Reunions

This has been a summer of get-togethers of the significant kind.  Namely, the sort of people-gathering that occurs rarely but with smashing success and memory-making on the epic scale.

It began with the trip to Colorado for the wedding of my niece, Bethany, sole daughter of my eldest sister.  Six of my mother's eight children, along with their spouses or significant others and their children as applicable, came together under one sky and roof for the first time since . . . um, er, hem and haw . . . a really long, long, super long span of years.  I think that the summer of 2003 witnessed the meeting five of the eight in two separate events with one switch of a sibling for another.  In all these cases, the bookend kids, Brother Kevin the oldest and Brother Gary the youngest, were absent from the festivities.  That is a shame as they are both delightful men for whom I have much affection.  But they had personal circumstances which kept them from joining the noisy fray which comprises our motley crew.

I often tell people who haven't met my big sis, Laurel, that her level of activity in all areas of life (save for maybe walks with dogs, writing and push-ups) make me appear to be a rather mellow yellow gal.  By the height of the arched eyebrows in response to this declaration, one can surmise this is saying a pretty big something!  While I'm a social caterpillar but require significant portions of alone time, my social BUTTERFLY of a sister uses her alone time merely to rest and plan significant portions of together-with-her-peeps time.  She's also a service-oriented person when it comes to showing her love and appreciation for the people in her life.  I'm much the same.  So, when I made my trip in late June for Bethany's wedding, with two of my kids in tow, the thrust of my visit was to be at my sister's beck and call for whatever she desired of my energies and time.  She decided that utilizing my love for, and talents with, cooking would be of the most benefit.  While I initially felt a mild case of the nerves, wondering if I could meet her expectations or stand-up to her requirements, my final resolution was to simply throw myself into everything I did for her with love and gusto.  As it turned out, the whirlwind of final planning and execution in the few days before the ceremony kept her so incredibly occupied that I was gloriously on my own in the kitchen.

Save for the first night of our arrival, when Laurel fed us with a deceptively quick-and-easy low-country boil of corn, potatoes, shrimp and sausage, the cooking light was mine to switch on and off.  She had only to raise her head with a request before the pantry and fridge doors were thrown wide open beneath my appraising gaze.  I nourished the able bodies of the Laurel legions with fragrant red rice flavored with golden raisins and pumpkin seeds, vegetable stir fry, homemade whole grain biscuits and turkey bacon gravy (leftovers from feeding the bridal party the morning of the big day), fresh fruits and nuts, sunlit-from-within lemon curd (including a special butter-free batch for my gluten-/dairy-free mother-of-the-bride), among other things.  There was quinoa and eggs and mimosas, though not in that order.  And later, after the excitement had died down, most company had returned to their own homes, and the married couple was whisked off to their honeymoon, a select few of us enjoyed red velvet cake-in-a-cup . . . not to be confused with actual cupcakes.  Out of necessity, I employed a paper coffee cup as both knife and serving bowl, thus beginning a grand family tradition for years to come, I hope.  Mention must also be made of the fine red wine I enjoyed -- one cup a night -- from the cellar of my discriminating bro-in-law: he finds labels and varietals at steal prices with uncompromising palate-pleasing potential.  Though the outdoor wedding in a glorious mountain setting was a most memorable event, not to mention the hoot of an indoor reception which followed, the most enduring memories are those which -- surprise, surprise -- revolve around me loving others through food: the bride and her ladies-in-waiting, my organized planner of a sister, her extremely proficient and hard-working husband, and the amazing friends who unselfishly gave 100% effort to all that needed doing.  There is much satisfaction, as well as blessing, in giving to others above and beyond that which they require.

Frosting on the bottom, cake at the top!

 Hungry happy young women.

 The multi-tasking sister . . . 

 My bro-in-law and my lovely statuesque niece.

 I wasn't exaggerating about the venue!

           Mark, Me, John, Laurel, Craig . . . Rebekah was also there.

Two other reunions followed in almost rapid succession.  The interesting fact there is that it was never my intention to attend those.  One trip, one airline ticket, one full week away was enough.  I left my son in Colorado for a month of visiting, relative-hopping if you will, with the intention of having my husband return home with our boy after HE attended the reunions: HIS family reunion, also referred to as the second meeting of Galvanstock/Geiserfest up on the hill in Uncle George's and Aunt Donna's back yard; AND the big La Veta High School multi-class reunion happening on the exact same weekend.  Intentionally planned to coincide on the part of his family.  Two birds, one stone.  Anyway, as I was saying, I was NOT going.  But my sweet husband kept at me, "I wish you would go with me" over and over and over again.  My resolve melted.  Especially after he told me over coffee at Starbucks after an impromptu night and day away together after I returned home from the wedding, "One thing I wish you could change about yourself is doing more things spontaneously, without so much planning."  
So, right then and there, I Googled Southwest Airlines on my iPhone and checked on the off-chance that there was a miraculous ticket available.  I.E.  Affordable.  Lo! and behold! Round-trip to Denver for under just under $250 popped up.  Before my husband could wave the steam away from the rim of his cup o' joe, I had tapped my way onto his flight.

 Playing it cool with a jelly-filled donut.

And then he asked that I keep it under wraps.  As in a secret.  From everyone.  That included my sisters, his sister, his classmates on Facebook (save for the organizer who took our check to cover three people at the class reunion banquet/dance) all the cousins, our son who was, if you recall, in Colorado, his mother, EVERYONE!  Aaargh.  I did it.  For three weeks.  It was tough.  But I successfully deceived everyone.  I went so far as to employ my constant presence on Facebook as a means to a dishonest end.  Uploading pictures from home fed to me by my daughter, Ashley, who didn't tag along on this outing.  I even posted a photo of Jimmy and his bags waving to the camera as he headed for the ticket counter.  In Pueblo, I brought wee shimmery tears to my little sister's eyes when I showed up on her front porch with a knock to ask for the use of her restroom -- Jimmy and Zachary had dropped me off down the street before heading over there themselves.  "Oh my gosh!  Twice in one month!  It's like you LIVE here!"  My sister-in-law was totally surprised when I rang her doorbell a full fifteen minutes after her brother entered her handsomely decorated home.  And though my son inadvertently gave away my presence to MOST of the gathered family in La Veta after arriving a quarter of an hour ahead of me and his father, the one girl I most wanted to shock, Laurie Geiser, my loyal childhood friend of earlier blog entry subject, did not discover the secret.  I hid in the dining room of our uncle's and aunt's home; Laurie entered the house to check on something her brother said needed attention in the guest restroom (whatever it was, she was actually ticked off at him, unaware that he was in on the game of subterfuge); when she entered the restroom, I walked in behind her, tapped her on the shoulder and said that I really needed to use the toilet.  You probably heard her delighted scream in your state, whether that happens to be California or Tennessee or parts in between!  It went on a good while, punctuated by excited speech that I could ju-u-ust make out.  And the way she jumped up and down I was sure there were springs attached to her fancy shoes.  And, yes, she cried full on.  True tears of joy.  I hadn't even given her late birthday present of homemade biscotti yet, either. Priceless.

A misleading picture if ever there was one.

I may have abused my Facebook privs!

But it was so-o WORTH it.

A Jimmy sandwich: Laur n' Glor

My biscotti plea: it worked!  Not a cookie broken.

What followed was 2 1/2 days and nights of jumping in the lake with all of the kids and teens, petting friendly horses, games and coffee, bacon and eggs, needy dogs and long walks, a parade, hilarious speech missteps on my part ("The beaver must be active" and "they stroked my eagle" amongst them) which gave way to all manner of good-natured tongue-in-cheek ribbing, keg beer and elk meat, Aunt Virginia's famed bologna spread, lemon bars and brownies, hummingbirds on the back porch, talking and chatting and catching up galore!  I slept in a borrowed eight-man tent more comfortably than you could even imagine.  **Insert special shout-out to Darrell Reagan, who erected the tent in which I chose to slumber.**  There was heaps of fresh air, mountain views upon mountain views, friendly stray kitties who could walk five miles, Charlie's ice cream -- double scoop of cinnamon and strawberry, endless photo ops which I did NOT let slip by, and lots and lots of Laurie G.!  Laur.  LG.  My friend.  Good times.  Yeah.

 I liked everything about this 118-pound guy . . .

except for finding out that the little Cookie who lives with him

cleans his eyes and drool with her little tongue.  Blechhh!

 Forced separation: weaning.

Never did have EIGHT sleepers in here!

 Many of the large local families were IN the parade.

This drastically reduced the numbers in the watching crowds!

This is Laurie Geiser's grandma, aunt, mom and brother-in-law.

 We ALL scream for Charlie's ice cream!

 Jumping into lakes from rock formations rather 

FREAKS ME OUT!  That's why I had to do this thing.

In the midst of all of this delightful family hullaballoo, there was still the matter of the LVHS class reunion.  I hadn't given that aspect of the trip nearly as much thought as the family aspect.  But I DID buy a new dress and clearance-from-Kohl's earrings!  Each day, Friday through Sunday, some scheduled event  brought together those who made the trip from several states, one even from New Zealand,  to reunite with old school chums.  I met plenty of people.  The night of the casual mixer, Friday, one man made a point to tell how my husband, Jimmy Valdez, and one of his friends, another Jimmy, were his heroes growing up;  He was very earnest about it.  I found it to be rather endearing.  It turned out he was the emcee at the dinner the following night and he told the same story there.  Doubly endearing!  In the crowd of attendees of this very small school was one woman from the Class of '35; I think she was 96.  The tables were grouped according to decades.  Those graduates of the '60's had the largest turnout.  Ohh, those baby boomers!  At our table, I had the chance to talk with several close friends of my husband's from those years.  Almost immediately, I felt welcome and comfortable with them.  One woman in particular had such an open and genuine spirit about her that I almost wanted to cry at her lack of guile.  Her musician brother was pretty cool, too.  They were both in a high school band with my husband and were quite good as I've heard it over the years.  We swapped stories about travel and church and personal history. Even touched on our faith lives.  In the final throes of the effects of an allergy pill, I gabbed on about how sweat was the great equalizer, even as the stuff ran down my legs in the food line.  But I DID rock my new under-$20 Ross dress, perspiration and all!  I snapped pictures at an alarming rate; I probably took more than the official event photographer.  I finally shook the hands of people I met via Facebook but had never laid eyes upon in the flesh.  In the end, what I came away with was a deep appreciation for the people with whom my husband chose to surround himself during his school days.  The ones I met that weekend were gems.  Cut from the same salt-of-the-earth cloth as Jimmy.  Good folks.  It was so evident that they still held Jimmy in high regard with continued affection.  It felt good to know that they were with him before I knew him.  It explained more of who he is.  Between his family and his friends and the small-town upbringing as an all-American lad, it's no wonder my husband is who he is today.  And I grabbed him up!  I'm grateful to his chums and family for helping to shape the man I have loved for over 23 years.

In between Annette, Laurie and Travette are Carrie and Chris.

The brother and sister of which I'm truly a heartfelt fan.

Another Jimmy sandwich . . . just a different Jimmy.

Same friendly gals at the end of a long but enjoyable evening.

(He and I and my MOM are Facebook pals.)

This is Marti.  One of my husband's pals from high school.

She's especially endearing after her announcement at the end of the banquet night whereupon she said that she believed Jimmy Valdez had 

MARRIED WELL.  Tell it like it is, gal!

Now, over a week into our return home, I'm certain the effects of this momentous and physically-challenging summer are still wreaking havoc on me.  But it was so-o-o well worth it.  Seeing my little sister outside of the hospital setting; witnessing the union of my niece to a young man who clearly adores her; enjoying the collection of relatives who congregated on the family hill where three homes of laughter and love have dwindled down to one; adding new friends to my collection of folks (it seems that I have an endless capacity for friendship); and having the best series of Colorado trips that I have ever EVER had!  My son, who starts his junior year of high school this Wednesday (is that even possible), has my assurances that he will be allowed to visit Wyoming and Colorado next summer.  As for me, I may be marrying off my eldest child AND visiting Germany in the spring.  My plate is full.

The mountains of LaVeta, Colorado.  A regal view of the sisters.

Testing The App Waters

I tried posting a picture of possible highway death from my collection of "Highway Death Scenarios" snapshots. In this instance, a dump truck hauling a long trailer bearing a yellow Caterpillar front loader. Oh, and the wheels are spewing rainwater with a vengeance. But this Blogger app has a bug which prevents me from attaching images. So, trust my imagery.

The roads, both coming and going, are bogged down with questionable trucks, cars, SUV's and their iffy cargo. One can't help but wonder -- with the encouragement of a vivid but not fearful, merely curious, imagination -- what might occur if an axle or bolt or wheel was to slip! But do the drivers of said murderous conveyances have any inkling as to the loads they carry and the suggestion of sudden impalement, decapitation, evisceration, crushing and flat out blacktop mayhem they represent? Methinks not! That's why there's folks like me to alert the masses. There's simply not enough awareness, or paranoia in some cases, to go around without the social goodness broadcasting done by PHDSW's around the world (that's 'Possible Highway Death Scenario Watchers' for the uninitiated). I mean, surely there's more than this one reluctant suburbanite over here in Middle Tennessee, U.S. of A.?

I guarantee you that once your eyes have been opened, you'll never again look at a truckload of logs in the same casual way. At every exit and mile marker, the supposedly unassuming administrators of death will loom large. Take note. Play defense on the interstates! Spread the word. Protect yourselves during those holiday travels for the sake of your loved ones and good times awaiting on the other end of the line-dotted macadam. And if you want, snap a few pics (only as a passenger, lest YOU become a PHDS), and send 'em my way for my ever growing portfolio.

This has been a test of the Blogger iPhone app. If this was a real emergency post, the highway patrol would be notified and on the scene shortly.

In the meantime, play it safe and operate your own vehicle several car-lengths behind tractors, trailers, wide loads and their road-traveling ilk!

Left Turn

Which way do I go?  


I happened across this sign during a glorious morning hike with my neighbor last Friday.  There was an immediate kinship with the figurative message of these bold arrows.  That it would become an image in my blog was a no-brainer.  Telling me I can go this way or that.  Assuring me that I'm not lost.  That backtracking is an option but so is this new direction in which I've yet to explore.  The answer for me is obvious: looking back over the terrain I've managed to traverse, winding trails, steep hills - both up and down - knobby roots and stubby stumps, brush and bush and branch, dense growth punctuated by open rock beds awash in mossy sunlit cover, I'm ready to push forward, look forward, MOVE ever onward.  I'm eager to see what's off to the left and ahead of me.

So here I am.  Standing at that crossroads with this blog smack-dab in the center of the cross hairs.  Unable to discern just where this fits into my earnest desires to further my writing.  Posting photos and pairing them with vignettes from my life provides me with joy and a certain purpose in the doing.  But it, along with Facebook and e-mail and a few highly enjoyable iPhone app games, siphon away minutes and hours which could possibly be useful in creating outlines and characters and chapters for stories and books which are all just itching to be scratched out of my head.  At one point, dropping non-essential activities and chores in my life was the answer to eking out portions of my day for pouring my words onto paper or into the laptop and Mac.  


However,  I did choose a particular life.  I decided that for me, staying at home unless working outside the home was a necessity was the way I needed to go in order to be an effective mother and wife.  I didn't want to try and have it all because I don't truly believe that bandied-about phrase really delivers what it promises.  Somewhere, if we are giving everything our all, SOMEthing will give, some aspect of live, home or health or work or hobby or dream, will suffer and receive less than it deserves.  Thus, writing simmered ever so slightly on the back burner of my life, while I filled my days and weeks and months with  activities pertaining to my domestic self, including titillating tours of duties in booster clubs and fundraisers and potlucks among countless other past-times.  Not to mention that the moment I lightened up on gardening in more recent times, I happened across a certain abandoned satin-eared puppy who requires more time than any hosta or hydrangea I've ever planted.

And often, when I did write, my words targeted a very small and specific audience in the name of family dynamics, especially where my baby brother and younger sister were concerned.  Letters to lawyers and judges and doctors.  Not to mention newspapers.  And when my eldest child struggled through a period of school and social life, that had me zipping off missives to teachers and principals and other parents with obscene frequency.  That all takes time . . . and a great deal of energy.


But that child now works two jobs and has her eye on a future life with her boyfriend of four years.  My son has two years remaining in his high school career before deciding how to approach his college path.  (Actually, he'll have that decided BEFORE the two years expire.)  And everyone is well aware that my middle child now resides in Germany with her Army husband . . . for the next three years.  Hank the Wonder Pup has wondrously tromped right into the middle of his second year of life; I have it on good authority that labs start to settle down in their second or third year.  Though he did chew a tad bit on the corner of our kitchen table a couple of weeks ago (he hadn't nibbled on furniture for a fair stretch of time) he hasn't ingested anything of major value since that unfortunate incident with my first iPhone, Girlfriend GS, back in the spring of this year.  And that old bra he tore up this morning?  Well, it reeked of sweat from my early walk in hot humid morning temps, and it was hanging on a kitchen chair.  What normal curious dog wouldn't be inspired to investigate such a treat as that?!

Anyway, my point is that things are slowing down.  Kids are growing up.  Dogs are settling in.  The husband has his musical hobbies.  And there's a perfectly respectable and sunny bedroom upstairs adjacent to this study with my name awaiting to be written ALL OVER IT!  I have the green light to turn Sarah's old bedroom into my writing room.  Shelves for organizing journals and letters and material I'd like to have at my fingertips.  A door, which this small study does not have, to shut out the world and cocoon me in my own facsimile thereof.  Space for a chair by the windows.  A small section of wall for chalk paint and magnetic paint; large walls for whatever shades of me I wish to roll and brush across their expanse.  Permission to search for a sturdy used executive desk with simple lines, no bulk, just right for this large Mac and my paperwork.  A room in which I can freely explore my ideas and discipline my tired but eager to stretch brain.

There's a place for the blog within this construct.  And that will flesh out as I continue to follow my turn arrow on the path which has led me thus far.  I want you all along for the journey.  And for the choices.


Just keep reading the signs:

Rules of Engagement

Topics which you won't see covered in this entry: 1) the almost empty space adjacent to this study, formerly known as Sarah's bedroom; 2) the seemingly blatant disregard by this writer to supply three blog posts per week; and 3) anything to do with flatulence.

There.  Now that the rules of engagement have been established and recognized by all involved parties,  namely you, the readers, and me, the one who spins this wordy web, we can move on.

Since three hours of sleep is all I managed to squeeze out of last night -- I was packing personal items in a space about which I will not discuss right now -- and the hour inches ever closer to midnight, I'll keep this brief.  I have no real choice in the matter as my eyes are rolling back up into my head of their own volition.  My fingers on the keyboard appear to have a mind of their own.  And somewhere in there, the ol' gray matter is definitely operating on far less than fifty shades!

Hank the Wonder Pup, whose nickname has morphed into Hankie Mutt from here on out, is starting to realize that he possesses both maleness and alpha dog potential.  On yesterday's walk, he marked our way at least three times; that's two more than he usually pees in a week of leash-n-collar sessions!  At home, our elderly dog's increasing vulnerability due to arthritis and the natural slow-down that nips at the heels of a sixteen year-old pooch, has made her a target for snarling, barking and teeth-baring encounters with her younger counterpart whenever she enters the kitchen, which Hankie Mutt believes to be his territory.  Several times a day, I wade into the fray and assert MY alpha position over BOTH of them.

Our great white hunk of an overgrown pup managed to add a few friends to his collection of four-legged and two-legged pals in the past week.  Today it was Brian and Andre.  They work for the moving company which is contracted out by the Army to relocate the belongings of certain individuals to parts outside of these United States for the purpose of keeping married couples and families together.  This capital business arrangement works well for both parties and pertains to me in ways which, at present, I am not allowed to discuss for maternal heart reasons.  Upon the completion of their mission, Brian and Andre enjoyed iced tea, berries and Doritos provided by yours truly: I allow no one to leave my home hungry and thirsty on a hot day when hard work has been executed to my exacting standards.  Really, serving others, anticipating their needs, feeding people: it's who I am.  So I roll with it!  I learned that Brian and Andre grew up together, got in trouble playing football in a neighbor lady's yard together, and now work together.  Andre is quick to grin and operates a mean tape dispenser.  Brian is married to a Laotian woman.  His fifth wedding anniversary is just around the corner.  And he owns a pit bull mix who has been trained to respond to commands ordered in his wife's native tongue.  I rather like that.  (I'm thinking I could teach Hankie Mutt a bit of Spanish?!)

Brian and Andre

 Now you see it . . . 

 . . . now you don't!!!

 Good sports!

While we're on the subject of pit bulls -- dogs who get a bum rap in the ownership department because of the nasty habit many folks have of turning these handsome animals into bloodthirsty fighters for gambling human onlookers -- let me direct your attention to Hank's newest girlfriend, Emma.

 Emma: she's ALL woman!

 Introductions.

Look, Hank has an instant family.  

And Emma is REALLY good with children . . .  

. . . REALLY good!  Brave little bugger, eh?

All played out.  About time for Starbucks, Hank.

Emma is a regular at our local Bark Park.  During our prolonged heatwave of this past week, I thought it a good idea to bond with my pup after a week-long absence (the Colorado trip for my niece's wedding, which we will explore later).  To further this bonding, we awakened early on Saturday morning and took a road trip in search of apple fritters from that small donut place on Broad Street (had an itch that needed a sugar scratch).  One said apple fritters were procured (one for me; one for my hubby) and stashed out of range of Hank's powerful sniffer, owner and animal headed to the Bark Park. Once there, we engaged in a marathon two-hour play session in which most of the dogs who wandered in and out of the confined area chose to remain in the shade for all activities, including Hank.  Emma sauntered in, sleek and brown and nonchalant, resembling something more akin to a handsome small pig with fangs than an actual dog, and my young Casanova was instantly smitten!  I think it's safe to call it . . . prepare yourself . . . puppy love.  Sorry.  You know I had to go there.

"May I kiss you?"

"Not in public, methinks . . . "

If you'll recall, Hank's first girlfriend was a pit bull.  Rosie.  A sweetheart of a petite gal owned by one of my Earth Diva's and her family.  Rosie and Hank met during dog-training last year.  Outside of his blankie, Rosie was Hank's first experience with 'physical affections' which bring to mind the same visual for all people who know anything about dogs.  It's been quite awhile since these two lovestruck hounds have laid eyes on one another.  On a regular basis, Hank's main squeeze lives next door to us.  Cheeto.  Another petite girl, but with long hair, less muscle and daily access to our yard.  I believe she's a Gordon Setter.  And she's not the jealous type, so any worries that Hank might have bitches fighting over him can be put to rest.  Besides, I'm pretty sure that the stout-of-frame Emma could knock the stuffing out of the other two in Hank's harem.    

 

A reminder of Emma's stout form.

Hank also befriended a small-breed puppy, the name of which has flown straight outta my head . . . a Jack Russell terrier (my cousin had one once, hyper little guy, almost drowned in our yard during a sudden downpour when we all forgot he was tied to a pole which was attached to a large tent which was set up for my husband's surprise 40th birthday party five years ago).  The owners of this little guy wanted to socialize him with large breed dogs in an effort to avoid the aggressive behavior toward big dogs that their OTHER Jack Russell terrier displays.  Every dog at that park behaved with a respectful curiosity and playfulness toward that tiny ball of energy that was touching to watch.  Not to mention downright entertaining.  Of course, Hank, much like his human brother, Zachary, handled the youngster with a deference and genuine interest that stood out above the pack.  The other owners thanked him profusely for playing so well with their wee one.  My favorite moment, of which there were many, came courtesy of the pup, who clambered atop the sturdy edifice which is all Emma, like a nimble-footed mountain goat.  I didn't get the shot but I sure got the belly laugh!

 My OWN 'Harry The Dirty Dog.'

 "Hank, meet dirt.  Dirt, Hank.  Now GO play!"

 Happy in his freshly dug hole.

 He unearthed a portion of something we never could identify.

 He does NOT want Hank's big ol' paw in his little ol' hole.

 This pup is gonna give his owners YEARS of fun!

 New pals beating the heat.

Here Hank demonstrates the PROPER use for his nose . . . 

as opposed to violating the backsides of humans entering his home.

Well, as often happens, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.  You are once again up-t0-date and in-the-know where all things Hankie Mutt are concerned.  Next time, I promise to regale you with stories about humans.  Until then, I pray you sleep well.  I've been trying to do so for the past hour!

A Smoke-Filled Greeting

Goo-o-o-o-od early mornin', Push-Ups readers.  Coming at you live from Colorado Springs where I've had a heartbreaking front row seat to the carnage of the wildfires up in them there hills.  I'm here for my niece's wedding -- she's the only daughter of my eldest sister -- and six of my mother's eight children will find themselves together for the first time in at least ten years.  My sister and her husband are situated on the east side of I-25, miles out and high enough to boast of stunning views of the huge range sprawled out to the west: the awe-inspiring Rocky Mountains.  Only the awe inspired in all of us here yesterday, not the first day of this outbreak of creeping conflagrations but most likely the worst, was an awesome dread for the people whose homes succumbed to the wind-spurred flames.

The smoke, in all its varying hues of gray, white and black, accompanied me, my mom and my little sister on our trek into Springs from the metro Denver area earlier in the day.  By four'ish, the very air in the streets hung dark and heavy, thick with the cloying scent of smoke.  The red sun felt like it belonged in another planet's atmosphere.  I was reminded of the time when a volcano in upstate Alaska erupted, spewing enormous amounts of ash into the sky, and those of us in Anchorage were plunged into eerily darkened days which refused to yield to the pleading of the sun beyond.  We wore masks to reduce the inhalation of the particulates for several days, if memory serves right.  That was the beginning of my sophomore year.  Mid 80's.  And everything felt like a brooding painting, surreal, depressing, indicative of existence interruptis.

 What always strikes me about natural disasters is the sheer beauty of there form and force.  There's a bit of a guilty struggle within as I find myself mesmerized by the will and scope of a tornado or forest fire or flood, even as the loss and sadness of those affected strikes with equal measure at the heart.  Whether our evidence of humanity, our conquering of the earth's surface and such, existed or not, neatly lined up along a Florida beach, or winding through cul-de-sacs on a steep hillside in Colorado, or spreading from farm to farm in the plains of Kansas, these natural phenomenons would still display their prowess across the land and seas.  Perhaps battling one another instead of us puny but determined humans.  There'd be no witness to their swirl and whirl, their rush and retreat, their devouring of all in their whimsical paths. And as odd as it sounds, I think that would be a shame.  What does this say about me?  As deeply empathetic as I am to my very core, my profound appreciation for beauty in all things encourages an admiration for a thing, or things, which are responsible for human destruction on a large and regular scale.  (If we did the math, I still believe us humans have killed, maimed or destroyed the lives of our fellow men, women and children than any teammate on mother nature's roster.)

I'm not really going anywhere with this.  I don't have a tidy end.  A lesson.  Just mental meanderings from a satisfied heart, a tired body, a praying spirit.  Running concurrently alongside the story of these multiple destructive fires is the equally beautiful and important story of a wedding.  A wedding which is also a family reunion of sorts.  A wedding which has allowed me the opportunity to offer my services up to my sister in any way she sees fit as she counts down the final days to the marrying-off of her youngest child.  Her girl-child now college graduate young woman.  And wife . . . after Saturday early evening.  So, on this fine seafaring vessel nestled amidst the wandering sprawl which is the suburbs of Colorado Springs, I am the master of the galley.  The cook.  Head honcho in the kitchen.  And Jill-of-minor-back-and-forth chores.  And I'm loving it all.  Even as tired as I am.  My famous Hollandaise sauce, the cornerstone for my Eggs Benedict ala sauteed veggies (tomatoes, spinach, mushrooms and asparagus), wowed the hungry breakfast crowd this morning.  Did my heart wondrous good.  My niece responded quite favorably to her introduction to homemade lemon curd (to lemon curd, period), smiling sweetly beyond the refreshing tartness of my thick concoction.  And I got to hang out with my brother-in-law and sister at every turn.  Not to mention the chance to observe and interact with the groom who is a very good egg.  Cracked only in the most humorous of ways.

Now I perch on the edge of a cushioned folding chair, in dire need of a shower, awaiting the arrival of my brother, John, and his family.  Even with my burning eyes and fading alertness, I'm excited to hug each and every one of them before we all pass out for the remainder of this morning.  The kitchen has been cleaned for the umpteenth time.  All of the hard-working wine glasses are drying on a towel.  The large batch of candied almonds expertly tossed by my hands at the behest of the mother-of-the-bride has cooled and sits in an airtight container awaiting its fate at the wedding reception.  I'm wishing the coyotes would set to howling just one more time.  I'm hoping for more than the brief rain which fell during my earlier run/walk, whereby I trotted down a long winding sidewalk, fist-pumping the air and thanking the Lord for the moisture, willing it to move on over just a bit further west!  I rue the fact that there is no self-cleaning button on me.  Blechhh.  I have pictures.  Probably several decent ones.  But the thought of plugging in the camera and loading the images, poring over them, and getting them to the blog is simply too much after the past two days.

So, wait as patiently as you can for the pictures.  You'll HAVE to read the words today.  Take care.  I'm safe.  We're safe.  And pray for Colorado . . . pray for the many who exist in a state of crisis outside of our awareness, living with us in time even as those among us, and sometimes us, ourselves, celebrate life with births and weddings and parties.  Because whether we know them personally or not, whether we can look outside of our picture windows and see the loss with our own eyes, somewhere there is a someone, a good many someones, suffering a loss, sudden or otherwise, on the opposite side of celebration. 

Poopy Tongue: An Ode To Hank

"Don't lick me with your poopy tongue!" I say.

You look at me.

All sloppy grin.

And you lick my shin.  Again.

I sigh and we walk along.

Sidewalk jockeys

On a Tennessee late morning.

A girl and her dog.

When I imagined your life

There was just a plain tongue.

The sloppy grin.

And unadulterated licks.

On my chin and hand.

Not drool down my shin.

After a midday munch.

Snack ala another dog's haunch.

Bear hugs and paw shakes.

Most welcome.

Those puppy eyes of amber.

Tracking me.

Alert to my mood.

To my motion.

Wanting to please

My every whim with devotion.

I love you, goofy pup.

Past the hole in the wall.

Gnawed table and chairs.

Sarah's shoes.

Ferns.

Neighbor toys and flower pots.

My iPhone's demise.

Your random toothy carnage.

I did not foresee

Your nose.

Questing.

An unrelenting source 

Of unexpected debauchery.

Up the skirts of ladies.

Sniffing at the forks

Of jeans and shorts and slacks.

But your golden ears.

Silk purses.

Friends to the fingers.

Thrown back

Like hair in the wind.

They gather my words.

You twist your puzzled head

Left, then right.

Your pros.

Heavier than your cons.

Like the weight

Of those logs you 

Lug about the yard.

Jumping.

Sky bound.

Monkey-in-the-middle joy.

I am yours.

As James Herriot

The country vet.

To brush those canines.

To swab 

Those bacteria-prone head flaps.

Trim your nails.

And brush that beating tail.

(I'M ACTUALLY CLEANING HIS EARS.)

Your room and board.

Check.

Healthcare -- HUGE check.

Unending friendship.

On cue belly rubs.

Car rides to Starbucks.

Walks to nowhere.

All yours.

But if ever you wonder.

"What could I do for you,

Dear Mistress?”

You do it.

On a continuous loop.

However, my one request.

If you decide to press?

"PLEASE DON'T EAT POOP!”

I PREFER TO CALL HIM "WELL LOVED!"