Kitchen Sink

Don't you wonder what went on here?

Don't you wonder what they talked about, while they were washing dishes?

Don't you wonder if they were the same as you are?
Unsure.
Stressed.
Burning the candle at both ends (I love a good cliche!)

Don't you wonder where they are now?

Don't you wonder why they left, and why this house has been forgotten?

Every time I drive East, over the mountains, I wonder what brought people West. And I'm told--by books and historians--it was open space, opportunity, the chance at something big like land and ownership and a horizon that had no bounds. A life that wasn't constricted by convention; a life that was adventurous, and unique.

Well, that's why I'm here.
That's why I love the west.
That's why I can't imagine living anywhere else, even now, in 2007, when every part of the country looks like the other. Strip malls and food chains crowd every corner; Walmarts and gas stations positioned at each freeway exit. There's nothing unique, it seems.

Unless you stray off the road.

And then you have to ask, why did they leave? And where are they now? And if everywhere is just like the other, why am I in this place?

Photo:
by Kristin
abandoned homestead, Winthrop, Wa
september, 2007

Despite Vertigo, I'm Still Here . . .

Okay.

Playing off the last topic, so many months ago . . . vertigo.

Yep, that's the theme.

Too much going on and not enough time for thought. A summer of writing deadlines, writing workshops, backpacking trips and a LOT of time at Chimayo floating the rivers, cooling off in the swimming hole with the kids and dogs, hiking and biking--in general, just hiding out from civilization. If only it was possible. . .

In September, I destroyed my laptop with a tipped-over glass of red wine. Poof. It doesn't take much. And the loss was great. A week later, Zorro developed a bowel obstruction from a pair of red plaid boxer shorts and a 10 inch corn cob. Surgery ensued. And aspiration pneumonia. And an extended stay in the emergency vet hospital. The whole time we're thinking: we love this dog, we love him big time . . . we love him so much we'll pay any amount of money to make sure he gets better. But we were plagued by the fact that the money spent might feed an entire African village for a whole year, and then we felt frivolous. And too privileged. It was a difficult scene.

Anyway, it's taken me awhile to reconstruct everything; and it's taken me a really long time to feel up to doing the blog thing again.

On the blog front, Heather is a constant inspiration, with her candid and insightful observations; her deep commentary on life. And I hope to keep it up this time. And I hope to be more focused and concise. Basically, I hope to write things that mean something to someone else besides me.

And so, there you have it.

Chimayo Bound. Re-imagined . . .

Photo:
vicki and peg, Windom Peak, Chicago Basin
weninuche wilderness, colorado
september, 2007

Vertigo

Oh, my! Summer has gotten away from me! And I feel just like the image in this photo: rotating 'round and 'round, until I'm in danger of falling, and scraping my face across the pavement.

A friend reminded me tonight that I hadn't written in a long time. And I have no excuse, other than the one I'm about to give: summer vertigo.

It's a force that swirls in every year. It's a wave that takes me by surprise, every time. June rolls around and I think I have so many weeks ahead of me--so much time--sharp, sun-carved days, one after the other. Time for hiking, beach-walking, river-floating; time to hang out with the kids. But, in a heartbeat, it disappears.

This year, a twister swept through.

My daughter traveled over the mountains to Bank's Lake; then back to Camano Island, across the Sound to Orcas Island--weeks and weeks of fun (!!!) without her parents . . .

Mike traveled to Kansas City (no fun there, but, that's his job--right?) and then to Montana.
The middle of July rolled around and Mike's planned trip to Africa with our son, Daniel, suddenly materialized: British Airways to London, on to Nairobi; a van ride out to Kijabe, Kenya--a place all four of us lived three summers ago. Daniel turned 17 in Kenya--celebrated with Mike and a friend--on safari with Wildebeests, Hippos and Giraffes.

I got to read two and a half weeks of male email and wished I was there.

I sound like I'm whining. But I'm not. Yes, I've been at home, ostensibly in Seattle, although in reality I've spent most of my time on the east side of the mountains. In the land of sunlight and sage. Could there be a better place to be? (Only if it meant a place that contained the rest of my family, all the time. Forever.)

This summer, I've taken refuge at Chimayo. It's a new place for us; a place still being populated with memories, family stories, and the infrequent nose-prints of kids turning toward adulthood. And so, this summer has been particularly special--

I have been allowed precious solitary time at Chimayo, the place of my longing.
Upon their return from the sea, Kristin and her friends have wielded inner tubes and conquered the cold mountain waters of both the Chewuch and Methow Rivers.
The dogs have braved the summer scourge of yellow jackets dive-bombing the porch.
Though the tomatoes are struggling (because our summer nights have been so cold) my herb garden is thriving.
And most exciting, on Saturday, we will calm the vertigo.

Eight of us will settle in at Chimayo--my family of four, plus my sister and brother in law and 'the cousins'--for eight days.

What a relief to stop the spinning. And, what a gift!

Photos:
kristin spinning, mt. baker, july,2007
view from chimayo, august, 2007

My Dog's Tongue

I own three tongues.

My own, and those that hang from the respective mouths of Zorro and Oliver—my two black, shaggy, one hundred-pound Bernese Mountain Dogs. (I can’t claim the three other tongues in my household—my husband’s, my son’s, my daughter’s—because, I’ve learned, despite my desire for control, their tongues don’t belong to me.)

The dogs’ tongues, though, are mine--evidenced by the amount of time they spend stuck to my foot, or lapping up food and water provided by me. When we brought them home, the children promised the dogs would be theirs—complete with daily walks and poop scooping--but alas, those ownership tasks fell by the wayside within days.

Bernese Mountain Dogs—thank God—are a ‘dry mouth breed.’ Meaning, I suppose, that they don’t drool above 5,000 feet elevation . . . in the winter time . . . in the Swiss Alps, where they were bred to pull dairy carts through the snow.

But in Seattle? At sea level? On a 98-degree day?

Yesterday, Zorro and Oliver were not happy campers. It was hot—hotter than predicted—which was, first of all, oppressive for us northwest heat weenies and second, a problem for Nordic-breed dog owners. In anticipation of an uncomfortable day, we (meaning the three tongues) traveled, first thing, to the off-leash beach on Lake Washington. It wasn’t crowded yet, as it was only 7:30 a.m., but everyone there seemed to have the same goal in mind: cool the beast.

Oliver is nine months old and this was his first foray into the water. Zorro, the older, more experienced dog, waded right in—then started bounding—churning the water so the myriad retrievers’ balls ducked and bobbed in his wake. Oliver stood, toe-high, five inches off the beach.

Bernese Mountain Dogs supposedly don’t like the water. And since we aren't really water people, it's never been an issue. Years past, when we took Zorro to the lake, or to the swimming hole on the Chewuch River, he was interested only in keeping himself comfortable. He doesn't swim, exactly; he levitates. He floats, with his hot belly submerged, until he drifts too far out to stand up. Then he thrashes around, in a land lubber-type panic until his feet touch ground. Until he knows he is safe.

Oliver, I learned today, samples the world with his tongue. The great pink snake lapped at water's edge--and lapped and lapped and lapped and lapped--until I thought he might have a seizure due to water intoxication. Finally, Oliver summoned the courage and followed his tongue into the lake. There, eventually, he emulated Zorro, floating just off shore.

When we got home, Oliver burped a few times, wandered aimlessly around the house. It was hot, and I didn’t think much of it. Then he barfed—a huge gush of water and lake weed—all over my Turkish carpet.

Good thing he has a tongue . . . he slurped it all up.

Well . . . maybe not all of it.

Photo:
my dog's tongue, Oliver, July 11, 2007: Seattle, WA

Sizzlin'

It’s really hot here today—92 degrees is way out of line for Seattle pretty much anytime, but the second week of July? We don’t even consider summer arrived until July 5^th, and even then it’s usually iffy for a couple of weeks. Global warming? A freak of nature? An act of God?

I don’t know, but an air conditioner would be nice. . .

There is no doubt, after spending more than half of my life in the Midwest and in Texas—where April temps can sometimes top 100 degrees—that I’ve become an official northwest heat weenie. I used to play tennis all summer long—outdoors—in Dallas, of all god-awful, hell-inclined climates (Dallas is surrounded on all sides, for hundreds of miles—think the Great Dustbowl—by desert and wasted prairie.) The surface of the tennis court sometimes got so hot it could literally melt the soles of my shoes. I had to keep my feet moving, or I might not make it home for supper.

But now? After nearly 20 years in Seattle? I can’t even run around Green Lake on a 75 degree day without whining. Five years ago, I remember a day in August the mercury reached 98. When I got up to go to work the next morning, the entire neighborhood was sleeping, nearly nude, on lawns and front porches.

On a day like today, people flock to the mall, or the library, or museums—anywhere they might find an air conditioner. The newspaper reported today that only 7.5% of Seattle homes have air conditioning, and duh! Why is that? Because the average daily temperature here is only 52 degrees!

Anyway, I digress. Instead of air conditioning, today I sought out the mountains. A little elevation would surely lend a cooling touch to the second hottest day of the year (tomorrow is supposed to be worse—96, and maybe higher.)

Hmmmm . . . Maybe I got a little relief, but I don’t know for sure. It was still hot enough to melt the chocolate bar I had stowed so intelligently against the bottle of ice water tucked deep in my pack.

But at any rate, I was out of the city. And that’s worth a lot. Clear skies, vistas of Monte Cristo and Glacier Peaks. An aquamarine lake, snow still clinging to the cliffs above; frigid water tumbling into a neon green meadow. Never mind the thermostat in my living room, which is north facing and shaded all day, read 88 degrees when I got home.

We have a fan, and the cooling breezes off Puget Sound. And really, we should be able to tolerate a couple of hot days (we could be in Las Vegas, where it hit 112 today.) We could—oops!

I gotta go. My computer is overheating . . .

Photos:
sun and smoke, july, 2006; Winthrop, WA
daniel, kristin, and mike in hart lake; High Divide Trail; Olympic National Park, WA

These are NOT Morels (ha, ha, ha!)

I've already written about morels in this blog, but--well--here we go again.

It’s been three weeks since I last returned from Chimayo, two gallons of fresh-picked morels in a basket on the floor of my car. It was the fourth time I’d foraged this spring, and the most successful outing yet.

At home, I promptly violated the second rule of mushroom hunting: I bragged to everyone I knew about how, yet again, I’d used my outdoor savvy to discover another stash. Feeling very generous and 'Christian,' I called a friend and offered her family a portion of my treasure. Of course, I also wanted her to see exactly how talented I am at finding those elusive and well-camouflaged gems, and (just an eentzy-weentzy bit) to rub her nose in my good fortune. After all, she'd never found any morels.

On the other hand, she’s a master chanterelle picker. Every autumn she and her husband disappear for days at a time, roaming around the wet, west side of the mountains, clothed head to toe in old, mismatched Goretex. She told me last year the two of them picked 40 pounds of chanterelles in one weekend. She was gloating, actually, and if she had ended that conversation with ‘neener neener neener,’ it wouldn’t have surprised me. Okay, so she did give me a small bag of those chanterelles—but after just having picked 40 pounds, you’d think she could have thrown in a few extra for good measure. And do you think she told me where she found them? Are you out of your mind? OMG, when I asked, she clammed up like I’d asked her to testify about the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. Pissed me off.

This past week, my parents spent a few days out at Chimayo. They wanted to try their hand at the morel thing and asked where they should go to find them. Feeling very generous and Christian, I described in great detail the exact bend in the road, the exact little stream bed, where I’d had my best luck. After all, weren’t there enough mushrooms in the world for everyone? And what was the problem with my friend, anyway? Far be it from me to be so selfish!

Then I hung up the phone and cursed myself—how could I be so stupid? It was clear I had just violated the first rule of mushrooming: never, ever, reveal the truth. Now my parents would rape and pillage my secret stash, probably blab all over town so that next year my little bend in the road would be clogged with a city-sized traffic jam of morel hunter-wannabees. Damn. I hoped every last mushroom in the entire Okanogan was already dead . . .

Turns out I had some luck. Last week the Forest Service was dropping hay bales from helicopters to mulch the slopes burned by the Tripod fire and had closed 'my' dirt road. My parents couldn’t get anywhere near the place I’d described—wee ha!! I'm going out to Chimayo in two days and the morel season lasts until the end of July, if it doesn’t get too hot and dry (pssst—don’t tell anyone my secret spot includes a year-round spring.)

And don’t expect me to be so generous and Christian next year.

Photo by v. sakata:
mushrooms, enchantment lakes; Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA

Emergence

POPPY

for my two teenagers

Crimson silk
Confined
Inside an egg of celadon.
June warmth; June rain:
Both work to split the shell.
In an afternoon, life changes.





Fragile petals --wrinkled; new--
Unfurl
And reach toward sunshine.
Transparent, first,
Then rich with color.
A promise, straight and tall.





On the ground the faded husk
Turns brown and curls;
Old pieces cast aside.
But there, below,
The husk remains
In case it's ever needed.

Photos:
icelandic poppy, unfolding, my neighbor's yard; Seattle, WA
icelandic poppies, my neighbor's yard; Seattle, WA
poppy, full bloom, my neighbor's yard; 6/07