smashed there, looking really no worse for the wear, between the moss green paint and dull chrome bumper... was some party cake. No, not just a smear. A whole piece of festive chocolate cake, frosting and sprinkles included! On a plate!

What series of events possibly lead up to this?!? Were these white-bread Americans at a good ole'fashion church Pic-a-nic yesterday? Did Henrietta walk around for the better part of the afternoon saying "Where's my cake??!!!"

And how did they not SEE the massive wedge of frosted goodness sitting on the trunk lid when they waddled up to the Mercury to drive home?? And how long did it sit there, baking in the sun, hardening to the point that would make any brick layer proud? Obviously it had some uncanny density to it, or it wouldn't look so peculiarly perfect staring out at us from kittycorner the license plate.

The Green Mercury duo finally slowed down (to a painful, agonizing crawl) in order to turn left into their church parking lot. Totally oblivious to their own Far Side'ishness, their bumpercake, and the world in general.

Hallelujah and pass the punch.

(The above is merely my own personal rendition of a sight that I wish I could've taken a photo of...but will forever chortle about in memory.)

2004-06-17T09:07:00.000-07:00

We were walking the path on Blackbird Island yesteday evening, watching the Cottonwood fluff float down off the tree limbs. We stopped on the footbridge, surrounded in a balmy snowstorm of sorts.

So dreamlike. I felt as if the elves of Rivendale should be standing in the high grass by the riverbank. Instead, there was a deer... it's white tail a flash against the green.

It won't be long now before it's warm enough to swim. I hung over the bridge rail and watched the river flow past. Vivid images of swimming in gold-glitter water as the sun filled the high mountain canyon slipped through my mind. A couple more weeks, and I'll be there again.

2004-06-12T23:00:00.000-07:00

(*Word to the wise: I use the word "Like" in this blog post far more than any human should. It is because I'm writing about the 80's here. Retro-language, anyone? :) )

Lake Curlew, Washington ... 1984. Another two weeks of summer spent on a family vacation.

I was thirteen years old, camping with mom and dad. I had my rubber raft that I would row out across the lake to the little island that housed turtles and bluejays. I didn't like the way the fallen trees looked under water, all covered with moss,their branches long broken off. I paddled quickly over those, to water that showed nothing but the pebbly bottom of the lake and the occasional fish that would swim by. I spent long hours in the raft, watching the clouds shift.

One night we were sitting by the camp fire, when a man and woman walked by. They came over to say hello... not an unusual thing. The camp ground itself had a communal feel, and my parents were quick to invite the other folks to sit for awhile. It didn't take long for introductions, and soon they were trading stories through the firelight like old friends.

The man leaned over near me after awhile, and gave me a wink. "How old are you?" he asked, giving me a nudge. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"

I was glad the shadows were hiding the instant blush on my cheeks. I looked over at my parents, almost as if it would be wrong for me to tell my age. They stared back at me over the rims of their plastic cups filled with red wine. "Well go on... he's not going to bite."

"Actually.. I'm thirteen," I said, and shrugged. The man gave a laugh, his eyes going wide. "Well!! You sure don't look thirteen. I was just going to say, my sons are over there at our campsite. Greg's sixteen, and Gary's nine. They'd probably like to see another face their age. You should go over and introduce yourself, sweetheart."

WHAT??? Was the man crazy?? Like I was going to walk over into a strange campsite, and just act like I was cool or something, surprising two boys... a sixteen year old no less!

And then my parents said the unthinkable.

"Yeah hon! Go over and say hi. Would be nice for you to have someone else here to do something with..."

Oh god. I thought I was going to throw up. One minute I was having a perfectly fine night of lighting marshmallows on fire and watching them drip onto the burning logs, and the next minute I'm being told to go talk to boys. Boys from the other side of Washington State. Strange male specimens who would probably think I was a complete spaz from the moment I opened my mouth.

I tried to sink into my plastic folding chair. I tried to feign sleepiness. I attempted the most fervent ESP with my mother to somehow rescue me from my plight. Surely she wouldn't want her baby girl joining some hoodlums over on the other side of the camp ground where she couldn't chaperone!! Really, didn't she just want to keep me there, safely enveloped in the smoke of wood and burnt sugar??

Apparently wine drank out of clear plastic cups severely impairs judgement. She just waved her hand in my direction and told me to go be nice and meet the boys. The Becker Boys. Greg and Gary. My supposed new best buddies.

I felt myself stand up. I watched as the glow of the campfire faded, and the darkness drew me down the path. I heard the crunch of gravel as I crossed over the lane to camp spot #11. I saw two figures silhouetted by their own fire.

I really, really wanted to puke. Right there on my white sneakers, and crushed gravel.

I walked into the light of the fire, and was met by two owlish sets of eyes looking up at me. The little guy, Gary - had brown eyes. And when I looked over at Greg, I saw golden blonde hair hanging down over marble blues.

"Hi...um. Your parents... well they're over with my parents... and, well - they told me, um. They said for me to come say hi. I mean, well they said I should come... meet you."

GAHHHHHHHHH! Just faint and be done with it. Just... lose your dinner, turn, and run. Run!!

"Oh, cool. My name's Greg, and this is my little brother Gary," he said, and he actually smiled at me.

"Shut up, buttface!"

I peeked over at Gary, who recoiled in his chair. For a split second, I wondered if he was calling ME buttface, and I must have looked stricken, because Greg smacked his brother on the arm and just grinned in my direction. "He's just a tard. What's your name?"

"Oh... Aimee. Your dad thought I was your age, but I'm only thirteen." There. I blurted it. Just came right out and spilled my guts. I was a lowly thirteen year old who didn't deserve to kiss the shoes of someone who was already in highschool. I would have grovelled if I had known what that word meant.

Greg shook back the blond hair from his eyes and laughed. "Well, have a seat. If my parents are talking to yours, they'll be there awhile. They're like this. They like meeting people. So... I guess it's probably best you are over here... unless you actually like hearing about bass fishing, and boat races."

Hey, was he actually talking to me? I couldn't help but smile. "Naw, I geuss that gets kinda old after awhile..." I said. Yeah - we were talking! They didn't run away screaming! Well, at least Greg didn't. Gary was still curled up in his folding chair as if a giant bloodsucking mosquito had landed by the fire. But that was okay. He was just a nine year old punk. But Greg... well, he was nice. And... take a deep breath Aimee... he was cute.

So I spent a couple of hours that night talking to Greg, with occasional 'buttfaces' thrown in by Gary. We talked about Curlew, and all the other places we'd been camping. I asked if they had gone swimming at the other end of the campground yet. He said they'd only been there since that morning, so no, they hadn't. Somehow, from deep within, I mustered up a tiny ounce of courage to suggest that maybe we could all go swimming the next day.

When I crawled into my tent that night, I couldn't help grinning from ear to ear... because Greg Becker from the other side of Washington State said yes, he'd like to go swimming with me.

....

I look back on the following days with a vague sense of astonishment. It sounds so cliche, and makes me feel old to say they were really innocent times. I remember feeling so self concious in my one piece brown and tan bathing suit. But once we ran into the water and swam to the bouys, everything just melted away into the golden July sunlight.

We swam, and laughed. We sat on the ropes between the bouys, partially submerged in the water, and talked about school. Greg said I didn't seem like I was thirteen... but this time, I didn't feel creeped out. It made me feel good, as if what I had to say wasn't like a stupid kid (buttface!) but like I was fun to talk to. Like maybe I was as fun as a highschool girl. Like, ohmygawd. A sixteen-year-old guy thought I was cool.

We walked on the trails. We sat out on the boat dock. We avoided Gary. We sat by the fire as the parents filled the evenings with laughter and Gallo wine in the big green bottles. I took a picture of him in his blue and red nylon windbreaker. He took a picture of me in my faded pink sweatshirt. I had never spent so much time alone with a boy in all my life... and it was more fun than I had ever contemplated.

So...THIS is what all the fuss is about!!, I thought to myself.

And then the day came that it was time to pull out the tent stakes, and head home.

It was early... because mom and dad always liked to hit the road early. I walked over to the Becker's campsite, and was met by their mom. She was all smiles, and gave me a big hug. "Go on over to their tent sweety, they're still asleep... but they'll want you to say goodbye to you."

Well, I wasn't so sure about Gary, but... Buttface might.

I awkwardly tried to knock on the side of their green canvas tent. It just 'whooshed' a little, and shook like there was a slight breeze. I cleared my throat and tried to sound cool. "Hey, Greg... it's Aimee."

I heard a rustle, and a couple of groans, and then the zipper being pulled on the tent. Greg emerged, blonde hair sticking out in ways that aren't achieved unless you go to bed with wet hair.

I looked at my feet when I said goodbye. He said it was fun, and that maybe we'd meet up next summer. His mom chimed in and said she'd exchanged addresses with my parents. I wanted to ask him to write me, but didn't. I just stuffed my hands in my pockets and smiled up at him - and realized that he was smiling back just as big.

When he reached out and hugged me, I thought (not for the first time during that week and a half!) that I was going to faint.

"So...okay then. Well, see you around."

"Yeah, take care...."

And off I went, back into my small town life. I watched out the window of the camper as we drove up out of the campground, and to the main road. I could see the green canvas tent, and Greg standing beside it... watching us go. I could see his mom and dad building their morning campfire. And then we turned right at the stop sign at the top of the hill.

After that, I couldn't see anything at all.

There was no kiss. We didn't hold hands. But I can still remember that hug, and feel the warmth of that smile. And every once in awhile when I see Greg's picture in my old photo album, standing there in his blue and red windbreaker... I have to wonder if I'm smiling out from the pages of his album, dressed in faded pink.

2004-06-06T22:35:00.000-07:00

You are listening to Kathy's Song - originally written and performed by Simon and Garfunkle, but beautifully performed by Eva Cassidy on this version.

The lyrics~*~

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.
And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.

My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.

And as a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.

2004-06-03T22:36:00.000-07:00

I finally felt the wind escort Summer in tonight.

I just realized it a moment ago. The windows are all drawn open, and the curtains are blowing lightly about. I felt the lightness of the air shift just slightly from the heat of the day, and carry with it the scent of grass cooling beneath the stars.

Summer has begun.

It makes me want to sleep outside. Not in a tent, mind you. Just a tarp, an air mattress, my sleeping bag and me. I've spent so many countless nights doing that very thing in the dry heat of the valley summer... I can't imagine letting the season slip by without it.

From an early age, I was enchanted by sleeping outside. I would watch my brother sprawl out on the old brown sleeping bag, staring up into the sky. Eventually, I was allowed to join him out there in the front yard... and I didn't dare spoil the priveledge. Even though I was 9 years younger, I knew when something was just too cool to ruin.

Some nights he would load up his tape player with those huge batteries, and bring it outside with us. Pink Floyd was a recurring soundtrack... though there were others. It didn't matter to me, though. As long as I was included in the ritual, I would listen to anything he wanted. And that's how we would lay there side by side on our sleeping bags, staring up at the stars.

So, summer has begun... and it's time for me to carry on this ritual. I'll watch for falling stars and sattelites, just like I did back then. I might even slip 'Dark Side of the Moon' into my MP3 player, just for the heck of it. And I'll just gaze up at the Big Dipper... and appreciate this little piece of timeless tradition, here on the hill above the valley.

2004-06-03T10:51:00.000-07:00

Remember the rainbow I told you about a week or so ago? Well, here it is at last. My husband took two photos, and I spliced them together so you could see the full sweep of the rainbow.

The golden veil beneath the arch is the downpour of rain that had just passed by us. Just click on the photo to enlarge it.

2004-05-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I almost don't want to write about little happenings around this quiet valley I live in, for the simple fact that I'm sure someone out there is saying "Get outta here... either you live in Wonderland, or you are making this stuff up."

It is true that I live in a sort of Wonderland (at least to me..), but I certainly would never have a reason to make anything up. The things that happen around here are simply quite magical, because I choose to see it that way.

For instance - on Sunday, it was another stormy day. The past week's weather has been record breaking. When you live in a place that gets 300+ sunny days a year, having a solid six days of rain AND thunder storms is quite an event.

My friend Beth came up to see me, and to watch the storm since our house is located in a perfect spot to see a panoramic view of the valley. We had been talking for a couple of hours, when I glanced out the window and nearly jumped right off the couch.

There was a rainbow. But not just any rainbow. This thing was gigantic, blazing full of color, and literally stretching as postcard-perfect as I've ever seen... from one mountain, up over the town, and to a mountain on the other side.

I called up to hubby to grab his camera, and we all ran outside to gawk at the spectacle.

The sun was filtering through the clouds as it was descending for sunset. It was causing that golden 'magic light', and beaming it straight past the gloomy grey, to the hills and mountains east of us. Just behind those mountains were more angry clouds, creating a backdrop of gunmetal black. Between the two, was a downpour of rain... which caused a sheer golden curtain to fall against the lit up mountains, and that is where the rainbow was born.

Our neighbor came out with her camera. She had lived here for decades and said she never saw anything quite so amazing. We watched, and watched... minutes went by. You could see a second rainbow, faint above the first. Ten minutes went by, and it was still there. We walked up onto the porch steps and sat there. I braided Beth's hair. We were all just laughing and talking, and soaking in the beauty of this everlasting rainbow.

Finally, twenty minutes after we had noticed it, it began to fade - but only because the sun was setting! The clouds were turning pink, brightening as the rainbow slowly disappeared.

Hubby took two full rolls of film, capturing the moment. I kicked myself for not having my digital camera's batteries charged... so you will have to wait for the film to get developed to see the awesome sight.

Yesterday, as he and I went to get a drink at the store... I smiled and pointed at the local newspaper's front page. A picture of kids reaching up for the rainbow.

If that's not Wonderland... I don't know what is.

2004-05-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

For the fourth straight day in a row, the valley has been waltzed by thunderstorms. Not the kind that simply rumble and threaten rain... but the ones that boom so loud the windows rattle, and the cloudbursts pour furiously with each flash of lightning.

Yesterday's storm was no exception.

I crawled up onto the bed with my dog for a nap, and woke to the sound of rumbling. I stared out the windows for countless minutes, watching the lightning dazzle on wet leaves outside my bedroom. The thunder would come, and I would feel my dog's body jolt in his sleep. I loved every lazy, stormy moment.

Another whip-crack of thunder snapped overhead, and the rain came down in a torrent. I jumped off the bed, dog instantly shadowing me, and we ran down to the back porch facing East. One of the benefits of living on a hill is that you can see the entire valley in one glance. I watched lightning touching down on the hills all around, and breathed the scent of rain and ozone.

I also noticed the flashing lights of an ambulance coming up the main road near my house.

My mother came through the living room and walked out onto the porch with me, having arrived back after running some errands. She saw the lights as well, and stopped to see where they were going.

Once the thunder had rolled into silence for a moment, we heard the sirens of the aid car. We watched as it made it's way straight up the main road, getting louder and louder until it turned just below my street and cut across the fairgrounds road.

Right in the direction of my grandmother's house.

Trees obscurred the last few yards of the ambulance's trek, but it seemed like it slowed down right near grandma's driveway. My dad's mom. The last grandparent I have living.

I stood up on the wide railing of the porch, trying to get a better view. I could barely see lights flashing through trees, and then they disappeared. If they went down grandma's driveway, that would make sense. It was a steep dirt road that lead to her house.

"I think we better go see where they went," mom said. I agreed. Seconds later we were running through the rain to my Jeep.

I fumbled with the keys, but finally got them in the ignition. It only took a minute to drive down and cut across the fairgrounds road, just as the ambulance had. I'm not sure about mom, but I held my breath as we pulled up far enough to see her driveway.

The ambulance was parked outside her door.

I gasped. Mom muttered quietly. We turned down the dirt road and parked in the grass, so as not to block the driveway.

The thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit the sky. We were soaking wet when we went through the creaking screen door to find the living room door wide open, and paramedics kneeling in front of grandma.

I glanced up at the walls. There was the faded portrait of my aunt as homecoming queen, circa 1955.

I blinked, and a paramedic came into my vision. He asked me who I was and I told him. He said it appeared that she had suffered a stroke. He asked me how old she was. I said I thought she was 84. He nodded and turned to his partner, who made notes on a clipboard.

Fred, the elderly neighbor from down the street who has taken a shining to my grandmother ever since the passing of her husband many years ago, was the one who found her. He said she was supposed to call him by noon, and hadn't. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. He walked in and found her on the floor.

She looked at me from where she sat, and smiled. I smiled back. But the paramedics kept asking her questions, and she blinked at them like a wounded dove.

They wheeled her out of her old house, to load her on the stretcher outside. I watched as they hoisted her up and covered her with white blankets. She looked up into the sky, through the rain. Thunder clapped. Lightning lit her eyes.

I could see her wondering if she would ever come home again.

2004-05-19T12:29:00.000-07:00

I shouldn't confess what I just indulged in for lunch today... but I'm going to anyway. The taste of it is imprinted within my senses, and I'm still humming from the sheer guilty pleasure from the experience.

My friend Amy (who was my traveling companion in England. Yes, Amy and Aimee - running wild in the UK) was in town today. We decided to venture to the touristy village nearby and try out their new French bistro called Pav's. I had been there once before, and had eaten a perfectly toasted panini, but today we were in the mood for crepes.

We detoured through an antique store, teasing ourselves with the thought of the culinary treats waiting for us. We could barely make it to 11:00 before we caved and headed up the street toward the eatery.

It is a very small place, with seating for no more than about twenty people. The walls are a rich marigold color, with a gold guilded mirror taking up the entire back wall. Sconces and French advertising posters make up the rest of the vaulted ceiling nook. Amy, who recently visited Italy, was in a swoon over how quaint and authentic everything looked.

We scooted into a table for two near the window, and dove into our menus. It wasn't long before we decided to split a meal and a desert. A Black Forest Ham crepe with swiss cheese and a spicy dijon sauce for the entree. A feta cheese salad with red, green and yellow bell peppers on the side, drizzled with dark vinagrette. For desert - a Chocolate Gelato Crepe with whipped cream, almonds and a liquor berry sauce. A straight shot of espresso in demitasse cups to go with our sweets.

The crepes were enormous! Everything was so fresh and delicious, all we could do was stare at eachother shaking our heads. Every bite melted over my tongue. The dijon was spiced just right, and the ham was exquisite with the lightness of the crepe.

Amy reminisced about staying in Positano Italy while our spoons swam through the melting gelato and berry sauce. The little slivers of almonds were crunched in glee and washed down with velvet espresso. She mused about the cooking school where she stayed as a guest, and we both agreed that if we were TRULY decadent we would finish our meal off with a glass of wine.

All of this, and the clock hadn't even struck high noon yet!

We passed on the wine though, and simply let the joys of the food take us into a sleepy simmer. She had a 2 hour drive ahead of her, and I teased her with the fact that I was going to top off my ultra indulgent morning with a supremely self serving nap. But whether we are careening down the road or snuggling into a pillow, there are going to be matching Cheshire smiles on both of our faces!!

2004-05-18T09:32:00.000-07:00

On May 18th, 1980 - my mother and I were in our front yard. It was Sunday morning, and she was getting an early start on the yard work that day. Being 9 years old at the time, I was getting an early start on playing with my dog Chinook.

I was standing on the little slope near the Snowball tree that mom had carefully sculpted throughout the years. Chinook was rooting through the orchard grass nearby, and mom was turning on the sprinklers for the day. We were laughing about something silly, out there under the sea blue sky.

It was then that I heard *and* felt an odd sound. My first thought was that the local highschool had fired off it's cannon (usually saved for the winning touchdown at the homecoming game) for some reason. It thumped the ground beneath my feet.

"What was that?" I asked mom.

She was standing nearby with a garden hose in her hand. She was looking at me, shaking her head a little. "I'm not sure...."

We went on with our morning rituals for awhile, until I happened to glance up into the sky. Instead of the pristine blue, there was a veil of greyish lavender spreading across the horizon. It was unlike any cloud I had ever seen.

"Mom... I think something has happened...." I said, just as she looked up in the sky as well. We both dropped what we were doing and rushed into the house to turn on the TV. There had been speculation of a cataclysmic natural disaster about to strike - so in the back of my mind, I was already anticipating what we were going to see.

It was on every channel. The emergency broadcasting system was in effect. Mount St. Helens had erupted.

We had felt and heard the explosion, though we were hundreds of miles away....

2004-05-14T11:26:00.000-07:00

Another treasure discovered on my trek to the Pacific Ocean. A book called Einstein's Dreams by Alan Lightman.

Each chapter is a hypnotic dream in which Time is explained in every imaginable and impossible facet. Interspersed throughout this are occasional breaks where we see Einstein himself, in simple moments of every day life.
There is nothing ordinary about this book, however. It charms. It enthralls. It makes you close the cover, and imagine a world where Time stops. Or stutters. Or spins in circles....
Consider this the Foxfire Book Recommendation of the Month. And if you do read it - please, visit me again and leave your comments here. In fact, I may just set up a new section to this site, in order for discussions about the books I choose to feature. Hands up, who likes the idea? :)

2004-05-14T10:13:00.000-07:00

Last night we had a fantastically loud thunder storm sweep through the valley.

I could see it coming when I left work. The sky had grown dark and surly, with black clouds sending veils of silver rain onto the hilltops all around.

By the time I pulled in the driveway at home, the wind was whipping through the dogwood tree, scattering it's white petals across the freshly mowed yard. The cats were peeking out from beneath the porch as I walked up the steps. Their afternoon ritual of spying on the quail in the brush pile out back was thwarted.

I curled up on the overstuffed chair by the windows, and watched as the sky took on an eery glow from within. The kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, anticipating the first flash of white lightning from the core.

It wasn't long before my anticipationis were rewarded. The sky lit up, and I counted the heartbeats between the lightning and the thunder. Four beats. One enormous thunder clap, bouncing off one mountain after another.

I could smell the rain before it hit. That earthy, pungent fragrance of too-dry dirt finally being quenched. Of orchards and old leaves being washed clean. Of flowers being shaken on their stems. And I saw the curtain of rain coming from the West, hiding everything behind it in a gauzy haze.

It was an immediate downpour. The metal roof hammered with the onslaught, funneling the water to the corners of the house where it cascaded in gushing waterfalls.

I opened the kitchen window to hear it better. The wind blew rain in through the screen. It felt crisp and cool, as clean as any early summer rain could be. I wanted to bottle that smell, capture the feeling, and keep it going all night long.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. Sensed the lightning. Waited for the thunder. It had a life of it's own, with a pulse that pattered on the metal roof long into the evening.

2004-05-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

I now know why Hendry David Thoreau said "The bluebird carries the sky on his back..."

As I was sitting on an overlook high above the valley, my husband was off in the distance photographing wild lupine against the outline of some trees scorched in a forest fire. It was another postcard blue sky day.

I was looking across at the jagged mountain peaks, wondering if the bears were out and roaming yet, when I thought I saw a portion of the sky move.

As quick as a glance, I spotted a fluttering of blue drop from the canopy above and land on a bare branch nearby. A mountain bluebird!! The kind that is solid sky blue, from breast to wings, with only the faintest little clouds of white showing up near it's legs.

I had never seen one here in Washington before. There are bluejays, of course... but this delicate specimen was certainly nothing like it's sqwaking, raucous cousins. It sat quietly on the branch for several minutes - taking flight for another perch only when my dog decided to romp too close to the tree.

And so I smiled and looked back out across the valley. Such a gift seeing poetry come to life right in front of my eyes. A piece of the sky, delivered on silent wings.

2004-05-09T00:21:00.000-07:00

Making a mental list of errands that needed running, I ducked under the blooming dogwood tree and was about to get into my Jeep when I realized I hadn't checked the mailbox yet.

I glanced over my shoulder to the plain green box jutting up off the rock wall by the road. Ehh... why bother. If there is something in there, it will most likely be bills, junk mail, or at the very most... an issue of Rolling Stone.

So I backed out of the driveway and headed down the road without giving it another thought.

When I finally came back home, I hoisted up the grocery sacks to avoid the inevitable dog-sniffing, and jangled my keys into the lock. But low and behold, when I went to deposit my burden on the kitchen table... there was a good sized parcel perched there, sent to me from someone named Yogi Tea.

After pondering who in this world I knew with such a peculiar name, I realized (admittedly a bit slowly...) that it wasn't a person, but a business who had sent me a mystery package.

I deftly sliced open the wrapping tape, and when I folded back the cardboard, the scent of chai and raspberry engulfed me. I pulled out a sheet of fine paper with asian embellishments across the top in crimson. "Congratulations!" it read. "Please enjoy sampling this selection of Yogi Tea."

Well now, how about that?? I dug into the package and pulled out six full size boxes of tea! Rasberry Leaf, Egyptian Licorice Mint, India Spice Chai, African Redbush Peach, and Raspberry Ginger. There was a vague teasing memory of signing up for some free samples of tea... online? In a shop? I couldn't recall. But apparently I won, in a big way! I'd be set in the tea department for some weeks with this little cache!

So, lining the boxes up on the table, I felt quite chuffed at the unexpected perk to my day. Nothing like some fragrant tea arriving out of the blue to make me hum through a smile.

Never underestimate an unopened mailbox.

"Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: we taste only sacredness." -Rumi-

2004-05-07T16:07:00.000-07:00

Whenever I am heading down the road en route to the Oregon Coast, I have a deep sense of 'going home'. Strange, really - as I've never lived there... and in fact am quite satisfied with the place I've dug my roots in. But going to the ocean feels like returning to a different sort of place. Something deeper in the recognition I feel when I finally step out of the Jeep and onto the hard packed sand of the Pacific Ocean. That's why I have dubbed this place my 'Touchstone'.

The trek down to the coast was a blur. We were due in Oceanside, near Netarts, around 3:00 p.m. so that I could take pictures of my brother and his bride-to-be before the nuptuals. My poor husband witnessed a wide eyed leadfoot of a wife as I sailed down I-5 South, trying to shave precious minutes off our 7 hour journey. Of course, once I was on the narrow, winding Highway 101 - that proved to be even more frightening!

The usual pleasure I take in seeing familiar sights on the initial drive down was forsaken for pure tunnel vision. I saw nothing but the road ahead of me, and imagined my brother suited up in a tuxedo looking at his watch and wondering when his baby sister was going to arrive, Nikon FM10 in hand. That precise scene came true at about 4:00. With the wedding starting at 5:00 - all we could do was shrug helplessly and decide to take pictures after the ceremony.

With that, we raced the few miles back to the condo that was rented for family so that we could shower and change into our dress clothes. I hardly had time to gape at the gorgeous garden tub centered in the middle of huge windows overlooking an ocean cliff. I had to settle for a quick rinse in the plain shower tucked around the corner - a far cry from relaxing in luxurious sandalwood bubbles and gazing out at the Pacific blue.

At last, we took off for the tiny chapel on the hillside. My brother looked dapper and a bit tense as he was trying to find a CD of acoustic guitar he specifically wrote and played for his bride to walk down the aisle to. Unable to find it, he thrust a camcorder into my hand, showed me where to hit 'play' on the sound system and raced out the door to find the missing music. I was now the official media girl of this little ceremony!

As the clock ticked off the minutes to 5:00 - he finally showed up looking dismayed. He couldn't find the CD. Quick arrangements were made with the pianist to play something else when the bride took center stage... and my brother grabbed his guitar case from a side room. He would still be able to play the other song he wrote for her, accompanied by a singer.

When he snapped open the case, his eyes lit up. There, nestled against the felt beneath the neck of his Gibson Hummingbird - was a shiny silver CD. Cheers all around! Things would go as planned. And then, in a matter of seconds... he slipped the CD into the sound system, queued me up with a nod, and away we went into the ceremony....

To be continued.

2004-05-03T08:31:00.000-07:00

In short....

There was little wind, and deep blue skies that had not yet been bleached by summer.

The green throated hummingbirds had claimed the five mile hike through lush forest to Cape Lookout for their own, and one had to watch carefully to avoid stepping on the banana slugs. The whales made cameo appearances at the Cape Meares lighthouse, when the sun was high enough to turn the seawater translucent.

We stuffed our pockets with a king's ransom of agates and sand dollars, feeling like rich thieves as we climbed up over the dunes towards our temporary home.

I sat on hardpacked sand, entranced by the dazzle of gold light on the waves. It wasn't until evening when I realized the sun had left it's mark in blushing pink across the bridge of my nose. Apparently it was set on resurrecting the freckles of my childhood.

And at night, the moon gave just enough light to turn everything into unimaginable variances of midnight blue, broken only by the sparks of starlight trapped in an invisible fisher's net.

"A man tells so many stories, that he becomes the stories. They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal." Big Fish

2004-04-23T07:10:00.000-07:00

And so it is time for the muse to heed the call of the ocean. I will be taking a little sojourn to the Oregon Coast for eight wonderful days. If you click the picture above, it will take you to the Cannon Beach Webcam - where you can get a glimpse of the place that inspires me to no end.

I promise a veritable tsunami of writing upon my return.

Until then, I am reposting a couple of journal entries. One, having to do with Cannon Beach itself. The other, just a whimsical moment that still makes me smile when I think of it.

"You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there
with his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this......"
- Pablo Neruda -

~*~Foxfires~*~

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

The storm winds were already bending the limbs of the trees as I drove the winding road up to the cliff's edge. Just moments before, I had been standing in our oceanside suite watching the darkness take over the horizon. I grabbed my camera, forgot my jacket, and knew that I could capture some fantastic shots of the brooding ocean if I were fast enough.

The parking lot was empty when I reached the top. The wind swept up off the water in cold blasts, and I immediately regretted not having a coat. I held my camera close as I took to the trail, walking the familiar track against the hillside. I glanced over the rough hewn wooden fence, to the rocks and water far below. There was no sand visible as the waves lashed the bank. White foam streaked the water with deceivingly tranquil strands.

I rounded the hill and walked to the dead end of the trail. The wooden fence gave way to steel gridwork. There was fresh dirt where another part of the bank had slid away to the sea. I wondered how much more this storm would demand of the mountain I stood upon.

Lifting my gaze beyond the cliff's edge, the Pacific was before me. The wide blue sea had grown dark with the gathering of clouds. I looked through the camera's lens and focused in on the whisps of stark white fog spinning in contrast to the black horizon. It was mesmerizing... this dance of the elements. It seemed the battered evergreens were releasing their minions to ward the shoreline from the coming storm.

The wind held no comforting scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys down in the village. The only thing it carried was the bitter cold from distant parts of the deep water, where only the salt survives. It picked up in speed, and pushed me back a little. I should have obeyed the gentle warning then and there, but I didn't.

I turned my attention to the sculpt of the shore curving back toward the coastal town, and was about to frame in my last shot when I heard another sound beneath the rush of wind. I lowered my camera and looked back out at the ocean. The wall of black was closer... much closer. I could measure the waves with just a glance, and watched them disappear into the clouds.... but I had never seen clouds so thick right on top of the water. And then it began.... an augmented hiss like the wind raking over millions of dry leaves. The back of my neck tingled as I watched in amazement, this wall coming.... visibly.....rolling toward me. The hiss grew deeper, gained strength, and suddenly I thought of the trains that rolled through the valley at night. No need to slow for cars when the towns are sleeping.

I started running. The trail, about four feet wide at best, suddenly seemed like a gymnast's balancing beam....totally unforgiving. I was sprinting, aware of my heart with every single pounding stride. The train was right behind me... roaring with the promise that it would plow right over me if I were to falter in the slightest way. Gritting my teeth I came to the end of the trail and jumped down a small bank to the grass. I bolted into the nearest picnic shelter and pivoted to look out toward the park. I barely had time to swallow back the lump in my throat when the roar hammered down on me, and my view of the park was blinded by a blur of white. I steadied myself against the picnic table as I watched golf ball sized hail come thundering down, rolling into the edge of the shelter, and pummeling it's roof. Adrenalin raced through my senses, pushing my heart into a flutter. The green grass was gone. In it's place was a growing layer of ice, and I wanted to cover my ears. This was pure power! Nature slamming into the coast, and there I was...just a speck trembling beneath a tiny wooden roof.

And then, just as quick as the blink of a power outage, it was over. It seemed the last of the hail fell all at once, and the wild drumming ceased. The abrupt silence gave me a chill even worse than the roar. I hesitated to leave my shelter... and so I stood there, laughing a little too high pitched, not wanting to think of the consequences had I been caught against the bare hillside.

At last, I walked out under the bare sky. The hail crunched beneath my shoes, and as I looked up, I saw a swirl of mist and blue. I picked my way back up the slope to the trail, reaching out to steady myself against the fencing. There was nothing but clear sky out toward the horizon. The storm had rushed in, crashed against the coast, and raced over the tops of the trees to the mainland. I laughed through a few deep breaths, feeling my pulse finally start to slow down.

A faint rainbow arched from the south shore across to the northern cove.

Sometimes pictures can't replace a thousand words.

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

I heard the sound of wind chimes today.

It was a peculiar thing to hear as the snow fell all around me. Normally, the chimes are taken down in autumn - and their silvery bells aren't heard again until the first winds of spring.

I must have forgotten one....

...because as I was out beneath the bare limbed oak tree gathering kindling from the wood pile, the liquid tones filled the air as a swirl of icy wind rounded down through the canyon.

It stole my breath away.

It was such a delicate sound... watery. As if perhaps someone ran their fingers along the slim metal strands to bring the chimes to life. But when I glanced up at the porch where they were hanging, there was no one there....

I went on gathering the wood, until my arms were full and I struggled to open the door back into the house. My cat slinked around my ankles, and looked up at me with that silent 'meow' she gives me. It reminded me of a vague dream I had before waking this morning.

When at last the fire took to the logs and spiralled up toward the chimney, I closed the glass doors and stood in the glow a moment. I could hear the chimes again, and glanced over to see the snow slanting across the window. The wind was coming from the North.

Out in the orchard, there were the black dots of crows sitting on top of the tree props. They were hunkered against the storm, their wings held like a mysterious man's cape to the rain. Why did they stay?

I fancied that they too were listening to the wind chimes... hypnotized by the sound. Called out from their warm nests in the evergreens, to sit in the iced winds and listen to the accidental melody. Maybe they were dazzled by the snow, too stunned to fly.

I lit my amber incense and the candles on the low darkwood book case. The flames cast soft shadows over the carved elephants from India who guard the Mark Twain collection. The scented smoke slipped past the watercolor painted in the 1800's, making it seem like the small boat being guided out into the waters of Venice was gliding through mist.

I gazed at the old travel poster of the Sahara hanging on the wall... the bedouin man standing on a hill, watching the train pass through the sands at night. I imagined there was no snow outside, no crows braced against the storm. I inhaled the amber and imagined the wind chimes melding with the sound of drums. Cymbals on a dancer's fingers. Silks fluttering in spiced winds.

I was suddenly transported onto that train, my fingers pressed against the glass as I peered out at the dune to see the light of the bedouin's fire. The flames were high, the desert palms caught in the glow. Dancers swayed in the shadows, the golden threads woven through their skirts catching the light.

The sparks were rising high into the night sky, to be lost among the stars.

Before I knew it, I was standing out on the sand still warm from the long day of sunlight. I was running up the dunes, toward the sound of singing, the lure of drums.... the firelight flashing between the dancer's bodies....

....the sound of wind chimes.

~*~

I blinked as the poster came back into focus. There was my bedouin man, draped in his robes, staring down at the train. I looked out the window... and the snow had stopped. The crows were gone....

...and I couldn't stop smiling.

It was a joyous reunion.

2004-04-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

While you wait for the next installment of my story....

The Bee-keeper came out last night.

I was roused from deep 3:00 a.m. sleep by the clunk and hum of an old tractor.

I smiled as I rolled over and peered out of the floor-to-ceiling window that is directly next to my side of the bed. I could see the shine of yellow headlights working their way slowly up one of the rows of apple trees. It would have been disconcerting if I had not known from years previous what this early morning ruckus was about.

The bee-keeper transports his precious workers only at night. They sleep while he trundles them across the grassy inclines of the hill we live on, depositing them in strategic positions so that by morning they will wake to find acres of newly budding blooms to visit.

My husband mumbled something and tugged the blankets up over his head, but the dog and I kept watch on the bee-keeper. Something about this yearly ritual delights me. It signals the true beginning of Spring. The awakening of the apple and cherry trees. And the need to tread carefully across the lawn when dandelions are afoot.

I don't know who the bee-keeper is. Always shrouded in darkness, I recognize him only by the sound of the tractor and the shine of lights on the trees. And little does he know that off in the distance, someone watches him with sleepy interest... a smile given for a little tradition that is kept between two strangers, the moon, and the honeybees.

2004-04-06T15:44:00.000-07:00

(*scroll down to Wednesday, March 31st for the beginning of the story if you have not already read it.*)

THE ARRIVAL - Chapter Two

The city had a pace to it as quick as the bloodstream after a brisk run. Streets bustled with cars and pedestrians, very much like a tangle of veins that lead to one giant pumping heart -- the Underground. Seraph couldn't imagine that even one more person could cram themselves into the white tiled tunnels. Claustrophobia loomed just one breath away from them all as the steady stream flowed to and from the central Tube lines below. She didn't dare slow her walk in order to take stock of her surroundings just yet. She had to laugh a little, as it was not unlike running with the bulls in Pamplona. But at least she would have plenty of time on the train to get her bearings, without the threat of being flattened in the process.

It was a good thing that the throng of people were all heading in the same basic direction she was. It made it easy to go with the flow, maneuvering through the ticket booths, the escalators, and onto the platform to wait for the train. She gave a sympathetic smile to a pair of tourists struggling with their luggage. The tiny wheels on the bottom of the overstuffed bags were only adding insult to injury, as it made the bags wobble like penguins when the tourists would drag it all forward.

At least she didn't have to worry about such a cumbersome process. She could directly thank the Elders for that. No matter what Passage it was, they always had everything arranged for her when she arrived. How this worked, she was uncertain... but she refrained from examining the matter too closely. The Elders took pleasure in spoiling her wherever she went, and she gladly accepted the benefits of being their Mediary.

She felt the train approaching before she heard it. A shift in the air, pushing outward, preceding the roaring whine of the tracks as the subway shot out of it's dark tunnel. It rolled to a stop, and she waited in the crowd for the doors to open. There had been the temptation to take a cab to Monmouth Street, but her main objective was to be in contact with as many people as possible. There was little chance of that in a cab, aside from the cab driver -- and so the decision was easy. However the eye contact, or lack thereof, made her agenda difficult. So many people kept their heads down, attention diverted, nose in their own business so to speak. But, it was nothing that a little initiative did not work out.

"Do you need help with that?" she asked, smiling to the tourists still wrestling with their luggage. The two young women looked up with haggard smiles in return. A few last stragglers bolted down the stairs and through the train's doors, and Seraph motioned for the women to hurry. "It's about to head out again, here... let's give it a heave-ho." They all three grabbed the handles of the unruly luggage and hoisted it up over the threshold.

A voice overhead droned on the loudspeaker. "Mind the gap. Please, mind the gap."

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

The Covent Garden Hotel was unassuming where it sat in the middle of Monmouth Street. The tall brick building blended in with the rest of the shops, distinguished only by its black front and elegant gold lettering. Seraph brushed her hair neatly back behind an ear as she stepped up to the door, but before she could reach out for the handle, it swung open and a man on the other side motioned for her to enter.

She nodded to him, and noticed his head turn to follow her movements as she walked by. Her smile deepened at that, but she didn't return the gaze. Instead, she made her way through the lobby, to the front desk that was flanked on both sides with rich rose drapes, making it seem more like a theatre's stage than a place to check in. The wood of the desk was well oiled, the clock on the wall ticking in the comfortable silence. There was a plate of bright red apples on the counter, and Seraph took one, already thirsting for the taste of the crisp sweetness.

"Ah, hello there! Yes, welcome to the Covent Garden Hotel, may I help you?" said a woman. She appeared a moment later from a side door, her hair neatly pinned at the nape of her neck.

"Yes, I am Seraph Lore, I believe a room has been arranged for me?"

"Miss Lore... indeed! The Loft Suite. Oh you will be quite pleased with it I believe. It has been prepared for your arrival, if you would just sign our ledger here." With that the woman slid a large leather bound book around to receive Seraph's signature.

Seraph did so quickly, giving only a cursory glance at the other names penned in the book before smiling across at the woman. "So there is nothing else I need to do then, as far as payment?"

"No, Miss Lore... it has all been arranged for you. Stay as long as you wish, your first month has been paid, with credit ran on any further time you may need."

"Excellent. Thank you..." she paused, polishing the apple on her coat as she leaned in to read the name on the woman's gold lapel pin. "...Laurel. I have a feeling I will enjoy it here as well."

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

To be continued....
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

2004-03-31T21:53:00.000-08:00

(A little bit of the fiction writing that I dabble in. I hope my readers enjoy. :) It's amatuer...but it's mine. Like my favorite fortune cookie once said.. "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting".)
2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

"Sights seen in the mind's eye can never be destroyed"
Strabo (64 BC - AD 21)

THE PASSAGE - Chapter One

Seraph closed her eyes as she was told.

Her senses tingled with awareness as the sound of falling water grew louder, mimicked in a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Someone warmed her ear with a whisper, but before sense or reason could give the words shape, they faded into a place that held no form at all. Sound rushed out, as if being pulled through a small hole, leaving only thick quiet to fill the void.

Darkness cradled her. She felt the muted pump of her heart, and the velvet blackness caress her skin the way it did when someone stood too close at night. Was she falling, or flying? Maybe she was levitating.

'Or maybe', she thought, 'I have already arrived'.

The questions drifted in the same dreamy procession as leaves floating downstream, and yet there was no real need for answers. She knew this, for she had crossed over many times before. But regardless of her certainty, the questions always remained.

Or perhaps they were the answers all along.

--

"Open your eyes," a voice said.

It was as if a door were thrown open near the ocean, just in time to hear the seventh wave crash on the shore. A rush of tingles ran wildfire up her spine, while echoing words untangled themselves from her thoughts. She swayed as she felt solid ground beneath her feet and gulped the fresh air, tasting rain on her tongue.

The fading light in the sky eased into her vision. There were storm clouds darkening overhead, and a wind that spiraled down from them teased at her long black hair.

It was then that she heard the chanting. Women's voices, lilting in harmonic tones that seemed to rise and fall with the blowing wind. Before her, solitary on the sloping green plains, a ring of square stones almost triple her height. Torches had been thrust into the ground around them, their flames guttering wildly in the wind. She walked through the wet grass and pressed herself against one of the stones, circling around to the other side to shield herself from the storm. Shadows danced against the slabs of rock like ghosts of the women within the ring. Their hands reached up to the sky, their backs arched in offering. As Seraph stared, a peal of thunder rolled across the plain, and lightning sparked the bank of clouds. In a heartbeat she was blinded by it, clenching her eyes shut until the moment passed....

...but dizziness welled up in her core as the chill of the storm suddenly gave way to a press of hot, dry air. The next breath was laced with spice, and the sound of the women and thunder thinned out until it hissed like a thousand serpents. She pushed away from her brace against the stone and opened her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to brilliant sunlight flashing on pale dunes as far as she could see.

At her feet, a terrace of quarried stone spreading out like a mountain. Pulling her hair back away from her face, she picked her way across the platform of stone, following the call of a reedy voice. The heat blazed against her dusky skin, magnified by the massive granite blocks that had baked under the sun for hours. When she peered down the terraced slope, she saw a young man standing on a high ramp, draped in a pristine white robe and adorned with gold and lapis lazuli. Below him on a grand stairway, a dozen men worked in unison, their backs shining slick with sweat. Across the desert, a shadow of the pyramid stretched out to touch the distant sand, and Seraph knelt down to press her hands against the burning stone...

...but her fingers disappeared beneath the surface of water. Ripples from her touch fanned out through a mirror smooth pool, disrupting the perfect image reflected within. A cool breath of wind chased away the parched heat, and Seraph glanced up, following the line of water and cypress trees as they joined together in the distance beneath the pregnant swell of a palatial tomb. Silence fit the moment as moonlight glowed on the white marble dome and it's guardian minarets. A hint of a smile grew, the moon shining just as deeply in her pale green eyes. 'Such truth in beauty' she thought to herself as she looked back down into the reflecting pool. . .

. . . And saw the face of London's Clock Tower light up. It boomed the hour, and with each heavy chime Seraph felt herself center to the world around her. A double-decker bus roared by in a blur of red, and flashes from a tourist's camera lit up the sidewalk around her. It was raining again, and her brows perked slightly as she realized she was already carrying an umbrella. Flicking it open, she watched the flow of people on the sidewalk, peering over her shoulder as they disappearing down the stairs to Westminster Station. She tightened the scarf at her throat, a faint scent of sandalwood lifting up from her wrists. She looked down to see she was wearing a simple brown wrap skirt, lace up boots and a black duster that hung well past her knees.

"Perfect," she whispered, glancing up at the Clock Tower as she noted the time.

The passage was complete. They would be pleased.

Threading her way through the rush hour crowd, she tossed a coin to a busker.

He quickened the strum of his guitar to match her stride as she disappeared into London's Underground.
(To be continued)

2000 - A.S. Foxfires Arts

2004-03-28T16:02:00.000-08:00

Two of my most beloved poems, by the same writer - Pablo Neruda. His words ring so true in my ears. If you are not familiar with his works, I highly recommend them. Vibrant and sensual, rich enough to taste. He has ruined me for all other poets.

POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~

And another for good measure. One of my favorites by him:

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
~*~Pablo Neruda~*~

2004-03-25T21:50:00.000-08:00

I've heard that personal collections tell much about the people who have hoarded them. Some people become obsessed with a certain animal. Others collect a particular artist, or perhaps a type of crystal.

There are two things that I have long been fascinated with, and collect down to this day: Interesting boxes, and journals.

My fascination with boxes began at a very early age, starting with the treasure chests. When I was five years old, my mother bundled me up and carted me off to Disneyland. Everything was a clash of color and sound, whirling rides and fantastical sights at every turn. I have such vivid memories of being there in my baby blue pant suit. But over all the surreal experiences with talking parrots and giant mice dancing around me, I remember one thing gleamingly clear.

The Pirates of the Caribbean.

This ride enthralled me. Scared me. Lured me in with the mystery of pirates and their treasure.

At one point in the ride, there were treasure chests gleaming with pirate gold. I reached out, wanting to pluck one off the pile for myself, but just as soon as my little starfish hand reached out.... the cart we were riding in swung around a corner and plunged us into darkness.

From that day forward I knew I wanted a treasure chest of my very own. And I made one! I found a small plastic Barbie trunk which I very carefully placed every loose rhinestone, every piece of cut glass I could find in my mom's jewelry box. I was a scavanger, looking for anything sparkly to add to my trove.

The day arrived that my little trunk was stuffed full of glittery, shiny gems. I sat down on the floor, got out a piece of butcher paper (ripped on the edges to make it look 'old'), and set out making my Treasure Map. From my bedroom door, I paced out the steps down the stairs, through the living room, into the kitchen and out the back door. Taking a butter knife from the kitchen as I passed through, I counted the paces down the back steps to the sidewalk... then out across the yard to the edge of the above ground swimming pool.

Then I got tricky.

I backtracked some, and veered off beneath the Lilac tree. There was one particular limb that hung out further from the rest and I - not comprehending that time would pass and my tree would grow - made the very tip of that limb my final stop. Directly beneath it, in the green grass of our lawn, I would bury my plastic treasure chest. Butter knife marks the spot.

So I carved out a hunk of sod, and then sat down to finish my map. For effect, I drew the best skull and cross bones I could manage. Then I carefully folded my 'map' up, tucked it in with my jewels, and down into the hole my treasure chest went.

Plugging the hole back up, I ran into the house to dump the dirty knife in the sink. I couldn't stop giggling. I had my very own secret pirate's treasure, map included.

Every night I would go out and rub my toes over the grass that had died on that patch. I made sure water from the sprinkler revived it, and then watched with pride as the green started to return. But, of course... summer ended. School started. I soon traded in obsession with my treasure for the experiences of kindergarten.

But I never lost my fascination with boxes.

Years later, as my parents would take me to the Gun and Antique shows at local county fairgrounds, I would leave my Dad's table where he would be showing all of his firearms, and I would wander the rows of antiques. Every now and then, I would find a box that would catch my eye. Perhaps a small wooden one, with carvings on the top. Once, a large black lacquered one with red velvet lining. Another time, it was an old hat box from Paris. All of these lovely things I scuttled back home with, to add to my collection.

And then came the journals.

My mom gave me my first journal. It was navy blue with a gold lock, and the word "Diary" stamped on the front in gold leaf. I was clumsy with my entries, writing about my day in one and two sentence statements. "It rained and Chinook (our dog at the time) didn't come to the bus stop with me." "Sari (my best friend) wore new shoes today."

Such simple, bold statements of life that was no bigger than the space around me. But I was hooked. Journals were just like treasure chests, only this time...I could write the jewels. I could fill it with as many as I wanted, and they were secret, which of course was paramount for any REAL treasure.

I kept my journals in my boxes, which gave me double the pleasure. Sometimes I would carry one of the boxes over to my bed, just to open it up and sift through the contents, no matter how many times I had done it before. Maybe that night's choice would be the small cedar box which was an advertisement for real cedar hope chests. It had a key that I could lock and unlock it with. Inside were tiny trinkets, paper momentos, and a small pink flowered journal I had bought with my own money. I loved these tokens of my life. They were proof of my existence. Of where I had been. Of what I personally found interesting.

My simple joys from these two things have not waned with time. I spy a hand crafted journal that ties with a strip of leather, and I immediately want to buy it. I see a box with dark wood thatching across the top and a curious lock on it, oooooh - I want to make it mine. I want to take them, and fill them up to the brim with my treasures...so that when they are sitting on the shelves looking lovely and enigmatic, I can tell myself.... There's treasure in there.

So... years have passed. But when I look out the window of the childhood home I grew up in, and see the lilac bush having grown so huge.... I smile to myself. Somewhere out there, beneath the limbs that have stretched out over the thick green grass, is a tiny plastic pirate's chest nestled deep in the ground with the worms and pebbles and brown dirt.

And you know what?

There's treasure in there.....

2004-03-22T20:00:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure what's wrong.

There are times in the year where I will suddenly and without warning 'shut down' my creative processes. Well, I don't do it on purpose... I imagine a tiny little munchkin-me riding sidesaddle in my brain who gets her kicks on plucking out that particular mass of goo sometimes.

I sure wish I knew where she flung it.

All around me Spring has been bursting up out of the dead ground. Flowers reaching up for the sun... birds gathering in the wood piles. The slightly peppery scent of an orchard coming back to life. So... why can't I write about it?

Good question.

Thank you. I pride myself on good questions.

Smart aleck.

Anyway....

Every day I come look at my blog. I look at it, and visit the links. I listen to the music (which, by the way - is soon to change. I'm in a Crowded House mood this week. Mmm, Neil Finn - thank you for your songs), and I stare at the Blogger button like it were a little alien having just beamed in from Betelgeuse. If I don't look at it, maybe it will go away... or at least go to the next trailer park down the road.

But of course, I don't *really* want it to go away. I want it to stay awhile. In fact, if I were to be truthful, I might even let it take me back to it's mothership for some testing.

So why the resistance?

Maybe I'm having a temporary aversion to being prodded with long pointy needles. Or, long pointy lines of code for that matter. I guess you could say it's writer's block... but it would be the wrong thing to say. I'm not blocked. In fact, I have so many things boiling inside my little mind that you could say it is writer's overload. I have so MUCH to say, that it has bottlenecked.

The best route to take then, if there is a path to choose - is to let the wine flow one droplet at a time. Because someday, it will become a full glass again.

That being said....

I had the most fascinating dream the other night. It wasn't part of a lengthy epic as my night dreams are prone to be. It was a brief flash - a wavering moment in my subconcious... but it was so beautiful. In fact, I can honestly say this was the most peaceful, serene 'place' I have ever visited in my dreams.

I had walked up the last few steps of a grassy bank, to stand at the edge of a slow moving river. It wasn't very big, in fact a person wouldn't have to be a very strong swimmer to make it to the other side. But it was breathtaking.

Sunlight was streaming down through a wall of mist that had stopped short of the bank on the opposite side. Diffused light focused on the barely moving water, and glistened in near-blinding golden shimmers. The water was an impossible shade of emerald green... like it was a priceless jewel flowing over the rocks. The trees were weeping willows, and their branches hung gently over the water, the tips moving to and fro over the surface.

I stood there, completely engulfed in perfect warmth. I could almost taste the emerald hue, it was that rich. I was stunned by the beauty of sunlight through the mist, and everything about the moment told me that I had arrived. Where? It didn't matter. I had arrived.... and that's all I needed to know.

I desperately wanted to take a picture.

I turned and ran down the bank, to go into a nearby house and fetch my camera. I was moving in slow motion...but not in panic-time. It was simply the way I had to move in this serene place. But by the time I got my camera and climbed back up the hill, the moment was gone. The sun was hiding behind a higher group of clouds, and the water had dimmed to a grey-blue.

But when I woke up shortly thereafter, I still had that warm, green-gold glow radiating inside of me.

Someday, I'm going to be standing on that bank. But I'm not going to leave it to take a picture. I'm just going to lay down in the plush grass, and let the sunlight infuse me.

2004-03-13T09:32:00.000-08:00

The Journey of Samwise:
A Return To The Shire

As some of you may know, a stray cat decided to claim our house as his home during the winter months. A battered orange Tom, and a manx no less - who was obviously accustomed to battling it out for territory in the wilds of the Cashmere Valley orchards.

We named him Smeagol, for his habit of meowling and whining as he poked his head out from under the porch. But, my 7 year old niece... upon seeing The Return of The King.... decided that Smeagol was evil, and we absolutely HAD to rename our cat.

Hence, Samwise was bestowed as his new moniker.

Now, Samwise had a tendency to roam his newfound Shire. It wasn't unusual for him to go up missing for two or three days at a time. At night, I'd hear the coyotes yodling out in the orchard...and I would wonder if perhaps Samwise had strayed a little too far towards Mordor. But, eventually I'd hear him meowling at the front door, wanting his tin of tuna.

A survivor, that one.

Although... one morning when he returned, I went outside to find that something had gotten hold of him. His back leg had fur missing on a good portion of it, and puncture wounds where teeth had clamped. There was a small scratch on his nose...and he was busily licking and tending to his wounds. We watched him for awhile, and he wasn't limping or in immediate pain... so we decided to keep an eye on it, figuring that sometimes it's best just to let the animal take care of it.

That went well for a few days. The wound was staying clean, and he was busy inspecting the newly uncovered lawn and garden as the snow melted back.

Thursday morning of this week came, and I scritched his head on my way out the door for work. My mother was there, and we both noticed that the wound had swollen. Time to go to the vet.

So I went to work, not realizing that my mother had decided she would take him that day.

When I came home that night, I noticed Samwise wasn't milling around on the porch as he is wont to do. When I went inside, mom was sitting on the couch....

"Well, I don't know if we are going to see Samwise again or not...."

What???

And here is where Samwise's journey begins.

----

I was mindin' me own business in the garden there, noticin' that the ground was gettin' ripe fer mushrooms....when suddenly I found meself scooped up like I was nuthin' but a bag o' taters! I looked, and standin' there with me in her clutches was Grandma-ki... with the White Hand of Mary Kay smack dab on her face.

She threw me over her shoulder, Mr. Frodo - she did. She took her stride to that monstrous big dragon o' hers.... and I was soon flyin' down the road, not knowing it for nuthin'. And then I came to me senses....

.... we were headin' straight fer Mordor, we were.

I saw it plain as day, the Eye of Veterinarian. Oh it was an evil business, Mr. Frodo... the smell hit me like the stinkiest bog you ever did step in. When she brought her dragon to a stop, she hoisted me out and held me in a death grip, I swear it.

The closer we got to that evil door, the more I thought of the Shire, and how I might never see it again. And then, I heard her murmur low like. She said she was fixin' on fixin' me! At first I thought maybe just my leg, but then she said somethin' that made the hair on my back stand right up. She was talkin' about my Precious. My PRECIOUS!!! Noooo!! Don't let him turn me into anything unnatural!!!!!!!!!!

Hang that. I wasn't stickin' around for it Mr. Frodo. There was just no reason to it, as far as I could see. And I had to do somethin' quick, cause the Eye of Veterinarian was fixed on me solid like, and there wasn't no turnin' back once she got me through that door. So I had to think quick like... and the first thing to do was just to bite her hard and scratch for all I's worth Mr. Frodo. And so I did, I swear it.

The Gramma-ki dropped me then, and there was nuthin' for it. I went for the bushes straight away, and kept low so there was no seein' me. I was keepin' my Precious, and there was no two ways about it.
------------------------------------------------

So... there she was. Scratched, bit and bleeding. The Vet came out of his office when he heard the commotion, and was stunned to see mom with a real gusher coming out of the top of her hand. Apparently Samwise landed a perfect bite to a blood vessel.

So, wrapping mom's hand up as good as he could with the bright orange animal tape... the Vet urged her to head to the Emergency Room at the local hospital. Apparently cat bites are some of the worst in the world if they get directly into a vessel.

So she went, and the doctor got a good chuckle as he unwrapped the Vet's handiwork... but he did prescribe her five days of potent antibiotics. She then promptly went to the store and blew money on a pair of shoes and two shirts because, in her words...."I went to do the damned cat a favor, and to get him fixed so he wouldn't keep going out and getting in fights... and then I lost the cat, blew fifty bucks on antibiotics...and I was pouting!!!!"

At this point we were laughing hysterically... as is the habit of our family. Situations like this are so comical we can't help but laugh while feeling sad that Samwise was now a couple of miles away downtown... with train tracks, a highway, and country suburban sprawl between him and home.

So, that night I peeked out the door to his house. The heat lamp we had fixed up for him to keep him warm on the cold winter nights was dark. No orange kitty on his back baking under the red light like a little bean burrito at a mini-mart. As much of a chuckle as the situation was... I felt my heart sink. Poor Sam. Even though the Vet told us not to be surprised if he found his way home, I couldn't imagine him surviving it out of town, past the cars, across the numerous yards and fields where dogs roamed freely.

"Don't worry.... I bet you he'll come back" hubby said. But I just shook my head.

At best, I hoped maybe he'd find a new home with kind owners.

At worst.....

....

So the next day I tried not to look over at his house as I left for work. His food dish was still on the porch, but there was no need to fill it with tuna. Mom was doing good, the bite wasn't even sore - so that was a worry off my mind. I could tell she felt bad though. I tried to make her laugh by saying, "See? We should have kept his name Smeagol...cause then when he bit you, he would have shouted 'Nassssty Grammatsis!!!!' "

We both giggled, but still. Our Sam, our little stray, was gone.

So this morning, hubby and I rose early at 6:30, to get a real jump start on the day. We were hungry for omellettes and good coffee, and knew our dog would be geared for a walk. So out the door we went, and as hubby went to start the Jeep, I walked Griffin over past the porch swing to send him off into the orchard to do his business.

I stood waiting for him, when I heard a meowl.

I glanced around, telling myself it was the wind.

"Meooowl!"

I gulped. "I hear a cat. I hear a cat!!!" I almost gave myself whiplash as I looked all around, recognizing that plaintive little call. Hubby rushed over from the car, looking up in the tree at the same time I looked down at my feet....

...and there, slinking out from beneath the porch swing, was our Brave Samwise. Meooowwwwwwwwwwwwwl!!!!!!!

"Oh...holy cow!!!!!!! He came back!!! Sam's back!!!!!!!"

I scooped his little body up and he was an instant bagpipe of purring. I was absolutely dumbfounded. He had avoided the river, crossed the train tracks, made it across the highway and over two miles of the township.

I guess it really is true what they say. You can't lose a cat!

He is currently curled up on the porch in the sunlight, completely tuckered out from his long journey. And I'm sure in his mind he is thinking.... Ahhhh, Mr. Frodo. The Shire. The taste of Purina, the smell of my blanket. There's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.

~*~

Ain't it the truth. :) When turning on the news tells of things that even nightmares can't imagine... I figured my little story of 'what was lost, now is found' might bring a smile or two to my few readers. I shamelessly (and awfully!) wove in a few direct quotes from Tolkien's grand book... and for those of you who aren't familiar with it, this story might not read the same. But I'm sure one thing is obvious; my joy! I've got my Samwise back. Kitties do have nine lives.

2004-03-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

Today's simple pleasures:
A double-tall hazelnut latte
A handful of almonds for breakfast
Jason Mraz playing on the stereo
A warm fleece vest over my favorite t-shirt from London
Wearing sandals for the first time this year
The lingering scent of Miracle on my wrist
Seeing a heron on the bank of the river
A sandwich in a brown paper bag waiting in the fridge
Flowers for sale down the street.
I want to buy the red gerber daisy
.75 cents in my pocket

2004-03-08T21:52:00.000-08:00

http://atomfilms.shockwave.com/af/content/trinket_maker

Visit that web page. Click on 'view film', and watch The Trinket Maker. What a charming animation. I really, really love this.
I would make it a direct link, however the page will not load properly through my blog if I do.

I would adore hearing comments on what you thought of this short film......

2004-03-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

Since I am completely in love with Michael Parkes' Paintings, I thought it would be fun to take this test. My results are:

Rainbow Sphinx: You are the dreamer, the crafter of inspiration and the companion of muses from here to the ancient Mediterranean. Your feet never quite touch the ground, and you always see the possibilities instead of the limitations. People find you hard to understand, but impossible to live without. Remember to be patient with those of us trying to keep up.

Which Michael Parkes Painting Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hmm - intriguing results! A muse of the ages....

2004-03-07T13:36:00.000-08:00

Mystery Solved
The man under the derby was T. Edward Davidson.

Those of you who have followed my blog for awhile now, might recall something I wrote about a spectre roaming the town. A peculiar man with a silver curled mustache and goatee, a neatly pressed suit, and a penchant for digging out the train tracks.

As it turns out, he was no phantom. He was a man obsessed with trains. He was a voracious reader, and fluent in nine languages. He had a keen interest in physics and aviation history... which wouldn't surprise those who knew him when he flew planes and taught in schools.

During World War II, he was a conscientious objector. He lived in South Korea for awhile, but never was able to shake his faintly Scottish accent. When questioned about his habit of walking everywhere he went, he replied "I get out to walking, and I don't have enough sense to quit."

There is going to be a memorial for T. Edward Davidson on March 13th at the steam train by the riverfront park - to which I am moved to attend. He passed away on February 21st. For as antiquated as he looked...the gentleman was only 81.

I'm going to be doing a little more rooting around for information about this unique fellow...but for now, I'm going to repost what I originally wrote.

For the train man:

There is a spectre that roams my town.

The first time I encountered The Engineer, it was a blistering summer day about six years ago. I was driving down by the old train trestle, where the cement arches leading beneath are often used as backdrops for photo shoots. Every day the trains rumble on overhead, and I rarely glance at people using the covered sidewalk to go beneath. Rarely, that is...until *he* caught my eye.

A thin spindle of a man was walking with a black cane toward the underpass. That in itself would not have captured my attention, but the fact that he was dressed head to toe in what seemed to be 1930's formal attire did. He wore a black bowler derby perched atop beautiful silver hair. A slim neck was encased in a stiff starched collar, a snow white dress shirt in contrast to the black vest he wore over the top, shining like only satin can. His pants were pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle to be seen...and his shoes looked like the wingtips I had seen in old picture albums at my grandmother's house.

I know I slowed down when I went past him, but by that time he had faded into the shadows of the underpass. I saw one brief flash of him through an archway... spying a meticuously groomed mustache, his proud gate with his walking stick grasped firmly.... and a black bowtie to complete the picture.

I drove on, completely dumbfounded by what I had just seen. The temperature that day was in the 90's - the sort of dry heat that the valley is famous for. Surely that slim man, in his 80's? 90's? was going to sweat himself into a puddle before he got to his destination??

Thoughts of The Engineer remained for some days afterward, but soon faded away with the routine of work and life. The year did not pass away though....until I found myself driving down that same stretch of road, and recognizing a familiar figure walking alongside the road.

As I drove by, I craned my head and looked. It was him, dressed in the same dapper suit...with the same handlebar mustache, the same bowtie, and the walking stick still gripped with a firm hand. He didn't look at me... he didn't look at the ground. He looked straight ahead, with an assured purpose in his eyes that most people would envy.

Engulfed in curiosity, I brought the subject up to my husband. He knew immediately who I was speaking of. "The old man in the suit...yes! I've seen him too!! It's like looking at something straight out of a Mark Twain book." And I could do nothing but agree. He went on to tell me he had seen the old man once, down by the park where there was a miniature train set up. Kids in the summer could go for rides on it, but it was small enough that an adult could pull it along with a rope if they wished... and that's where my husband had seen him. Pulling the train along the tiny track, in his formal dress clothes. I remember wishing with all my heart that I had been there with my Nikon, to photograph such a sight.

Glimpses of The Engineer came throughout the following years. The only change brought on by summer was the removal of the black suit jacket, to expose the vest beneath. Winter only brought the jacket back around him, and a pair of black gloves to match. He was always by the railroad... walking along the tracks that cut away from the main line and zag through the industrial section of town. He was always walking along these with that same purposeful step.

One day, however... something new happened. I was driving between two old cold storage buildings, where the train tracks come to an end, and I saw The Engineer hunched over them. It was such a startling sight that I almost stopped to see if he was alright - but then I noticed him lurching. Shoveling. He had a shovel in his hands, and he was digging gravel away from the train tracks. His black suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing pale arms. He was digging as if the train was on it's way, and it was up to him alone to keep it from derailing.

I wanted to stop... I wanted to get out of my Jeep and ask him what he was doing. Ask him his name... ask him where he was from. Prove to myself that he was in fact flesh and blood!! But I didn't. I kept driving, looking in my rear view mirror at the figure shoveling and swinging... shoveling and swinging.

The last time I saw the Engineer was this summer. My husband and I were sitting in the park by the river, which parallels the train tracks. As we got up from our impromptu picnic, I glanced down the trail and there...coming up the slope....was the old man. He looked no different from the first day I saw him, all those years ago. He had on his bowler derby, his vest...his pin stripe pants. His walking stick tapped the ground with a steady cadence. I realized for the first time...that he had a pair of very small wire rimmed glasses on. They were so silvery and small, they nearly disappeared into his face. I had never stood so close to him.

He walked past us, never giving even a flicker of a glance. He just stared straight ahead.... walking down the trail with his slim shoulders back, his head held high. The epitome of a very fine butler from a royal household.

I still don't know who he is. But, in a strange coincedence... four months ago I started a new job in one of the old brick buildings in town. It is located directly across the street from the main hub of the train line. My first day on the job, I walked up the steps, and was about to head on into the main hall, when my husband spotted something.

"Hey...take a look at this...." he said. He was pointing to something on the very corner of the building, by the door. I leaned in to look. There, rusted and weathered over years of exposure... a tiny metal sign in the brick, above a doorbell that had seen decades since it's last use. It said; 'Ring bell for Engineer'.

The building is the site of the old trainyard station...

....and I halfway wonder if The Engineer would appear at the door, if I were to press that old, silent bell.

2004-03-04T22:02:00.000-08:00

Portland Oregon, 1995. I was standing outside of a downtown office building fumbling with my umbrella, scowling because the little latch on the handle wasn't pushing in right and my umbrella was simply flapping there like a wounded bird. The rain had started to plaster my hair against my skin, and my feet hurt from being in heels all day. I was already envisioning that cup of coffee with cream I would have waiting for me at my sister's house, and how good it would feel to peel my nylons off and walk on her carpet with bare feet.

And then a warm, low voice suddenly rose up over the sound of rain on the city street.

"Voluptuous...."

What? I glanced up from my struggle and caught my breath. A man was standing no less than four feet away, dressed in a smart suit. The cobalt blue of his button down shirt looked beautiful against his dark brown skin. He had striking brown-green eyes, and he was looking straight at me.

"P...pardon me?" I said, forgetting my umbrella altogether.

He stepped closer, but there was still space left to dash if needed...that much I could see.

"There's a word called voluptuous, and you....are it."

I could feel my jaw move slightly, my lips trying to form some semblance of a reply... but I was stunned. I was 24 years old, and this was the first time a stranger had walked straight up to me and said anything of the sort. And to my amazement, I felt warmth rush to my cheeks and an instant smile erupt.

"Don't ever believe what they say about stick skinny girls. You just stay voluptuous and beautiful..." he said, tipping his head a little. And then he lowered his gaze toward the ground. Such a tiny gesture, but it said everything it needed to say. He wasn't hitting on me. He wasn't going to push me up against the door and ask my number. He wasn't trying to make me feel uncomfortable. He was simply making my day.

In a time when rail thin figures were all I saw in magazines... when 'beauty' was measured by how many ribs a person could see sticking out from beneath their skin, I found every way to hide my body beneath layers of clothes and baggy shirts. I couldn't open a magazine without feeling the downward spiral of 'I'll never look like that.....'

But in one fell swoop, I suddenly felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. Or at least the most beautiful woman standing in the rain in downtown Portland Oregon.

Before I could speak, he turned around, reaching up to smooth his fingers along the lapel of his long wool coat, and continued on down the street.

I stepped into the middle of the sidewalk, not caring about the rain anymore. I watched him walking away, and finally found my voice.

"Thank you!!! Sir? Sir??? Thank you!"

The sound of traffic on the wet city streets roared on into the afternoon. He disappeared into a crowd, and I'm not certain if he ever heard me. But that one comment made my whole day. Whole month. In fact, it still rings in my ears to this day.

I went home and told my husband what had happened. He just smiled and told me he knew it all along. But sometimes, it takes a word from a stranger... someone who isn't biased... to make you realize it for yourself.

I never looked at random acts of kindness the same way again, and I never hold back on giving a compliment. You never know just how it will shape a person's day... or life, for that matter.

And so, mystery man in Portland - if you are out there... thank you, once again.

2004-02-29T10:31:00.000-08:00

I heard the coyotes again last night.

It was a brief trill out of the darkness, somewhere on the far edge of the cherry trees. I lay in my bed, listening to the silence that followed, halfway expecting to hear the sudden cadence of paws running through the crust of snow.

They always come from the West in the velvet hush of darkness, beckoning me from the deepest of sleep.

I wavered there on the cusp of slumber, with a vague sensation that the room was spinning. Blue moonlight webbed between the bare limbs of the tree outside the window, and captured me in it's snare.

Suspended between awake and sleep, I was transported with the simple sway of branches. A final cry from the coyotes sent my thoughts winging across the continents, over the oceans, through the fog... to the cold flagstones beside the River Thames. The echo of their wild call held in the winter air like a breath expelled, and wove with a single note peeled from the heart of a violin.

I remembered that violin, singing into the London darkness.

I saw him there, beneath the yellow glow of an aged lantern; a thin heron of a man with a pointed wisp of a beard, and a violin tucked beneath his chin.

His eyes were closed, and soon he drew back the bow to release that single note from it's place...letting the melody drop slowly around him like the arms of a drowzy lover. He spun in the grasp, oblivious to the audience that stood captivated in the shadows. He was a Whirling Dirvish, the cuffs of his long trousers dusting the tops of his polished shoes.

There was a faint trace of a smile beneath his silver whiskers, and a glint of moonlight that bounced off the clasps of his white suspenders. His shirt was not stiffly pressed, but hanging off him like the silks a gypsy might wear. Within the billowing fabric, his boney arms worked away.... one braced beneath the wooden muse he held, the other masterfully guiding the bow to the strings, giving the siren it's voice.

How long had it been since he enthralled his fair mistress with such talent? How many years had passed since he stood in chambers warmed by firelight, and sipped red wine from a glass reflecting the flames? When was the last time he set the violin aside, and traded it for the satin of his beloved's embrace?

And the violin wailed; So long... so very long...

But he danced for her now, on the flagstones, in the cold... his breath swirling around him as he panted the lust only a musician knows. The tones were pure, and sailed along the river like so many restless souls.... and perhaps he imagined her to be one, her ageless beauty wavering at the edge of sallow lamplight.

At last, his shoulders hunched, his grey cheek pressed to the curve of wood as the melody found it's final breathy stanzas.... and the song melted away into the brisk London air. He tucked the violin and bow beneath his arm like a heron folding it's wings in against the wind.

Without opening his eyes, he walked backwards into the shadows and was gone.

The wind rushed up from the Thames, and rocked the branches of the trees growing up out of the walkway.

The moon was trapped in the limbs....

...I know because I saw it there, when my eyes fluttered opened at the sound of a coyote's cry.

2004-02-27T10:47:00.000-08:00

Oh.. my...gosh.

Yet again, another diversion from my normal posting routine. But this public service announcement must be made!

As I am sitting here still suffering the effects of my prolonged cold - I made a discovery that could revolutionize life for women everywhere.

Hershey's has a SPA!

Yes... you heard me right. The same people that bring us those blissful little bars of chocolate, those devilish silver wrapped kisses...those hedonistic sweets that make women dance in tribal glee... have a Hershey Day Spa. Where they DIP you in ...yes....chocolate.

*bites her lip*

http://www.spaathotelhershey.com

I could barely contain my overwhelming euphoria at reading the description of this little gem of a day spa trip:

Chocolate Escape - $290
Approximately 3 hours
Whipped Cocoa Bath
Settle into our foaming chocolate milk bath for a soothing and softening signature Hershey experience. Milk will soften and renew the skin while you indulge in this chocolate experience.
Chocolate Bean PolishOne of our signature chocolate services! We combine the gentle exfoliation of cocoa bean husks and walnut shells with a softening Coca Body Moisturizer for superb results. Smells so good, you may want to eat it!
Chocolate Fondue WrapOur exclusive formula of warmed moor mud and essence of cocoa revitalizes and nourishes the skin as it relaxes the body. A luxurious body brushing is followed by the fondue application. The body is then wrapped in a soft warm blanket to enhance the total effect. The Hershey Vichy Shower, promoting velvety smooth skin, culminates the effect.
Cocoa MassageOnly in Hershey, PA can you relax AND enjoy chocolate without a single calorie. Our signature chocolate-scented massage oil along with a Traditional Massage will surely soothe your senses and tempt the taste buds!

I'm just...speechless. Could such a place truly exist? I don't know if I could even dare step foot in such a place... I might explode from sensory overload. Husbands, if you've ever been in the doghouse... if you've ever needed the ultimate solution to every thing you may have ever done wrong - book a trip here, NOW. I'm telling you, this could gain you permanent immunity status from ever getting punished again!!

If word gets out, there might just be a mass exodus to Hershey PA - where a million woman march will storm the battlements of the Chocolate Spa and take it over as a mighty kingdom for all chocolate addicted sweethearts everywhere!!!

2004-02-24T19:58:00.000-08:00

Wanted: One bowl of chicken soup, crackers on the side - delivered by Mom.

Yes - tis the season of pounding sinus headaches and hacking bronchial coughs.

Every Spring I know I can look forward to a good week of pure self pity and Oscar worthy whining. It seems the first breath of warmer winds always has a little present or two in store for yours truly. One whiff of it and I'm on the couch, clutching my head and making peculiar little raspy noises when I try to breath.

I managed to go to work, but started to hurdle downhill before I even took the first sip of my latte. It was all I could do to keep my left eye from abandoning it's bony ship. Why do my headaches always hide behind that poor little eyeball? Do they enjoy making me look like a squinty eyed piratess?? Yarrr matey, git yer salty arses out o'me way....

At least I had a dozen pink roses to cheer me! Hubby surprised me with them yesterday, after a particularly nasty morning of having to clean up the... tsunami.... that came out of our dog and washed ashore on the carpet in front of the door. Can we all say 'gag reflex'? Yes, it was that bad.

The roses were a total delight, and kept me smiling on through this morning...even as I answerd the phone at my office with a voice that could rival Marge Simpon's. Fortunately I knew when to stop scaring the clients, and drove home relying on sheer instinct to navigate me down the highway towards home.

The next thing I knew (there's always a next thing to know...) I was building a nest on the couch made up of fluffy patchwork quilts, pillows, and my dog. I took a Tylenol, and then also a children's aspirin. I took the latter just because the doctor says one a day does a world of good. All I know is that the faint orange flavor immediately flashes me back to being a little freckled kid crawling into my mom's bed - and having her wait until I was all propped up with the pillows to hand me my children's aspirin and a glass of water to wash it down with.

There was nothing more reassuring than tasting that orange chalk, and having her tuck me into fresh crisp sheets. I mean, face it... being sick as a kid is great. You may feel miserable, but you get to completely hand over your well being to someone. Mom brings you the aspirin and water, makes you the egg sandwiches and chicken noodle soup with 7UP to wash it down with. She tucks the thermometer under your tongue, and presses a cool cloth to your brow.

She'd even turn on the FM radio to the easy listening station to lull me to sleep. Nothing like having your little kid mind spinning in slow loops from Nyquil, while the 5th Dimension sing about their Beautiful Balloon.

So I curled up on the couch this afternoon and dozed off thinking about those kinds of things.

Up up and away......

--

So here it is, early evening... and although I don't feel much better, I've mustered up some strength ( I thank the members of the Academy...) to come peck away at my journal. I have so many ideas to write about, but instead you've been subjected to the more mundane side of life. The side filled with chicken broth and room humidifiers.

On a side note - the words that my readers ( I have readers!!!) - (I like talking in parenthesis today!) - ( must be the children's aspirin...) have left for me have made me smile from eyeball to aching eyeball. Thank you so much. It's like receiving a dozen pink roses in verbal form.

And on that note, I'm heading out to get a cup of Good Earth "Sweet and Spicy" tea. If you've never had it - get it. I am officially sending you to the store with a note tucked in your pocket that says 'don't forget!'

Also - thanks to Revisionist Reese for providing an entertaining link! See below for the results to my "What Kind of Book Are You?" quiz.

You're A Prayer for Owen Meany!

by John Irving

Despite humble and perhaps literally small beginnings, you inspire
faith in almost everyone you know. You are an agent of higher powers, and you manifest
this fact in mysterious and loud ways. A sense of destiny pervades your every waking
moment, and you prepare with great detail for destiny fulfilled. When you speak, IT
SOUNDS LIKE THIS!

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

2004-02-21T21:14:00.000-08:00

The Cliff House - http://www.cliffhouseproject.com
I was doing a little research yesterday, when I saw a picture that sent chills right up my little spine. It was of a gigantic mansion perched on the edge of a cliff.

After following this tiny trail of photos to it's source, I found out that this house used to be down near San Fransico - and it was called The Cliff House.

I poured through the pictures, fascinated that such a behemoth could be built right on the verge of the ocean. Massive and brooding, with exaggerated Victorian design... like an ungamely ship ready to crash into the waves. All those windows haunted me when I looked at them. In a few, you could see the shadows of people there... looking out at the waves.

I'm not sure why the vision of this Victorian castle gave me such chills, although - admittedly - most old photographs do. It isn't an unpleasant thing... it's more that I look at the images, the people, and can so easily imagine them taking their next step across the sand. I can see the women in their long skirts walking back up the hard packed road to the Cliff House for tea. As If a person could just leap right through that picture, and witness those lives still in motion.

But the Cliff House itself seemed to be an entity all it's own. From what I read, there were music parlors and art galleries, dining halls with room to dance. There were also coridoors that stretched on for so long, it was easy for patrons to become lost.

Shivers again... lots of shivers.

I imagine being lost at night, in the belly of that beast. A wind storm blasting up from the ocean, engulfing the House in fog. Oil lamps guttering where the drafts sneak in. Oh yes... I can see whole stories unfolding in rich Victorian verbage.

I just stared for a few minutes at the picture, and I realized what the Cliff House reminded me of. The Titanic. So overstated, so eery in it's presence... that there is an air of doom about it. Something sinister just around the corner.

And... as it so happens, I was right.

The Cliff House burned to the rocky shoals it was built on... in a screaming fire that no one could put out.

I'm going to filter all these chills into a short story...

2004-02-16T22:44:00.000-08:00

I heard the sound of wind chimes today.

It was a peculiar thing to hear as the snow fell all around me. Normally, the chimes are taken down in autumn - and their silvery bells aren't heard again until the first winds of spring.

I must have forgotten one....

...because as I was out beneath the bare limbed oak tree gathering kindling from the wood pile, the liquid tones filled the air as a swirl of icy wind rounded down through the canyon.

It stole my breath away.

It was such a delicate sound... watery. As if perhaps someone ran their fingers along the slim metal strands to bring the chimes to life. But when I glanced up at the porch where they were hanging, there was no one there....

I went on gathering the wood, until my arms were full and I struggled to open the door back into the house. My cat slinked around my ankles, and looked up at me with that silent 'meow' she gives me. It reminded me of a vague dream I had before waking this morning.

When at last the fire took to the logs and spiralled up toward the chimney, I closed the glass doors and stood in the glow a moment. I could hear the chimes again, and glanced over to see the snow slanting across the window. The wind was coming from the North.

Out in the orchard, there were the black dots of crows sitting on top of the tree props. They were hunkered against the storm, their wings held like a mysterious man's cape to the rain. Why did they stay?

I fancied that they too were listening to the wind chimes... hypnotized by the sound. Called out from their warm nests in the evergreens, to sit in the iced winds and listen to the accidental melody. Maybe they were dazzled by the snow, too stunned to fly.

I lit my amber incense and the candles on the low darkwood book case. The flames cast soft shadows over the carved elephants from India who guard the Mark Twain collection. The scented smoke slipped past the watercolor painted in the 1800's, making it seem like the small boat being guided out into the waters of Venice was gliding through mist.

I gazed at the old travel poster of the Sahara hanging on the wall... the bedouin man standing on a hill, watching the train pass through the sands at night. I imagined there was no snow outside, no crows braced against the storm. I inhaled the amber and imagined the wind chimes melding with the sound of drums. Cymbals on a dancer's fingers. Silks fluttering in spiced winds.

I was suddenly transported onto that train, my fingers pressed against the glass as I peered out at the dune to see the light of the bedouin's fire. The flames were high, the desert palms caught in the glow. Dancers swayed in the shadows, the golden threads woven through their skirts catching the light.

The sparks were rising high into the night sky, to be lost among the stars.

Before I knew it, I was standing out on the sand still warm from the long day of sunlight. I was running up the dunes, toward the sound of singing, the lure of drums.... the firelight flashing between the dancer's bodies....

....the sound of wind chimes.

~*~

I blinked as the poster came back into focus. There was my bedouin man, draped in his robes, staring down at the train. I looked out the window... and the snow had stopped. The crows were gone....

...and I couldn't stop smiling.

It was a joyous reunion.

2004-02-16T17:22:00.000-08:00

(A little something I found in the Foxfire Archives....)

I used to own my very own roller skates with red sparkle laces.

Oh yes - you didn't realize that the Aimee you've come to know was actually a roller disco queen at one time. Hey, I was like...9 years old - and Xanadu was in the theaters, can you blame me? (And if you don't know what Xanadu is, I'm not 'splaining it to you.)

My mom even took me to roller boogey lessons - where I learned to do the Camel, Shoot the Duck, and Figure 8. In time, I got my own skate case, plastered it with stickers, and was a 'regular' at the rink. I got real daring, and replaced the plain white laces on my skates with glittery red ones, and I would pull on my body leotard with the tiny little ballerina skirt to go skating in. Hmmm - I'm positive I have a picture of me in this very outfit. Dare I dig up that scary little skeleton?

I loved the way the roller rink would smell like Murphy's Oil Soap and Mr. Clean whenever we walked in. We'd stand in line, pay our money ...and knew that there was no leaving once we were in. There was wall to wall shag carpeting everywhere in the 'lace up' area - so even when you had your roller skates on, you had to do this funky little walk til you got to the smooth wooden skate floor. They always had the best disco lights, with a big disco ball right in the middle of the rink. The fun thing to do if you had a good partner was go in the middle right beneath the disco ball, face eachother....crisscross your hands, then start to skate round and round in a tight circle. The more you pulled 'in' with your arms, the faster you went, until you were almost ready to go out of control and fling halfway across the rink. But, just at the last minute - you'd extend your arms, slow down...and just skate off into the boogey wonderland.

There was a little concession stand next to a line of pinball machines. The floor in the concession stand was at a slight incline, and it was bare cement - so every time you crossed over from the shag carpeting to the cement, you'd go sailing right up against the counter with a BANG! I *always* got a blueberry slushie at least some point in the evening. We'd go scoot into one of the four booths that were up along the window looking out to the roller rink. One wall of the concession stand was one of those big wall murals that was supposed to look like you were gazing out on a beach to a tropical sunset. This was so out of place with everything else that I loved it.

There was a "DJ" booth over in the corner of the rink. If you were really brave, you'd skate up to it, get the DJ's attention, and request a song. It was always a rush when they'd actually play it, ESPECIALLY if it was 'couples only'. Over at the opposite end of the rink, high up on the wall...were these big light-up signs that would tell you if it was "ALL SKATE" - "COUPLES ONLY" - "SPEED SKATE" - "GUYS ONLY" - "GIRLS ONLY" - or "SPECIAL". I look back now and grin at the thought of the 'guys only' skate. It was their chance to really impress the girls...and heck, when you are 10 years old...someone sashaying like John Travolta *is* pretty impressive, especially when they're on wheels.

Then one day, we just didn't go back to the rink anymore. My skates got stuffed somewhere in the closet - and the rink got bulldozed, only to have a Wendy's rise up in its ashes.

I wonder if they hear ABBA singing "Dancing Queen" when they're deep frying their onion rings?

2004-02-15T12:58:00.000-08:00

I am in a sugar coma.

Brevity is not something that usually pertains to my blog entries - but today, all I can say is:

Apple Pie ala Coldstone Creamery. In a waffle cone dipped in chocolate and rolled in almonds.
Bliss.

2004-02-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

I made a phonecall to Tel Aviv yesterday afternoon.

In all the wild imaginings in my life, I never quite thought I'd be placing phonecalls to Israel. But as it is, I needed to contact a man named Ezra there, in order to pave the way for our company to do business with him.

In total this week, I spoke with people from Russia, Poland, Israel, Germany, Scotland, Italy, Australia and New Zealand. I love hearing the different accents, and getting them to chuckle over some pronunciation I inevitably goof.

For me, this is the ultimate part of my job. I get to travel, in a sense, to these places - if for just a brief moment in time. I can't help but wonder what their day has been like. Where their offices are... what the view is from their windows. Is there a little cafe on the corner that they go eat at every day? Or do they suffice with some tea or coffee from a break room down the hall.

I can't help it. I'm a traveler at heart, and curious cat by nature. I am eternally fascinated by diversity. Dialing the long phone numbers to different countries is simply ringing up yet another intriguing facet of my day. I don't know why I am so enthralled with the idea that I've just had a conversation with someone in a different country... but I guess it is because I have a keen sense of 'this would never have happened if... '

If I didn't have this job, I never would have touched on these people's lives. There would be a man in Tel Aviv who would live his entire existance, and I would never realize he was out there. Or there would be a woman in Poland whose voice would never reach my ear. It's amazing to me! When I'm speaking with them, I see in my mind's eye a globe - with a thin glowing line stretching across it from me to them. I want to pin a tiny little flag to the globe that says "I was here".

This fascination of mine also proves something else - which I already knew, but it only strengthens the knowledge; the world really is a small place.

My phonecalls aren't anything of real importance. On a global scale, I'm just a worker ant doing my job, picking up my grain of sand and transporting it to the heap so to speak. But on a personal level, I'm making it easier for someone in another country to obtain something that will make their sport more enjoyable.

My worldwide vocal globetrotting is all about snowboarding, and the gear our tiny little company designs. It isn't anything earth shattering, but I love it. It puts me in touch with a creative process I've never known in a workplace before, and it lets me pick up that phone and muse about an afternoon spent in Scotland, or China, or Italy. Of course, I'm sure our Italian distributor Stefano has no idea of the wide eyed daydreamer talking business to him on the other end of the line.... and how I grin from ear to ear when he says "Ciao!" before he hangs up. But that's okay. He doesn't need to know.

When I spoke with a young man in Germany the other day, he said in a very thick accent "Oh...I saw the article in Transworld about your company. Was that you wearing black in the picture?"

Yes, it sure was.

Somewhere in my imagination, there is a tiny little pin being placed on a map of Germany.

"...so the world goes round and round
with all you ever knew
They say the sky high above
is Caribbean blue... " - Enya

2004-02-07T23:30:00.000-08:00

Writing was not my first love.

From the time I could wrap my little fingers around a crayon, drawing was my life. My mother was always opening books to find little surprise doodles on the inside of the covers. My grandmother kept plenty of butcher paper on hand, as well as a jumble of stubby colored pencils and chalks for me to ply my abundant imagination to.

This love spilled over into school, where art projects were seen as rewards, not homework. If we were given choices on the difficulty of the assignment, I always opted for the most difficult art project to tackle. I still remember walking into fifth grade history with one of my end-of-year tasks. Most kids chose the essay. I chose to draw King Tut's mask. I even added in all the gold embelishments. Mr. Davidson gave me an A+ for that one.

And so my love of art grew. But so did my passion for music.

Music always flowed in our house. Whether it was from the old cabinet stereo, or the upright piano that was up against the west wall, there was rarely a silent moment to be had. So it was a natural progression that my parents enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 8 years old, and I found a whole new talent to be enamored with.

Piano came with a strange new language to sort out. Scales and chords...majors and minors. Staccato and legato. Pianissimo and FORTE! I soaked it all in, week after week, and quickly surpassed the weepy little ballads of "Colour My World" and "Time in a Bottle". My first piano teacher was replaced with a classical tutor, who swept me away into the world of Beethoven, Chopin, and Bach.

Her name was Jill, and she had raven black hair that she would have to put up in a bun or else it would get caught beneath her when she sat down. She would chew lightly on her gum as she scrawled endless notes in my spiral notebook for me to pay attention to in my week's practice sessions. I would lug my backpack along as I walked to her house after school, Schirmer's classical piano books wedged in between my folders and schoolbooks.

So I became known as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'. I defined myself by it, day after day. Backdrops for school plays, recitals for audiences of pleased parents - this was my life. This was how I knew to live life.

Junior High came around, and I added even more to my plate. I took up the clarinet - though my first choice was the flute. Girls who played the flute got to carry dainty little black cases that held their pretty silver instruments. Those who played clarinet or saxaphone walked with sagging shoulders from the weight of their chosen horn. I told the teacher I wanted to play flute. He told me I would be a better clarinetist, because....and I quote....'Your lips are too big to play the flute, kiddo.'

So I joined the sagging-shouldered troup. And I also became our concert band's first chair clarinetist.

Now for those of you who do not know what a 'first chair' musician is, let me explain. You must conquer your way to the top. Not only that, but you must do it in front of the whole class. You raise your hand, and challenge someone ahead of you to a duel for the next chair. Those people in first and second chair are often rewarded with solos in concerts, and though it might seem small - it's all you have when you are in school. The challenger picks the piece of music to play, and the battle begins. The audience votes, and the results are instant. You have to collect your music off the stand, and switch places then and there.

I was seated in fifteenth chair. I raised my hand fifteen times, and on by the fifteenth challenge I sat myself down in that number one spot. I remained there until I graduated highschool.

So by the time I was Sophmore in highschool, my talents were cemented. I had the freedom in art class to select whatever my next projects would be. I was good friends with my band teacher, and was allowed to remain in the classroom during break in order to listen to music and stretch out for a snooze behind the trumpet section chairs. My piano lessons had escalated to the point where 24 page Concertos could be played with eyes closed. The definition of myself seemed complete.

And then I met Suzanne.

She was my Collage Prep English teacher. She had a love for language that seeped out of her every pore. She was the first person who ever suggested (as an assignment) on keeping a journal, and writing about things I enjoyed. Oh I had written in the past, and even won a small award and a picture in the local newspaper for writing a little essay on 'What My Home Means To Me'. But her task was enthralling... write about whatever I wished.

So I did. Sprawling descriptions of what a fantasy day would be like. Notes about the latest squabble with my best friend. Lovesick prose about a new crush. Overzealous descriptions of city life which I knew nothing of, and yet felt compelled to pen anyway. Each one was met with encouragement and kind criticism from Suzanne.

I still didn't realize that I was really 'writing'. To me, I was The Artist and Musician. I never conceived that there might be something else out there that would lure my soul and tempt my senses with a new passion. I was simply completing my assignments and enjoying the benefits of pleasing my teacher with my efforts.

Suzanne must have seen something within me, for she kept coaxing me to write more. She paved the way for me to attend a special conference for gifted students, where I stood in front of an audience and read some of my poems. She never turned me away when I had something new to show her, even when it was between classes or time to head home. Little by little, she was nurturing something inside of me that would eventually grow into an all consuming love.

But by the time I was really starting to understand that enchanting artistry of words to paper, it was time to graduate and enter the world. My time with Suzanne slipped away, but what she instilled with me carried on.

The art and music will always be there, waiting in the background for moments stolen from the world. But the words are an ever beating pulse of need. They are there in my mind, and if left untold for too long, they begin to humm like mad bees. I have to get them out, somehow...someway. I get pouty and disorganized if the hectic pace of the work week has kept me from my words. I need the fix. I need that hit of adrenalin and satisfaction. I am a junky for the stories told.

I used to define myself as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'.

Now I simply live, and let the creativity take me where it wishes.

Writing was not my first love. But it has become the soulmate that beckons my Muse like no other.

2004-02-05T16:52:00.000-08:00

The night is wild with moonlight, and the snow is melting away. Time to light the candles, listen to the music, and dream away the bitter cold.
-----------------------------------

The lyrics to the current song of the moment...
"The Old Ways" by Loreena McKennitt

On a dark new year's night
On the west coast of Clare
I hear your voice singing
Your eyes danced the song
Your hands played the tune
T'was a vision before me.

We left the music behind and the dance carried on
As we stole away to the seashore
We smelled the brine, felt the wind in our hair

With sadness you paused.

Suddenly I knew that you'd have to go
Your world was not mine, your eyes told me so
Yet it was there I felt the crossroads of time

And I wondered why.

As we cast our gaze on the tumbling sea
A vision came o'er me
Of thundering hooves and beating wings

In clouds above.

As you turned to go I heard you call my name.
You were like a bird in a cage, spreading its
Wings to fly
"The old ways are lost" you sang as you flew

And I wondered why.

The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you.

2004-02-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

The storm winds were already bending the limbs of the trees as I drove the winding road up to the cliff's edge. Just moments before, I had been standing in our oceanside suite watching the darkness take over the horizon. I grabbed my camera, forgot my jacket, and knew that I could capture some fantastic shots of the brooding ocean if I were fast enough.

The parking lot was empty when I reached the top. The wind swept up off the water in cold blasts, and I immediately regretted not having a coat. I held my camera close as I took to the trail, walking the familiar track against the hillside. I glanced over the rough hewn wooden fence, to the rocks and water far below. There was no sand visible as the waves lashed the bank. White foam streaked the water with deceivingly tranquil strands.

I rounded the hill and walked to the dead end of the trail. The wooden fence gave way to steel gridwork. There was fresh dirt where another part of the bank had slid away to the sea. I wondered how much more this storm would demand of the mountain I stood upon.

Lifting my gaze beyond the cliff's edge, the Pacific was before me. The wide blue sea had grown dark with the gathering of clouds. I looked through the camera's lens and focused in on the whisps of stark white fog spinning in contrast to the black horizon. It was mesmerizing... this dance of the elements. It seemed the battered evergreens were releasing their minions to ward the shoreline from the coming storm.

The wind held no comforting scent of woodsmoke from the chimneys down in the village. The only thing it carried was the bitter cold from distant parts of the deep water, where only the salt survives. It picked up in speed, and pushed me back a little. I should have obeyed the gentle warning then and there, but I didn't.

I turned my attention to the sculpt of the shore curving back toward the coastal town, and was about to frame in my last shot when I heard another sound beneath the rush of wind. I lowered my camera and looked back out at the ocean. The wall of black was closer... much closer. I could measure the waves with just a glance, and watched them disappear into the clouds.... but I had never seen clouds so thick right on top of the water. And then it began.... an augmented hiss like the wind raking over millions of dry leaves. The back of my neck tingled as I watched in amazement, this wall coming.... visibly.....rolling toward me. The hiss grew deeper, gained strength, and suddenly I thought of the trains that rolled through the valley at night. No need to slow for cars when the towns are sleeping.

I started running. The trail, about four feet wide at best, suddenly seemed like a gymnast's balancing beam....totally unforgiving. I was sprinting, aware of my heart with every single pounding stride. The train was right behind me... roaring with the promise that it would plow right over me if I were to falter in the slightest way. Gritting my teeth I came to the end of the trail and jumped down a small bank to the grass. I bolted into the nearest picnic shelter and pivoted to look out toward the park. I barely had time to swallow back the lump in my throat when the roar hammered down on me, and my view of the park was blinded by a blur of white. I steadied myself against the picnic table as I watched golf ball sized hail come thundering down, rolling into the edge of the shelter, and pummeling it's roof. Adrenalin raced through my senses, pushing my heart into a flutter. The green grass was gone. In it's place was a growing layer of ice, and I wanted to cover my ears. This was pure power! Nature slamming into the coast, and there I was...just a speck trembling beneath a tiny wooden roof.

And then, just as quick as the blink of a power outage, it was over. It seemed the last of the hail fell all at once, and the wild drumming ceased. The abrupt silence gave me a chill even worse than the roar. I hesitated to leave my shelter... and so I stood there, laughing a little too high pitched, not wanting to think of the consequences had I been caught against the bare hillside.

At last, I walked out under the bare sky. The hail crunched beneath my shoes, and as I looked up, I saw a swirl of mist and blue. I picked my way back up the slope to the trail, reaching out to steady myself against the fencing. There was nothing but clear sky out toward the horizon. The storm had rushed in, crashed against the coast, and raced over the tops of the trees to the mainland. I laughed through a few deep breaths, feeling my pulse finally start to slow down.

A faint rainbow arched from the south shore across to the northern cove.

Sometimes pictures can't replace a thousand words.

2004-02-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

45 RPM
One of my favorite things to do in the early 80's was go to DJ's Sound City in the local valley mall, and fork over my $2.00 allowance for the latest New Wave single. I'm talking genuine vinyl 45's. They kept them on a rack behind the cash register, so I would be forced to lean forward and strain to see who had made it into that week's Top Ten. Before there were chips placed in CD cases to trigger a store's alarm, it was probably too tempting to snag one of those little vinyl disks and slip it into your Member's Only jacket on the way out the door.

When buying a whole $8.99 album was beyond my grasp (or beyond my self control to save my allowance for 4 1/2 weeks...), singles became my addiction. The very first 45 I ever bought was "Is There Something I Should Know" by Duran Duran. That of course spawned a decade of pure Fab Five worship that would shape my wardrobe, record collection...and even my hairstyle! This of course was much to the chagrin of my brother who had tried to woo me with the ways of the Metal Gods themselves. He surely built a good foundation of rock by teaching me the essentials... but my Singles were a way of discovering a whole new kind of music. The kind that would make me go out and buy blue-silver lipstick and dye my bangs blonde. The same songs that got me wearing my John Taylor fedora (I bet only 80's teens would even know what a Fedora was!), and wearing only one dangly earring. Yes, rebellion of the New Romantics. I could dance like Molly Ringwald with the best of them, and glower like Souxsie in a most fetching way.

While I saved my major moola for the occasional New Wave 'must have' album, singles provided me a way to listen to other bands without having to invest a so-called fortune. I could single handedly produce one of those "As Seen On TV" CD compilations with my old 45 collection. Bananarama, Kajagoogoo, A-ha, Adam Ant, ABC, David Bowie, Duran Duran, Go West, Glass Tiger, Toni Basil, Thomas Dolby, Howard Jones, The Cure.....just to name a scant few! And the bonus was that there was a "B-Side" to the single. A song that usually didn't make it on the album, so that it made you feel like you were getting a glimpse into something secret. Even the photo sleeves were something to get excited about. A new picture of your favorite band...sometimes even folding out into a limited edition poster! Oh how my bedroom walls rejoiced at the addition of yet another picture taped to the plaster.

I don't even know if Singles are sold in stores anymore. MP3's pretty much killed them, like video killed the radio star (thanks to the Buggles!). But I still have my collection, like medals from an old race won... or better yet, like band buttons on a long trench coat.

2004-01-28T22:56:00.000-08:00

Almost Famous
When I was about sixteen years old, a friend of my mother's came to the house to visit. She brought another acquaintance named Vicky with her, and the usual conversations ensued as they drank their afternoon coffee. I remember rounding the corner of the hallway to find Vicky looking at the collection of family photographs hanging on the wall. You know the kind of family picture sprawl that dates from babyhood, showing every embarassing school photo ever taken - with space left for the ones yet to come. I stepped up next to her to see who she was examining so closely.

Vicky was staring up at a large black and white portrait of a handsome mustached man sitting at what looked like a ship captain's desk. There were maps spread out before him, and an oil lamp hanging from unseen rafters above. He held a pipe in one hand, and gazed into the camera with a steady confidence. Vicky's mouth was hanging slightly open, and her brows were knitted together as she studied the portrait. After a moment's silence, she slowly tore her gaze away and looked at me. "Why... do you have a picture of Captain Puget hanging in your hallway?"

I laughed as I looked up at the man, shrugging as a sixteen year old does. "Because....he's my grandfather."

Her eyes flashed open wide. "Captain Puget....is your GRANDFATHER?? You... have no idea... I loved him when I was a kid! I watched every show he ever had! I watched Exploration Northwest... he's really your grandfather? Really??"

I couldn't help but laugh. I never really encountered someone who was so stricken by the fact that I might be related to this man. I peeked up at him and shoved my hands in my pockets. "Well...yeah. We've got the same last name too, y'know."

Vicky silently mouthed that name as her smile spread across her face. "Of course!!! I always knew your name sounded familiar, but... I just never thought. Wow.... can you tell me about him?? What's he like?? Oh I had the biggest crush on him when I was young...."

And that's how it went. That was the first time in my life that I realized a large secret about my grandfather. He had a certain fame. I stood there in the hallway listening to Vicky's tales of growing up with Captain Puget, and then the excitement of watching Exploration Northwest...and all of the adventures that my grandfather would take his weekly viewers of the Pacific Northwest on. She spoke of the shows with bright eyed wonder, looking at me as if I was going to jump in and nod my head, agreeing with her on each enthused point. What she saw instead was a very blank eyed look, and perhaps a whistful smile...but there was no agreement. I only listened until her words tapered into another slow question. "You do know what I'm talking about...don't you? His television shows?"

"I've never seen them, Vicky..." I replied in flat truth. I had heard of the shows, sure. Exploration Northwest had even been in production and shown on TV as I was growing up and old enough to appreciate them. There were days that I was probably glued to the Muppet Show, or Mash... when just two channels over my own Grandpa was taking his viewers on yet another wild outdoor adventure. He won 26 Emmy awards for the program, over the duration of the 21 years he wrote and produced it. And I had never seen a single episode.

Vicky looked absolutely crestfallen when I told her this. It was as if I stole all the glory of her meeting his actual flesh and blood. In fact, I had never really given it a thought.... because I didn't know any better. I knew the man. I didn't know his accomplishments.... and I could thank my Father for that.

I was his grandaughter, but my grandfather had divorced my grandmother years before I was born. He remarried....and the new family that came from that union overshadowed anything he had in the past, including his children... my Aunt and Father. Because of that, there was little spoken about the man in the household. In fact, the first memory I have of him is an autographed picture in my scrapbook. I asked my Mom who it was. She pointed to it and said "That's Grandpa Don". I stared at it and asked her why he had signed his picture with his name, instead of just saying "Grandpa". "Because," she said quietly, "he likes to sign pictures that way."

We would go to his lovely log cabin sometimes... my mother and I, along with my two cousins. We would race out to the pasture and pet his blind horse Chinook. Grandpa would scoop us up in a hug, and then off we would go with his daughter and two sons, technically my Aunt and Uncles- though they felt more like cousins - and the adults would sit around the fire and talk about things I didn't have the patience for.

He was an amazing storyteller. He had a voice that simply drew you in to whatever he was saying. He was a polished writer as well, penning the story of Washington State in a beautiful book accompanied by photographs that a friend of his took. I remember this being on our coffee table for years, inscribed to my mother. I never appreciated where my heritage came from... this love of writing. The wish to tell a good tale. I never really took the time to think of where the talent might have stemmed from... and all along it was this man who was divided from my life because of the turmoils of the adults who surrounded me.

The last time I saw my grandfather was at my wedding. His hair had gone from slick black-brown, to shock white. He wore a white suit, and walked with a cane...but still stood tall. My memory of actually talking to him that day is a blur. A hug, a shared laugh... and off I went into my life without a second look back. He died less than a year later.

As I walked up to the burial site, I felt a wash of emotions well up from within. How could I have let a whole life slip away without ever really scratching the surface? I stood quietly, listening as Chief Seattle's great, great grandson performed a Duwamish Indian Burial Ceremony. I watched as he stood before the children of my Grandfather... speaking ancient words of assurance, and realized that nobody at that funeral aside from them knew that I was also flesh and blood of the man they were honoring. That I too had his spirit in my veins, coursing through me, appearing in so many facets of my life. Storytelling, music, art. A passion for adventure.... a lust for travel. Why had I been robbed of being able to share these things with him? Why had my father let his own bitterness barricade me away from this great man? I looked around me, to look in my father's eyes as if to seek the answer... but he wasn't there. He did not attend the funeral.

Now, years later, I am only coming to understand the great treasure that was lost to me. How I wish I could sit and talk to Grandpa now...to listen to his stories. To hear his grand adventures, and to show him that his love for writing lives on in me. I wish I could have told him how proud I am to have such a man's blood in my blood. I wonder if he ever had an inkling of what his grandaughter was capable of.

2004-01-23T08:18:00.000-08:00

I've had dreams lately....

...odd, peculiar dreams. Noteable, to the point where I made certain to write them down in order to share. They've been GLORIOUSLY detailed. Vivid...sprawling dreams. So many that in actuality there are too many to tell. But one night in particular was incredible. Although I am departing from my normal journal entries....I will share one more dream.

It began with mist. I could sense it all around me, a thick harbor mist tainted with salt and deep ocean. It was brushing my face, and I opened my eyes when I felt the ground beneath me moving in a slow rolling motion. I glanced down, and realized I was not standing, but in fact sprawled wide leg upon something. Almost as if riding a horse, but my legs were spread far too wide for a horse. Within the dream, my vision panned back...and I realized I was straddling a mammoth elephant. Not just a 'big' elephant, we're talking the size of a ship. HUGE. Moving slowly, although I knew it wasn't really moving slowly, it was just it's size making it seem so. I heard waves then, mixed in with the heavy draughts of breath from the elephant. I looked to my right, and without being startled...I discovered that the elephant and myself were actually standing smack dab in the middle of a huge shipping lane, with ocean vessels moving past us, out in the fog. There we were, in the midst of all these cargo ships.... and it wasn't startling at all. In fact, it made so much sense. My elephant was big enough that his legs were plunged far into the sea to the sandy floor, and he was going to carry me across the water along with all these ocean liners. I spotted then that behind the huge blankets of his ears, were two stairways running down along the back of his jaw; my escape route. I didn't take it however, and knew I was safe with my elephant.

My dream shifted then, and I was suddenly standing on a boardwalk by the seaside. It was very dark out, almost impossible to see...until I noticed that there was daylight off some hundreds of yards out in the water, in a strange arc. I was in a cave! A cave, with a small township within it, and I was standing by the water's edge looking towards the mouth of the cave. There was a wooden dock that went out into the water, but unlike most that jut into the sea upon pilings high enough that the tide does not sweep one off one's feet....this one was resting right on the water, like a dock on a lake might. My husband was with me, and wanted to take a picture of me. I was a bit reluctant...as he wanted me to walk out onto the dock, and I had noticed some high waves coming in through the mouth of the cave, into the dark water (it seemed as dark as night, in that cave) - but I went anyway. I walked across the damp dock boards, turned...and peered back at the shoreline where he had the camera ready. It was then I heard a rushing sound, and sure enough...just after the picture snapped a huge wave came up out of the inky deep and swept me off the dock. I plunged into the water that was neither warm nor cold...and fully expected to go swirling to the bottom. But, the wave lifted me up much like a surfer...and I found myself riding the crest of it all the way back to shore where I was unceremoniously spit out onto the sand. I wasn't scared, just a bit put off that my clothes were wet...and after plucking the remnants of seaweed off my jeans, I started walking towards the lights of the little town nestled against the back of the massive cave.

The dream did not end there... but the depth of detail was captured most in those first two 'episodes'. And now that I've shared... we can continue on with our normally scheduled programming. . .

2004-01-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

"We trade our dreams for what we call wisdom. I wonder..... if it is a good trade."
- Charles Dickens, 'David Copperfield'

As the days rush by in their hectic pace, I find myself longing to be back in London.

Perhaps a soul who has lived their whole life in that far city would find my fondness quaint. They might even correct me in my skewed view of that place, telling me that it is not so lovely... not so enchanting. Their fingers would wag at the crowds packing the Underground during rush hour, or stab at the morning paper to show me the politics of the day. They would try and wave the banner of the day to day grind before me, to dissuade my eyes from seeing the beauty and charm. Sad, really... that they would so eagerly try to steal away such a jewel. Hostile, even... in their zeal to prove that the world holds no magic. If I were to turn my ears to their words, they would gladly fill my thoughts with belching black smoke and mechanical living. Work, eat, sleep. Perhaps a moment in between to spew a bitter comment or two, then back into the routine. Is that such a fair trade...for the fanciful dreams I hold dear?

So I cast off those thoughts, those words... and return to the city as I saw it. I close my eyes and smell the rain washing the cobbles clean just past Trafalgar Square. I was standing beneath the paws of a giant lion statue at dusk, when in the distance I saw the face of Big Ben flash to life. It was the moment I realized a lifelong dream had come true. I was in LONDON. I was standing in the heart of it, with days of adventure before me. That tiny pinpoint on the National Geographic map that I had plotted out when I was 10 years old.... was now beneath my feet. That very place on the postcard I received from a penpal in my teens.... was surrounding me. I could hear the fountains behind me. How long had I stared at those fountains, with the people sitting on the edge? The postcard was dogeared from staring at it, imagining what might be down those narrow lanes. Now I knew... I could see Big Ben from Trafalgar Square. I was amazed!!! It was a gift. I drank in the moment. I lit the square up with a flash from my camera... and then all went back to normal. The November winds blew through the bare limbed trees.

I was on the edge of living out so many daydreams. Where to next?? The Teahouse over on Neal Street perhaps? Yes... the tea shop, where I would buy loose leaf tea in small white bags. They would be stashed away and doled out carefully, each cup taking me back to that place so fragrant with spice. I smiled at the thought that the tea itself was going to be making a journey...wrapped in plain brown paper and sent back to the States to await my arrival. I loved the idea of a tiny bit of London beating me home.

With my goods paid for, I wandered out to stand on the sidewalk and watch the traffic light up the lane. I didn't know that I was about to follow the path down to the woman selling flowers on the corner. I didn't know I was about to buy a bouquet of roses to dry them, so that I might have their petals even after my return home. All I knew was that I was just outside of a perfect little shoppe, with windows stashed full of teapots and hand painted cups... listening to the voices of the others still inside talking about Darjeeling and Earl Grey.

And that is exactly where I want to be right now. On the verge of not knowing. Being a breath away from taking the first steps onward to the rest of my adventure....and being ready to draw it all in to my senses. I want to be standing right there in front of the The Teahouse, smelling spice and rain.

2004-01-21T15:52:00.000-08:00

When I cracked open my fortune cookie today, this is what the fortune said: "You create your own stage. The audience is waiting."

Hmmm...so appropriate for making a blog, is it not?

2004-01-21T08:02:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have dreams that are so real, and yet...so surreal... that they stay with you long after you've woken up? I cannot stop thinking about this one. I wasn't going to update my writing until tonight, but I had to capture this dream before it slipped into the grey area and was lost forever.

I was a gypsy. I had bright colored skirts, and was amongst other gypsy friends. We were at a marketplace, and there had been a skirmish moments before my arrival. I asked one of my friends (a young man with willowy thin features, dark brown eyes and enviable lips) if everyone was alright, and he said that they were, but that we were going to move our festivities elsewhere.

I followed him down the street, but was sidetracked by a vendor selling wares beneath an outdoor tent cover. His table was strewn with ornate pens and pen boxes, as well as kaleidescopes with beautiful stained glass prisms. There was one particular pen that caught my eye, having a dark black base with silver arabesques curled all over it. I looked closer, and realized the swirls spelled out "Sullivan" on the side of the pen. I was very excited about this, and I told the vendor I really wanted the pen, but had no money. He said that I could borrow it, and pay him back later, but to tell no one. I really wanted one of the kaleidescopes too, but didn't ask him for one. He didn't give me a pen box, so I put the pen in a small purple velvet satchel that I was carrying, though it made me nervous ...I really didn't want to break or lose the pen.

My friends were gone by the time I was done, but it didn't bother me, and I found myself walking into a small room off a side street, filled with pillows. I felt comfortable there and laid down, somehow sensing that this room belonged to me. There was a faint fluttering sound, and when I looked up at the ceiling, there was a giant moth circling the light fixture. It definitely wasn't a butterfly, but its wings were opalescent, very shimmering... almost white at first glance, then with shiny rainbow effects when the light would hit just right. I was glad to have it there, because I knew it would not live long if it were outside. For some reason, I knew it's name was Ultraviolet. This is where the dream ends.....

I am not certain who "Sullivan" is...or why the name upon the pen is so important, but I would love to know....

2004-01-15T20:58:00.000-08:00

I claimed the shores of Cannon Beach Oregon for myself when I was sixteen years old. It was still a secret then, a tiny jewel only just uncovered by knowing eyes. The waters dazzled that summer... washing along the shore and over my feet, casting a king's ransom in diamonds across my toes. I walked for miles along the smooth sand, gulping lungfulls of air tinted of woodsmoke and salt. I had never been to the ocean before.... and was naive to the strength of it's call.

Someone should have drawn me aside before I crested the dunes for the first time. Someone should have rushed a warning to my ear, quiet and discreet, that I would lose my heart were I to lay eyes upon that endless blue sea. Even a touch to my arm would have sufficed... to give me some sort of pause before I walked onto the windswept sand and laid my soul bare. But as it was, there was no caution. There were no defenses built to conceal me from that powerful beauty.

I stopped upon the grassy dune, engulfed all at once by the wind coming up from the waves. I never knew it was so far to the horizon. It was impossibly far to the end of the Earth, and yet I could lift my hand up and dance my fingers along it's edge. Seagulls pivoted in the wind before me. I stared straight ahead, and let my periphery gather the entire stretch of crashing waves. I wanted to swallow it all, to somehow collect it straight into my soul. Little did I know that I was the one being consumed and stolen away....as assuredly as an innocent aboard a black sailed ship.

I wanted to feel the Pacific's chill on my bare feet. The ocean lured me closer. Each wave rolling out into the next one coming in, like the tumble of a dancer's hands coaxing me closer... teasing me with a froth of seafoam. There were a million whispers in the crash of those waves, guiding me to the wet sand...promising me the treasures of decades, with just a glimpse of white cloud above the distant shoreline. They confessed there had been others before me at the water's edge. Others like me, held in a trance of mist and sunlight.... blue waves and hidden depths. There was no apology in the wind as it confirmed this with a caress to my cheek. There was only gentle guidance as it turned my attention... my very eyes... to the massive rock spires jutting up from the ocean floor. They stood sentry between the beach and deep waters, casting silhouettes across the tidepools. They were the witnesses to my seducing, these monoliths. So many secrets trapped deep in their core.

And there it began... this bittersweet ache within my heart. The wild beauty of the ocean always there, ready to lap at my ankles, or to sheild itself away behind a thick veil of storm. An unpredictable lover, holding the elements at bay one moment, then letting them sting in a howling gail the next. And I, ever small.... returning to those shores year after year. Too long gone from the water, and the ache grows deeper. The need to appease the ocean...and my soul. To reunite the senses with woodsmoke and salt air. Sand, and endless blue.

The monoliths remain, to collect their secrets and watch for my return.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A vision of that place...

2004-01-14T16:37:00.000-08:00

There I was, a gangly legged twelve year old who had all sorts of notions on what real beauty was. Sprawled on the vinyl folding chairs out on the lawn, I would stretch my pale legs out like white sprouts on a potato, slathering them with Coppertone. I wanted so badly to be tan. California-Coppertone-Beach Bunny Brown. The kind of tan where you could slip a watch off your wrist and see it's outline in contrast. All the popular girls at school could do that. I would see them at lunch, comparing 'white lines'. My whole body was a white line, thanks to the endless parade of very pale ancestors who looked on from old pictures with somber, chalky expressions. In class photographs, nobody had to ask where I was placed. They would just follow the glow of my face, reflecting the photographer's flash.

I was a persistant little cuss. Spreading a blanket out by the shores of Lake Chelan, I would immediately started basting myself like a turkey, while my best friend would casually lay in the sun without even worrying. She could grow effortlessly tan in less than an afternoon. I watched as she eventually flipped open her bottle of tanning oil and spread on a thin layer. Jealousy gnawed at me as it made her skin shine, deepening the tan she already had. No matter how much coconut oil I lathered on, it never shined like that. It just seemed to make me look...transparent. Fish belly. Beluga whale ruddy.

Ruddy! The word that echoed in my head like a donkey bray in a canyon. That pinkish-red hue would forever be 'my tan'. Of course, it was actually the signal that I had best get my wimpy skin indoors soon, or I was going to fry like cajun shrimp in that scorching summer sun. But sometimes I would fool myself into thinking I actually had a bit of color. I would rush up to my friend and stick my leg next to hers in comparison. And there it was - the obvious, flapping right in my face; golden brown, next to pig butt pink. I swear, it would have been good enough for me to simply have all my freckles connect. Individually...they had the tan I was longing for!!! But they taunted me, all sprinkled around, refusing to pony up to the cause.

And so one day the flowing river of Coppertone came to a stop. I put it on the shelf beneath the bathroom sink next to the Prell shampoo and the Aquanet. I let my freckles exist in peace, and started spreading my blanket in the shade while I read the stories of Anne Shirley on Prince Edward Island. Another daydreamer who fancied what it would be like to have exotic beauty.... and I related to every word.

Eventually it became a part of who I was, this pale self all dotted with freckles. "Comfortable in your own skin..." was a phrase realized, and I soon discovered that there were people out there who actually thought creamy complexions were lovely. I was never going to be Beach Bunny Brown... and that suited me just fine. I wasn't pale! I was alabastar, or so my grandmother would say. She was an alabastar girl too, and proud of it.

These days I still use Coppertone, but only because I like the smell.

2004-01-11T21:14:00.000-08:00

Part Two, The Ingenue in New York - 1990

The morning light flickered in my eyes as our shuttle crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, allowing me only a staggered view of the skyline. I leaned against the window of the bus and stared at the towers of the World Trade Center. They drew the horizon up above the rising sun itself, as if holding the warmth of the day aloft for all the other buildings below.

We were swallowed into the swarm of the city, and I shifted to the aisle of the bus so I could look straight ahead of us. I was used to canyons and coulees... a way of life when living in Washington State - but this canyon was as alien and beautiful as anything I had ever witnessed in nature. The skyscrapers won the battle between their height and my craned neck. Try as I might, I couldn't see the top of them as our bus slinked through the traffic to the hotel. I suddenly had the feeling of being lost in a labyrinth. Alice, falling right down into the rabbit hole.

Five days blended into one singular rush of color. Giggling with my friends in the back seat of my first taxi ride... my first trip to the subway, all three of us afraid to unlink our arms... my first coffee with cream sipped while sitting at a sidewalk cafe. The pretzel vendor who dropped to his knees as we walked by, begging me to come back and marry him. The tiny heart necklace I bought at Macy's, set with ten tinier rhinestones. My amazement that caviar was an option to put on your hamburger while feasting at Serendipity III. Standing in the glitter of Times Square. Feeling the wind rush through me as I stood atop the Empire State Building. Realizing I was actually looking at the Statue of Liberty with my very own eyes.

But within that rush of color, was a swath of light that cut right through and slowed every heartbeat down into a long held breath. Today it is a pure playback of memory that retains every detail, which has come to be one of the most meloncholy rememberances of the trip.

It was during the proverbial "three hour tour" of Manhattan Island. I was sitting up front on one of the smooth wooden benches, watching the city as we quietly drifted by. I had my camera ready... snapping pictures of the varying skyline - wanting to preserve it all to show everyone when I returned home. It was early in the day... we wanted to make sure we left plenty of time for other things, and so the sun was hovering above the tops of some of the skyscrapers. And then I saw the Twin Towers. They were so tall, I realized the sun was going to be just cresting at the top as we passed through their shadows. I lifted my camera, peering through the tiny view finder. I waited a moment as the boat chugged onward, and then I saw it. The sun poised perfectly between the towers, at an apex that joined them together by the rays that were shining down. I snapped the picture...then slowly dropped the camera down. For that brief moment in time, I was caught in the stream of light that was funneled between the towers, and flowing out across the water. It was dazzling... and gone in the next breath.

We finished the boat tour, and disappeared back into the city to live out the rest of our whirlwind trip. Once we were back in Seattle, I stepped off the plane so changed. A love of travel forever rooted in my heart, but a deep appreciation of the home I had tucked in the middle of the apple orchard. A balance was struck between the two... a bargain that no matter where my adventures took me, this valley would give me a comfortable shelter to return to. I settled back into life, developed the pictures I had taken... and eventually forgot the picture I had taken that day, in the shadows of the World Trade Center. It would be eleven years before I would realize just how extraordinary that image really was.... as I knelt by my old wooden trunk in the bedroom, tears streaming down my cheeks, the picture taken carefully from it's sleeve and held so tenderly. It was as if that small kindness could transfer across the miles, and into the chaos of that one infamous day.

The lyrics to Elton John's song "Empty Garden" fit so well. Originally a tribute to John Lennon...I think of it now in the light of 9/11....

Empty Garden

What happened here...
As the New York sunset disappeared
I found an empty garden among the flagstones there
Who lived here?
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And now it all looks strange
It's funny how one insect can damage so much grain

And what's it for
This little empty garden by the brownstone door
And in the cracks along the sidewalk nothing grows no more
Who lived here
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
And we are so amazed we're crippled and we're dazed
A gardener like that one no one can replace...

And I've been knocking but no one answers
And I've been knocking most all the day
Oh and I've been calling... oh hey hey johnny
Can't you come out to play

And through their tears
Some say he farmed his best in younger years
But he'd have said that roots grow stronger if only he could hear
Who lived there
He must have been a gardener that cared a lot
Who weeded out the tears and grew a good crop
Now we pray for rain, and with every drop that falls
We hear, we hear your name

Johnny can't you come out to play in your empty garden...

2004-01-07T20:57:00.000-08:00

Part Two of The Ingenue in New York coming soon...

Waiting for the flight.... listening to music while I daydream, circa 1990

2004-01-05T21:10:00.000-08:00

Part One - The Ingenue in New York

In 1990, I was a year out of highschool...and as wide eyed and green as any small town girl could be. For years I had dreamed of traveling. Of escaping the tiny orchard town that I grew up in, and heading out on an adventure of my own making. I still had all of the National Geographic maps that I had carefully pinned up on my bedroom wall, marking the different places across the world that I knew I would visit someday.

My opportunity came one day when two good friends of mine, Cori and Tammy, proposed an amazing trek. They told me that they were planning on flying to New York for a five day tour, and they asked if I would like to go along with them. New York City!! A world away. A universe away! Mars seemed closer to me than New York City! A full on swarm of butterflies took flight in my stomach when I told them yes. YES! Count... me.... IN!

It wasn't long before I was collecting money to go on my first real trip as an 'adult'. I worked hard all summer, saving the money I earned as an apple sorter in a tin roof packing shed. I remember looking in the eyes of all the haggard women who worked there alongside me, their faces reflecting the tired lives spent beneath the burning neon lights of the sorting table. I swore my time there was only temporary. I wasn't going to spend the rest of my life hunched over an endless rush of apples...picking out the rotten from the good. I wasn't going to be sitting on that splintered wooden bench outside on a smoke break, rubbing my arthritic fingers and wondering what life could have been like. I was only a visitor there in that open air shed.... and this trip was my ticket out.

I dressed up for the flight. Perhaps I really am an old soul, as my grandmother used to say. I just couldn't see heading out on such a life changing trip dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I wore a simple black skirt, with a black and red paisley blouse. I wore my chestnut hair in a smooth french braid. There was an ornate silver and black pin at my throat. I would later rue that damned pin... because it set the metal detectors off at the airport. After I had sheepishly emptied out my purse and showed the attendants that I had no pockets...they glanced at my broach and waved me through.

I settled in my designated seat by the window, and stared out the window as Cori and Tammy chatted happily between themselves. I had the distinct impression that to them... this was simply a trip. A place to go, where there would be shopping and sights to see. For me... it was the beginning of a dream come true. I *knew* that the moment was a memory in the making. I wasn't going to let it slip by without really being IN it.

It was well into the night in Seattle by the time our plane taxied down the runway. We were taking the redeye, and the pilot told us we would be seeing the sunrise on the East Coast when we landed again. I was going to chase the night across the sky...and I felt light headed with the thought. When the engines went full throttle and we lifted off... all my senses reeled as if I were spinning on a playground tire swing. The lights of the city were fading away below, and although that ascent was smooth and perfect, I could feel panic well up in my throat that there was nothing between me and thousands of feet to the ground below. My hands gripped eachother with white knuckled anxiety. I had forced myself not to think of my fear of flying the months leading up to the trip... and now there was no turning back. Fears and all, my whole future as a traveler was beginning right then and there, on takeoff.

The tiny lights soon disappeared beneath dark clouds, and I marveled at what the moon looked like, hovering above it all. Cori and Tammy soon dozed off and left me to my thoughts. Left me to my purse full of more money than I ever had at one time. My suitcase stuffed with clothes and shoes, and the addresses of everyone I knew. I wanted to make sure I sent them a postcard... a real, true blue postcard from New York City. Heck, I even wanted to send one to myself, just so I could hold it in my hand when I got home and smile... knowing that I had really done it.

And true to the pilot's promise, the sun was rising as we started our descent over New York. I elbowed Cori and Tammy awake, and they leaned over to catch a glimpse out the window. We gaped at the miles upon miles of houses spread out beneath us... an unbelievable tapestry of lives being lived. I could fit my whole hometown in a few blocks of what I was seeing beneath me. 'And they don't even know I exist....' I remember thinking to myself. None of those people knew they were being looked at from high up above, by a 19 year old girl fresh out of her apple orchard existance. It made me feel suddenly so very small. Coming out of a community where I knew everyone... and they knew me, my sisters...my brother... my parents. I was truly anonymous. I was going to step foot off that plane and simply... be... me. A mysterious green eyed girl with a sparkle in her eyes.

The dreamer in me was thrilled.

The little girl in me was frightened.

The traveler in me was cool, calm and collected... and ready to face whatever came her way.

And so the plane descended down into LaGuardia, as I smoothed back my French braid and readied myself for landing.
I closed my eyes, and counted my heartbeats until I felt the lurch of the plane and heard the squeel of tires on the tarmac.

New York... meet Aimee. Aimee... meet New York City.

~*~To Be Continued~*~

2004-01-04T17:13:00.000-08:00

When friends ask me where I was raised, I am always met with a mix of reactions. When I tell them that I was born in this sleepy little valley, and lived my whole childhood in the same house... within walking distance of my grandparents, they look at me as if I were a throwback from some bygone era. I see a flicker of jealousy in their eyes at times... these ones who were bounced from house to house with parents who never settled down.

Perhaps that is why my memories are so strong from those years. I was allowed to dig my roots in, to come to know a place as if it were another member of the family. The house lived and breathed every trial and tribulation that my family had. The orchard that surrounded us with bare limbs in winter, blossoms in spring and fruit in the fall....was like a barrier that held out the world. I had a freedom beneath those branches that few kids now will ever know.

1977, I was six years old and full of impish curiosity. Any given summer day would find me running between the rows of apple trees, my German Shepherd named Chinook by my side. We would race up the slope to a place I called the "Little Hill" - because it was the first of three hills near our house in the country. From there my home looked like a dollhouse, with the above-ground pool dotting the front yard. I would sit in the tall wild grass and listen to the bugs hum in the evergreens behind me. Even then I had a sense of awareness to me. I breathed in the scent of newly budding apples... the way the orchard sprinklers sounded as they sprayed the deep green leaves. I would lay back and watch the bald eagles fly in effortless spirals overhead. I would dig my toes into the fresh dirt of the gopher holes.

We would stay there for hours... Chinook and I. She would curl up behind me, giving me her soft furred side as a pillow to rest on. My mother never worried about me. She could see me from the kitchen and living room windows, if I stayed on the front side of the Little Hill... and I'm certain I looked like a butterfly from that distance, flitting and darting around. The backside of the hill was a mystery to me though. My mother warned me not to stray too far... and I tried my best to obey. But it was such a lure... to stare past the line of orchard grass where the evergreens stood tall. Sage brush and wildflowers grew thick, but there were trails. Trails that were easy for my little feet to follow.

Every now and then I would dare a run down one of these paths, pantlegs brushing past the bluebells and sunflowers. I had heard my father speak of coyote dens on the Little Hill, and my mind was full of ideas on what I might find if I were to slip inside one of these burrows. My wild imagination meshed fairy tales easily into the real world... and I believed I might find treasures hidden there by a coyote who was dazzled by sparkling jewels. Perhaps he would let me in, and show me where he scraped the dirt to hide his small fortune. Maybe I would keep it a secret, and the coyote would keep me in wealth like a princess for all my days.

With these thoughts vivid in my mind, I would come to the end of the trail. The hill broke away to a sharp dropoff, leading far below to the other side of the valley. I would sit on the red rocks and look across at the river cutting a blue stripe down the middle. If there were coyotes, I knew why they had chosen the Little Hill to live. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen....

....but I never risked staying long. Only brief moments when I would hover in that world where I wasn't supposed to be. I knew enough to stay back from the dropoff. No doubt that was the only reason my mother didn't wish me to go there... but in my mind, there were other magical reasons why. Perhaps there was a cave to another world nearby... perhaps she was afraid I might be wisked away. In my innocence, it sounded wildly adventurous. I courted all of my fairy tale fantasies there... beneath the sway of evergreens.

Chinook and I would break into a run through the tall grass once more, crashing back into the land that was approved for me. Apple trees shaded the sun and we ran in the cool shade, dodging orchard sprinklers all the way home. Perhaps mom knew of my excursions beyond the boundaries.... but she never said anything. She would simply smile as I would bound up the steps in the front door, holding a bouquet of bluebells, sunflowers, and wild asparagus as a gift from my little excursions.

In these small allowances, she fueled my passion for adventure... not in the ways of extreme sports and costly treks around the world, but journies of the heart and mind. Adventure of the spirit, and appreciation of the quiet places tucked up in the mountains, away from the rest of the world. Secret places, where evergreens whisper of Coyote Princes and their wealth of diamonds, ready to share with those who believe.

2004-01-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

A detour from my daily stories. If you've just stumbled across my blog, you may want to scroll down a bit...and find something with more meat to it. *grins*

I have this little obsession with layouts. As you can see, I've redone mine... -again-. I spent hours yesterday sorting this one out, and there may still be a few minor adjustments, but for the most part.... I am pleased. Let me know what you think of the results!

This layout actually suits my tastes perfectly. I have a thing for old postcards and letters, and it is from my collection that I chose these to scan and make into a template. I think the reason I adore old handwritten things (including diaries, which I have a couple that I have collected) is that I can so easily imagine the lives that they were from. I suppose it is the voyeur in me that marvels at reading something never really intended for my eyes.

This leads me to one of my absolute favorite book series: 'The Extraordinary Correspondance of Griffin and Sabine', by Nick Bantock.

Incredible books, not only for the story, but for the artwork that went into creating them. The story is told through letters, which you can actually pull out of an envelope and read. There is no typical 'text' in these books. You must follow the story through the maze of letters and postcards printed directly on the pages. I have first editions of all these books. CNN ran a piece on the author, Nick Bantock... for Valentine's Day last year:
CNN Interview with Nick Bantock

Now I peruse his website and drool for the art that he has on sale. If I had money to spare, I would immediately make a purchase of something that he has created. In fact I'm gazing at this gallery and wishing I had an afternoon's worth of Superstar pocket change...because I would buy every single one of these to place in a huge black matte frame for my living room. It would sit directly above the old book case, where the heavy ironwood elephants from India stand...and the collection of original Charles Dickens stories reside.
If I had a million dollars...

So if you haven't heard of these stories.... check them out. The books are pieces of art in and of themselves, and besides....doesn't everyone need a bit of mystery and adventure in their lives, even if vicariously?

"You cannot dismiss a muse at whim..." - Nick Bantock, 'Griffin and Sabine'

2004-01-03T15:36:00.000-08:00

Barbie Goes Ballistic

I was wandering through the toy aisle of a store recently, and caught myself grinning from ear to ear as I spotted the Full Size Barbie Head for sale. You know the one, with stylable hair and a face just waiting for makeup. I had the original Barbie Makeup Head... and it met an end even Stephen King would be proud of.

It was 1980, and I was home one night with my brother while the parents spent an evening away from us little hoodlums. He was nine years older than me, which meant I was usually the focus of his tormenting tricks. Oh, we had our good moments. Quietly laying on the living room floor playing a monstrous game of Risk... sitting at the dinner table squeezing that night's menu between our teeth to see who would gross out first. This would soon collapse though, as one of us would inevitably get triggered into a wild frenzy of sibling rage, and we'd end up in a dogpile on the floor, screeching and wrestling until one of us got tired. Usually me.

This night was different though. Brother decided he was going to do something against the parent's wishes while they were gone...and watch The Exorcist. This was back in the day when BETA machines were as big as lawnmowers... and it was a big deal to take up an evening watching a movie. I was NOT happy...because this meant he was going to hog the only TV with something I wasn't about to watch. I had enough trauma in my life simply from looking at all his KISS album covers!! And most importantly, I knew Mom and Dad would kick his butt if they knew he was going to watch that. So of course...this gave me fuel to climb the stairs to my room and plot the worst kind of revenge their is. Smited Sister Revenge.

I knew my brother was, in all reality, a big chicken. I knew the movie would give him the willies so bad he would have a hard time getting to sleep. So, I made it my mission to make CERTAIN he wouldn't get any sleep that night. I sat down on my bedroom floor, gathered my Barbie Makeup Head, along with all the hand-me-down makeup my mom had given me...and I set to work. That Barbie never had such a makeover. Mary Kay Hell. Huge fiendish red lips, wicked dark blue eyes.... hair ratted beyond recovery. I took my time. I wanted to make sure Barbie looked nothing like her sweet, pink bubblegum self. I wanted her so ghoulish and horrifying that even a glance would send my brother's bladder into ...well... bladdiac arrest. When I was done I held the head aloft. Jack Nicholson could do the moment justice: Herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeee's Barbie!

Finally, I heard him climbing the stairs. The movie was over, and his namby pamby self was going to slink past my room and hide away in his. Which, actually was the scariest room in the whole house. The closet had a door inside of it that lead directly to the attic... ( and attics, as we all know, breed demon hordes of fanged hounds that come out at night and eat whatever appendages are hanging off the side of the bed.)

I prepared my costume. My mom had given me a long flowing cape which was usually my Sheena, Queen of the Animals outfit, but tonight it was going to play a different role. I stood in front of my mirror and placed Barbie's big ole' head on top of mine, balancing it there by the oval makeup tray wrapped around her neck. Then, I carefully wrapped the cape around the makeup tray, completely hiding myself within it. I peeked out and saw that it gave the illusion of a freakish head perched on tiny little shoulders, standing about five feet tall. Perfect!! I got my Holly Hobby flashlight from my toy chest, and flicked it on. Shining it up as best I could to Barbie's face, I had to hold back a snicker of pure wickedness. I was about to pull off the best prank ever of my childhood.

I slowly peeked out my door to make sure his was shut. Sure enough, it was... only the faint light of his neon Rainier Beer sign shining through the bottom crack of the door. I tiptoed so quietly out into the hall, and poised myself. Cape drawn, flashlight held just so, I could feel my heartbeat thudding in my throat. This was so exciting it was almost scaring me. Was it possible that I, the pipsqueak kid sister, was about to pull a fast one on her big brother? I was about to find out....

I drew in a long breath, gathered up my courage, and then bolted down the hallway full speed, kicking his door in with one swift shove. When it pounded open, I let out a banshee scream worthy of Friday the 13th...... and my brother launched up off his bed like he'd been shot in the ass. In a split second of throaty screams( his AND mine )....he shot across the room and decked my Barbie head so hard that it flew into the corner and smacked the wall. We fell silent then, him holding me by the scruff of my cape, me with a gaping mouth wide open as I stared over at Barbie. Her face was completely concave, leering at us both with those chlorine blue eyes. I slowly looked up at Brother, and he looked down at me, and I couldn't help the victorious grin that peeled across my face.

He was white as a ghost as he gave me a shake. "Don't EVER DO THAT AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You scared the CRAP OUT OF ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Heheheheh. I wouldn't have to. I triumphed for all 9 year old girls everywhere. And down to this day he still has to admit it. Watch your back, Brother-mine...or Barbie's gonna go Exorcist on you!!!

2004-01-01T22:51:00.000-08:00

It is strange that the end of one year and the beginning of the next will spur on so many emotions... so many thoughts. Perhaps it is simply that humans must measure everything with a start and finish that we feel the need to reflect on what was, before we can consider what will be.

That being said, the things I chose to remember are tiny little pinpoints in what has become my life. They didn't even occur in the past year... past decade for that matter. What my mind brought to the surface today were the long winter days spent as a freckle faced girl, raised in the middle of a vast apple orchard.

It wasn't unusual for the snow to build up several feet deep, so it made my treks through the front yard more like sojourns through a vast tundra. How many snowmen came to life by my hand? How many snowwomen for that matter, with buxom blobs of snow patted to their chests to make the distinction. I had to smile as I watched the storm today, blanketing everything in sparkling white. These were the days that were cherished.

One memory in particular was of the habit I had of wanting to play in the snow at night, especially when the big snowflakes were falling down out of the sky. I would push my way through to the furthest corner of the yard, where the houselights would barely break through the dark. It was there that I would spread my arms wide open and fall back - just like the game of "Trust" I used to play with my friends, only this time...it was only the cushion of snow that would catch my fall.

I loved the feel of it packing in around me. Of course, Mom always made certain I was bundled up enough to survive an Alaskan blizzard, so there was no cold. So I would lay there, staring up into the darkness....watching snowflakes come down from high above. The lights from the kitchen were just enough to illuminate the snowfall as it came down over the yard, making it almost impossible to look away. Hypnotic... if I laid there long enough, I lost awareness of everything else around me, and could trick my senses into actually feeling as if I were in a blissful freefall through space. The snowflakes were stars drifting past, and I was somewhere loose in the universe - in my own quiet world.

No thoughts of wars and earthquakes....death and destruction. It was an innocent selfishness, this winter daydream. My world was a small bubble, then. Trust was a rich commodity... as was the wish to travel the world, as freely as I laid in the snow traveling the universe. To learn and appreciate every facet of it.

Sometimes it pays to revisit that place, before looking ahead to what the year might bring. To close my eyes and imagine the snow falling all around, and to know that the cocoa will be waiting for me when I finally climb the stairs and disappear into the house, leaving the snowmen outside to face whatever ills the night might hold.

2003-12-29T21:06:00.000-08:00

There is a spectre that roams my town.

The first time I encountered The Engineer, it was a blistering summer day about six years ago. I was driving down by the old train trestle, where the cement arches leading beneath are often used as backdrops for photo shoots. Every day the trains rumble on overhead, and I rarely glance at people using the covered sidewalk to go beneath. Rarely, that is...until *he* caught my eye.

A thin spindle of a man was walking with a black cane toward the underpass. That in itself would not have captured my attention, but the fact that he was dressed head to toe in what seemed to be 1930's formal attire did. He wore a black bowler derby perched atop beautiful silver hair. A slim neck was encased in a stiff starched collar, a snow white dress shirt in contrast to the black vest he wore over the top, shining like only satin can. His pants were pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle to be seen...and his shoes looked like the wingtips I had seen in old picture albums at my grandmother's house.

I know I slowed down when I went past him, but by that time he had faded into the shadows of the underpass. I saw one brief flash of him through an archway... spying a meticuously groomed mustache, his proud gate with his walking stick grasped firmly.... and a black bowtie to complete the picture.

I drove on, completely dumbfounded by what I had just seen. The temperature that day was in the 90's - the sort of dry heat that the valley is famous for. Surely that slim man, in his 80's? 90's? was going to sweat himself into a puddle before he got to his destination??

Thoughts of The Engineer remained for some days afterward, but soon faded away with the routine of work and life. The year did not pass away though....until I found myself driving down that same stretch of road, and recognizing a familiar figure walking alongside the road.

As I drove by, I craned my head and looked. It was him, dressed in the same dapper suit...with the same handlebar mustache, the same bowtie, and the walking stick still gripped with a firm hand. He didn't look at me... he didn't look at the ground. He looked straight ahead, with an assured purpose in his eyes that most people would envy.

Engulfed in curiosity, I brought the subject up to my husband. He knew immediately who I was speaking of. "The old man in the suit...yes! I've seen him too!! It's like looking at something straight out of a Mark Twain book." And I could do nothing but agree. He went on to tell me he had seen the old man once, down by the park where there was a miniature train set up. Kids in the summer could go for rides on it, but it was small enough that an adult could pull it along with a rope if they wished... and that's where my husband had seen him. Pulling the train along the tiny track, in his formal dress clothes. I remember wishing with all my heart that I had been there with my Nikon, to photograph such a sight.

Glimpses of The Engineer came throughout the following years. The only change brought on by summer was the removal of the black suit jacket, to expose the vest beneath. Winter only brought the jacket back around him, and a pair of black gloves to match. He was always by the railroad... walking along the tracks that cut away from the main line and zag through the industrial section of town. He was always walking along these with that same purposeful step.

One day, however... something new happened. I was driving between two old cold storage buildings, where the train tracks come to an end, and I saw The Engineer hunched over them. It was such a startling sight that I almost stopped to see if he was alright - but then I noticed him lurching. Shoveling. He had a shovel in his hands, and he was digging gravel away from the train tracks. His black suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing pale arms. He was digging as if the train was on it's way, and it was up to him alone to keep it from derailing.

I wanted to stop... I wanted to get out of my Jeep and ask him what he was doing. Ask him his name... ask him where he was from. Prove to myself that he was in fact flesh and blood!! But I didn't. I kept driving, looking in my rear view mirror at the figure shoveling and swinging... shoveling and swinging.

The last time I saw the Engineer was this summer. My husband and I were sitting in the park by the river, which parallels the train tracks. As we got up from our impromptu picnic, I glanced down the trail and there...coming up the slope....was the old man. He looked no different from the first day I saw him, all those years ago. He had on his bowler derby, his vest...his pin stripe pants. His walking stick tapped the ground with a steady cadence. I realized for the first time...that he had a pair of very small wire rimmed glasses on. They were so silvery and small, they nearly disappeared into his face. I had never stood so close to him.

He walked past us, never giving even a flicker of a glance. He just stared straight ahead.... walking down the trail with his slim shoulders back, his head held high. The epitome of a very fine butler from a royal household.

I still don't know who he is. But, in a strange coincedence... four months ago I started a new job in one of the old brick buildings in town. It is located directly across the street from the main hub of the train line. My first day on the job, I walked up the steps, and was about to head on into the main hall, when my husband spotted something.

"Hey...take a look at this...." he said. He was pointing to something on the very corner of the building, by the door. I leaned in to look. There, rusted and weathered over years of exposure... a tiny metal sign in the brick, above a doorbell that had seen decades since it's last use. It said; 'Ring bell for Engineer'.

The building is the site of the old trainyard station...

....and I halfway wonder if The Engineer would appear at the door, if I were to press that old, silent bell.

(... and for those who are wondering - this story is true...)

2003-12-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

I had yet another grandiose "Aimee" dream last night. A small portion of it went like this:

I was swimming in deep clear water with Beth, and my boss's wife and good friend Kristen. We were bobbing along - somewhat distraught as we gazed out across the large expanse of water to find that industrial plants had been built along the shore. Long docks protruded into the middle of the water, where barges and ships were anchored.

"Well - at least we got to enjoy swimming here for a little while," I said, and they agreed.

We paddled along the shore away from the ship lane, when I saw something peculiar struggling in the water up ahead. Beth swam up to it, and lifted it out of the water... it was a HUGE dragonfly, glittering metallic green. The longer she held it, the bigger it became, until it was nearly five feet. It flicked it's gossamer wings, spraying us with droplets, then took off in the sky. We watched it fly away, very much surprised.

Then Kristen motioned down in the water and came up with this curious little phrase:

"Look at the pirate down below! He has a six-shooter stuck between his toes!"

It made sense at the moment, and I swam right up to the shoreline. What I found there was even more intriguing. Instead of sand and pebbles beneath my feet, it felt like wet fabric. I knelt in the water and stayed very still until the ripples went away...and when I looked at what I was feeling, I realized it *was* fabric on the shoreline.... and there were needlepoint designed stitched into it. People's names, little flowers...everywhere under the water. I motioned for Beth and Kristen to come look, and then I woke up.

I ate too many cookies before I went to sleep, methinks... but if anybody should have any interpretations of what this might mean, have at it!! I'd love to know. *grins*

2003-12-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

So I went to work this morning, but only for a couple of hours. After checking my work email, and making sure there were no immediate fires to douse, I scooted out the door and called today an official addendum to Wednesday and Thursday's holiday status.

Hubby had the whole week off, and since his plans for the day fell through - he was pleased to see me bounding through the door around noon. Keep in mind that I, like the foolish imp that I am, hadn't ingested anything at all aside from a 20 ounce triple-shot hazelnut latte at 9:30 this morning. The bad thing about that is it gives me a false sense of fullness, and so...little miss low-blood-sugar thought nothing of heading back out the door with hubby and dog in tow, to go for a winter romp around Blackbird Island in Leavenworth.

Hubby had gone for a walk there a day earlier, and fell in love with the place. It's a haven for cross-country skiers, but it also has a good packed trail for those of us who just want to stroll through a snowy wonderland. Here is an ariel shot (in the summertime obviously) of the island:

So we set out with Griffin pulling hard on the leash as he always does, going buggy eyed at the prospect of getting to go for a walk. We crunched over the hardpack, peering up at the utterly stunning blue sky through the bare limbs of the trees. The December sun kept its silvery light on us the whole time, and we chatted away about how fascinating it is that duck's butts don't freeze in the icy water they swam in. I'm still fascinated by it! I don't care how many science teachers it takes to 'splain it to me, I'll always marvel that those little critters don't become insta-icicles after dipping UNDERNEATH the frigid high-mountain water in search of something to eat. Cripes, someone get those mallards a sweater.

So anyway, we followed the trail, and greeted the families who were tugging their childlings along on sleds behind them. A few dogs were silly enough to come leaping through the snow at Griffin, but were greeted with a mouthful of teeth and a spit-flinging snarl. Griffin's a teddy bear... but not with other dogs. I had to laugh when he continued to walk on, all chuffed at having chased off the 'enemies'. He's a real chest-thumper.

About 3/4 of the way around the park...I started to feel peculiar. A sudden euphoric feeling hit me...slightly woozy, as if someone had just forced three shots of Tequila down my gullet. It was suddenly very difficult to lift one foot in front of the other, and I was swaying a bit... probably looking like I was totally sauced.

"Hon...I feel reallly weird. Really weak...I think I need to get some food...."

Understatement of the year. It was obvious I was having a MAJOR low blood sugar blowout. When asked what I'd eaten that day, I had to fess up about my coffee... and was met with the frustration of a man who knows me all too well.

I managed to plod along the last quarter mile back to the Jeep. Leavenworth was crowded this morning, as bad Christmas Eve - and I knew if we tried to find a parking spot anywhere closer to a restuarant, we'd be searching for ages. I suggested we just leave the Jeep parked in front of Blackbird Island, and walk up the hill to the main street. I knew Hubby was concerned about me, but I insisted I'd be fine...and he took Griffin to the Jeep while I started the climb up the hill.

We got to the top and crossed the street - by which time I could no longer feel my legs... both from the weakness and the cold. It was frigid out today! There's a delicious mexican restaurant called Los Camperos there, and luckily it is on the same block. The funny thing is, the doors are very heavy to open, and I got them ajar just enough to wedge myself between...and duly got myself stuck. I heard the snicker of confusion behind me as Hubby reached over and pulled them open for me, then placed a helping hand on my back to steady me as we walked up the stairs to the restaurant.

When I finally fell into the booth, I was GIDDY... literally giggling with weak exhausted relief to be in a warm place, *not* walking. My whole body tingled. If I had focused long enough on the feeling, I could have easily slipped right into a faint. When the waitress brought our chips and salsa to start us off, I wolfed them down with little finesse. Hubby just chuckled and chided me for being silly and not eating a proper breakfast. I promise...I will try my hardest not to do that again!!

I orded Chicken Carnitas - no refried beans, just extra rice... and a side of sour cream. Flour tortillas. Water with ice. Oh my gosh, when it arrived....it was the best tasting Chicken Carnitas I'd ever had. I'm sure I've had better, but the extreme hunger amplified the flavor tenfold. I hardly talked through the whole meal - quite unlike me. I just ate and ate and ate....and felt my levels all filling back up to normal. Thankfully Hubby has total empathy for this. He's experienced the same thing, numerous times. So, we ate in pretty much silence, just letting our eyes roll back in our heads with the joy of it all. If I were a cat, I would have been all fluffed and fat and purring with happiness.

Once we'd stuffed ourselves, we decided that a wee bit of dessert was in order. So - feeling much lighter on my feet and ready for a walk, we strolled down main street of the Bavarian Village, to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. They greeted us at the door with a sample of German chocolate cake Fudge - which tasted SO rich and good. I peeked over at my favorite case, the Truffle case...but was dismayed to find they didn't have any amaretto truffles today. So...I ended up with getting an Almond Turtle. A big gooey piece of caramel rolled in whole almonds and smothered in milk chocolate. Hubby got a big coconut haystack in dark chocolate. We stood outside under the dripping eaves and nibbled our confections... it felt like a mini-vacation. Definitely a fun day... low blood sugar attack and all.

Driving home seemed a fete in itself. Full of fantastic food, and high on pure winter oxygen - we wasted no time in climbing the stairs to our living room, throwing off the cushions of the couch to turn it into a sort of day-bed, snuggling up on it with the ottoman pulled close so Griffin could join in on the nap-fest, and pulling a soft wool blanket over the whole tangled mess. We napped for close to two hours, and never budged a muscle the whole time.

Ahh - what a day. :D

2003-12-24T17:39:00.000-08:00

We ventured out today with a vauge plan established. We had to drop by my office to pick up my revised paycheck (they'd accidently made it out with my friend's business name at the top...so when I tried to pass that off at the bank, they just snickered at me and told me to come back when I could get my name straight), and then after that we'd come to a tentative decision to go see Return of the King again.

By the time we left the office however, and were on our way to other errands, I realized that by the time we braved the crowds to pick up some last minute groceries... and also went to visit my Dad, that we weren't going to be able to fit in the afternoon matinee of the movie. So...off into the melee we went.

Holy guacamole... people lose their minds on Christmas. People are rushing around like they had been denied their Prozac for a few weeks!!! Ambulances screamed up one side street, and before their sirens were even out of earshot...I notice another ambulance and firetruck right in the middle of the main avenue. Sure enough, two cars had plowed eachother. As we crept by, I glanced over as they hauled an elderly man out of the driver's side of a white sedan, bracing him on a stretcher. His wife was in the passenger's seat still, eyes closed. She probably had a ham roasting in the oven.... maybe even fresh cookies with red and green sprinkles on the top set out to cool. Little did she know they'd be feasting their Eve dinner at the hospital.

We attempted going to a local Safeway supermarket, but there wasn't a parking space to be found. We gingerly made our way through the lot, wholeheartedly agreeing that it was NOT worth fighting the crowds. We'd end up wanting to kill someone by the time we got out of there! So we took off for a favorite Teriyaki place, enjoyed the fact that it was abandoned of all holiday guerillas, and got some take-out.

I wanted to pick up some chocolate covered cherries for Dad (his favorite) before we visited him, so we drove across the river to another market we figured wouldn't be as crowded. I guess the policeman directing traffic in and out of their parking lot was a big hint as to our misguided hopes....but it was the last stop before Retirementville.... so it had to be done. A quick trip up and down the aisles, expertly weaving in and out of dumbfounded holiday shoppers who had waited til the last minute to figure out what they were going to have for dinner.... we nabbed the choco-cherries, some snacks for ourselves, and were back out the door before anybody could say Jingle Bells.

When we arrived at the nursing home, there was an eerie calm to it. Normally we were there around dinner time - and there was always a certain amount of bustling done then. But the dining hall was closed up tight, and only the faint sound of a radio playing Christmas carols bounced off the dull white walls. When we got to Dad's door, it was shut. The first time it was like that since we'd been visiting him there. I glanced over at the nurse's station, and she must have seen my puzzled look. She motioned for me to go in and said "he likes it closed....but go ahead and open it."

I told hubby to wait while I went in to check. I opened the door and slipped inside... and all was dark. Obviously Dad's deaf roomie had been moved elsewhere (no doubt because of Dad's very vocal complaints about the guy's TV blasting at top volume day and night), and in the near-pitch dark...I couldn't even tell if Dad was still there. Not wanting to startle him, I let my eyes adjust and followed the sound of the oxygen machine to the far side of the room. Sure enough, there was someone in that bed...but with the thin light seeping in through the slatted blinds, it was hard to tell if it was really him. He looked so....small...in the bed. He was on his side facing the wall, covers pulled up over his head. He had lost a lot of weight... so much so that I wasn't convinced it was him until I saw the Happy Hand trucker hat I'd brought to him in the hospital. It was on his bedside stand.

I snuck back out to hubby and told him that Dad was sleeping. I got a piece of paper and a pen from the nurse, and scribbled out a note to put with the candies....and I was going to leave them on his dinner tray, but when I started walking back in, I heard the distinct sound of someone rustling up from the bed.

Turns out he'd woken up in the short time it took me to write the note. So - I waited a moment for him to get himself settled, and then got hubby. We sat for an hour chatting with him, watching him savor the chocolate covered cherries with pure joy. He couldn't believe I'd remembered they were his favorite.

With a promise of bringing some homemade food for tomorrow's dinner, we left...having had a good chat, glad to see he was doing even better than last time we'd seen him. I'll be glad when my sister and brother come back up next week though.... I'm desperately needing some backup in dealing with some issues, namely Dad's insurance... and their input is going to be so helpful.

So...we made it back home with a little bit of daylight to spare. I've got a new magazine about the writer's market, and a kettle heating up downstairs, ready for tea at any moment. I think I'm going to cozy up on my Pier One couch (LOVE Pier One!!), pull a blanket up under my chin, and just disappear into the magazine for awhile. I may peek my head up just enough to see if it's still snowing out...but other than that, the rest of the night is all about being content with simple things, like the dog that will be curling up on my feet to keep them warm while I snuggle.

2003-12-24T10:39:00.000-08:00

Here's a little glimpse into my village - a webcam from atop the Vale Middle School in Cashmere, where I live. Not much to see except swirls of fog and snow...but still, it's home! A pleasant wintry scene.

The Cashmere Webcam

Once you get to that page, look to the left, and there are other selections for Webcams. The Leavenworth webcams are also very near where I live!

2003-12-22T09:47:00.000-08:00

On the ride into work:

Hubby: {singing} Just like the wild wind blows.......

Me: {pausing, recognizing the melody...} what song are you singing?

Hubby: You know, that one Stevie Nicks sings....

Me: {another pause} You mean.... {singing} Just like the white wing dove...sings a song...sounds like she's singin'...

Hubby: {glancing at me} I always thought it was the Wild Wind blowing!!

Me: Nope....

.... silence....

Me: Of course, your version isn't nearly as bad as my first interpretation.

Hubby: What was that?

Me: {fidgets} I used to think she was saying "One Winged Dove..."

Hubby: {dies laughing} Oh...my god. "Just like the One Winged Dove - flips around and flies in circles....Woooot baby Whoooot...I say Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooot!"

2003-12-18T22:42:00.000-08:00

The first vinyl LP I ever had that wasn't a Disney story... was Tommy James and the Shondells - Mony Mony. It had a yellow and orange checkerboard label in the middle that would blur like sherbert when the record was spinning at 33. I would play it on an old portable record player, about the same size as my old twin bed it seemed. It was a hard plastic contraption that you opened up like a clam shell. The top half was white, the bottom was sea blue - and it had one tiny speaker in the bottom right hand corner. It sat on my bedroom floor, shoved up against the wall across from my heater...so that even in the winter I could sit there indian-style, and listen to my tunes. Or tune, rather. I didn't really dig the rest of Tommy James' LP - I just liked that one song. HEY Mony mony..... what the hell does that mean anyway? Even Billy Idol couldn't explain it to me.

2003-12-18T22:35:00.000-08:00

The true pleasures of childhood were:

Climbing out of the chlorine rich swimming pool, shrivelled like a California raisin, only to plaster one's body on the cement sidewalk...scorched from the mid day sun. From ground level, one could watch the ants detour around the unexpected drops of water.

Grocery stores hadn't implented the 'no shirt/no shoes/no service' policy. Shoes were optional - three months out of the year. Pink feet getting burned on black asphalt, only to delight in the smooth cold tile of the freezer section of the local Mark-N-Pak.

Drinking an Orange Crush in the back of the Jeep truck as it cruised down the highway. Didn't matter where we were going.

Gazing up at the stars from the makeshift bed in the front yard made of an air mattress and sleeping bag.

2003-12-18T18:29:00.000-08:00

Here is something I think I need to put on my 'to do' list before I die:
Champagne Glass

2003-12-18T08:17:00.000-08:00

Thursday morning, and I'm dreaming of my latte. For the first night in weeks - I slept so good. I don't even think I moved at all once I got all curled up in bed. I woke up in the same position I fell asleep in, with no memory of tossing and turning, and glancing at the clock every hour. I'm sure hubby appreciated it too. I actually feel RESTED this morning! I must remember this feeling.....

We went to see Dad last night at Highline. His TV was on while we were sitting there talking, and the case about the woman in Texas who was arrested for selling a sex toy came on. They were showing rows upon rows of all these devious looking devices...and Dad was getting a little chuckle out of it.

Me: Geez - some of those things look like they'd send a person running for the hills!

Dad: Damn straight...

~news flashes to a picture of the woman with a big toothy smile, her eyes slightly glazed over~

Dad: Looks like she's on some sort of medication....

Me: Looks like she's used one too many of what she's selling!

Needless to say, he got a belly laugh out of that one...