In the intervening years, she traveled as much as possible. For family and solo trips she camped, stayed in cabins, lodged with family, and enjoyed an occasional overnight stay in an historic hotel or mountain lodge. For business it was Radissons, Hiltons, and designated convention resorts in far-flung locations; Atlanta, Dallas, D.C. Spokane, Tucson. But never did she stay overnight in the opulence of her childhood standard – The Ramada Inn.
In the sixties, while she was making her way through elementary school, construction on Interstate 70 was plowing west along the north side of the Grand Valley. Grand Junction road construction crews were bustling about forging a link to the 70mph commerce whizzing between Denver and Salt Lake City by cutting through farm and ranch land with an innovative diagonal road dubbed Horizon Drive. What she knew about Horizon drive was that it crossed the spot where she once ran to catch the school bus on a dirt road. She had heard old-timers scoff that there was little need, traffic-wise, for such a motor corridor – what a waste. She had heard her uncle respond that next time he flew in (piloting his private 4-seater plane) he would use the newly paved Horizon Drive as his landing strip and just taxi right up to the farm. Horizon bordered the north side of 35 acres once owned by her grandparents. A mile and a half further north was the Grand Junction Airport where during an extra snowy winter her grandfather had taken the Farm All tractor and blade to snowplow the landing strip.
As soon as the interchange was complete for Horizon Drive and I-70, a Holiday Inn and a Ramada Inn sprang up. Classy. Expensive. Two-story. The Ramada had a sweeping staircase ascending to the second floor. Both had restaurants. Fancy people stayed there. City folks with lots of money went out to dinner. She herself enjoyed a formal meal there as a Ninth (or was it Seventh) Grader whose bandmate team achieved the highest sales total for World’s Finest Chocolate. With that money they later toured to Colorado Springs and the Broadmoor and performed for Colorado Music Teachers Association.
Most of them are dead now – the ones that actually won the prize. They will never know that she stayed in the Ramada Inn these past two nights. Oh, it is not the Ramada anymore. It is some contemporary temporary lodging sort of villa known as its address; 718. Before that, it had been a Travel Lodge for a few decades. But the bones – moderately spacious rooms with a front door and a back door that opens into a landscaped courtyard – and the sweeping staircase – are still there.
It’s the Ramada all right. The red carpet is gone, but just look at that staircase!
She enjoyed a little vacation that still lingers in memory. Twenty-four hours in a beautiful place. She took an unprecedented afternoon off work, grabbed her most frequent travelling companion, drove five hours and pitched tents in a beautiful place. Great company. Grown children. Grandchildren. Cousins of grandchildren. In-laws and extended family out-laws. They hiked. They toasted marshmallows, they played campfire games. The young people – meaning those aged 35 to 50 – initiated a game called “There will be signs.” In this game, you imagine yourself a millionaire. You don’t tell anyone, but there are signs. Each time around the circle you share one of the signs. Her first one, of course, was getting the piano tuned four times a year. What luxury!
I tell you this story only to say her daughter – the wilderness ranger – is getting married. They are not going to tell anyone when or where. But there will be signs.
“You are in the house of Elrond. And it is ten o’clock in the morning, on October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”
“There is no food on earth,” she said, “to slake the hunger that is longing.”
You cannot eat enough to satiate yearning; that deep hunger and craving that has been with you all your life. How much better had my mother said when I was young and pining for I knew not what, “here, take this bottle of water and go for a long hike in a beautiful place.” How much more productive and fulfilling to chug a glass of agua and spend an hour or two composing music and thereby composing myself at the piano. I did not then know how to comfort myself. But we live and learn and experience and grow old – and hopefully wiser by the seventh decade.
She thought for a moment when she stepped into the pool that was labelled 106 degrees but felt like 110, that she would die right there in that beautiful place, boiled to death in a hot springs. But it was not so. She thought for a moment when she gathered up her courage and took the cold plunge (alone) thereafter that she might be swept downstream in the spring runoff that was a foot higher in the early morning than it had been the evening before. She knew she had the opportunity to foolishly die in a beautiful place when her right flip-flop was swept away in the current but she wisely let it go and lived another day albeit in only half her spa footwear – and her toenail polish is wearing thin. Three hikes in beautiful places; Brown’s Canyon, the edges of Mts Harvard and Columbia. A foot dip in the fast-flowing, white water, Arkansas. She is still batting 1000 on her bucket list. Making and taking a vacation in the mountains; working for daily bread in music. This way, if the end should suddenly come upon her, she knows she will die in a beautiful place. In her final breath, she will know success. For the ultimate item on said bucket list is to die in a beautiful place.
It was a snow day. For children set free from the classroom, a lovely idea. For many others, a snow-day means an avalanche of additional work. Rising before dawn to access road conditions. Administrative work of cancellations and re-schedules and no-shows. If one has a critical healthcare job and must go to work, wondering who will watch the kids. For contract workers and some hourly workers, the added stress of no pay that day. Snow days may be beautiful, but snow-days are extra work and less pay.
As often happens with a snow day, her extra work began the day before. Sunday. A day of rest with up to 12 inches of new snowfall expected. It was snowing when she rose. She shoveled off the first few inches, took a hike and returned and shoveled the next two inches. Bathed. Pursued the practice of music. Shoveled snow again in partnership with a neighbor. Made a last sweep of the sidewalks before darkness fell and then slept the usual sleep of an aged snorer.
Rising Monday morning, she realized the weather had not rested at all. Again she joined her neighbors to clear the sidewalks and automobile windshields. Physical exercise enough, but for mental health, she insisted on pursing a walk anyway. The sun was out. The snow glistening. “I am not going to let the urgent demands of snow removal and appointment cancellations rob me of the enjoyment and beauty of this day!” she said trudging forward.
Accordingly, she walked to the hardware store and purchased a snow saucer. Visited the grocery for the requisite essentials; milk, bread, olive oil, soup crackers, bacon. Transported her purchases home on the snow saucer across the packed snow; tow-rope in one hand and hiking pole in the other. Stowed the groceries and headed to the nature trail with the saucer, in complete and utter defiance to the knowledge that office work was calling; calling several hours earlier due to snow cancellations. But beauty was also calling. Fun was calling. For too many years she failed to heed the call of beauty or of fun. She is now an old lady. Fun cannot wait any longer. The office can wait its proper turn.
When is one old enough to break the rules? Those rules. The rules one sets for herself. The rules such as, complete all your work before play, clean your plate before desert, respond to the urgent needs of the moment before meeting your own needs.
It is a gray day, but nevertheless, she took a walk in an old familiar place. Not in the beauty of the town she loves to call home; but in gray dirt and shale, the scent of mud flats and sodden tumbleweeds; the endless racket of commerce without artistry, vitriol without understanding.
This is not her home, but this is the place she grew up, graduated high school, was raised and peered, and taught by people who didn’t really understand who she was meant to be – only who they thought she should be. She spent far too many years here-not only in growing up but in boomeranging anytime life or relationships treated her meanly. Some would say this is her hometown. It has been a refuge of sorts; but a very prickly refuge.
She visits. Because people she knows and loves live here. And because people she knows have died here. But today is not a day for her to die, because this is not the place she would choose to be when she dies. She wants to die in a beautiful place. And because she wants to be alive while she yet lives, she showered and ate breakfast and took a walk. She walked along roads now paved that used to be rural wandering paths. She knows these canal banks and bicycle jumps and crisscross roads. This is not paradise for her. But walking or hiking is always a good choice to iron out the kinks of one’s emotions and thinking. By and by the forward strides pumped the blood and oxygen to her heart and brain and she began to breath deep, to be thankful for the many miles she logged on these very roads and paths. Wow, so much water under the bridge for being a desert region. Here is the road she walked almost daily while recovering from marriage number one. But back then it was only a dirt path. There is the 90s brick condo she coveted for her own independent living space when she re-lived here one time while trying to get back on her feet. But there, across the road, that’s the brick house that became the home of the character Carolyn Flannery in the book “The Right Woman for the Job.”
Did she really write a book? Yes, she did. She said she was retreating here to write a book, and she did what she said she would do. And now, she doesn’t live here anymore. But she can be grateful, so grateful for the inspiration. And gratitude is the gateway to feeling good, and feeling good leads to effervescing glimmers of happiness. And glimmers, glimmers soon make it a beautiful place.
Keep the good. The good is as much a part of your past as the difficult. Keep the gratitude. And soon, anyplace can be a beautiful place.
Merry Christmas Morn! I slept in until 6:30 this morning because I didn’t have to be anywhere. When I did rise, I left the lights off and watched the dawn as it came on. How often does that happen? Not often enough for this lover of solitude. During the night, between deep and dreamful sleep, I experienced feelings of gratitude and thanksgiving. My life is good. Whether I am alone or with family, friends, or acquaintances; my life is good. Before tucking into bed last night, I spent a couple hours reading a new book, lately received as a Christmas gift. What a treat. A new book. Free time to read. Time for a walk or a hike. A larder stocked with traditional Christmas treats, made from generations old recipes – the culinary gift of a roommate exploring upcycling, recycling, vintage crafting and traditional homemaking and kitchen arts. Before she left to spend Christmas Day with her other next of kin, she asked, “Now how many of these are you going to limit yourself to in the next two days? Because, I will leave that many and take all the rest with me.” How can you go wrong with a plan like that? I am the grateful recipient of two divinities per day and two Christmas cookies per day. Merry Christmas! May you absolutely luxuriate in gratitude and love and peace and joy!
If you missed it before, my Christmas Card to you is here on Youtube. Glimmers of Gratitude
“I’ll just wait in the car,” he said. “I didn’t bring footwear for hiking.” He flew in from Seattle the day before Thanksgiving with the requisite winter coat on his back and a small backpack to stow under the seat of the plane. It was now two and a half days past Thanksgiving and four hours before departure time. “No problem,” we said, Christmas Tree permit in hand. “It will be fun.” “We know the area. We’ll find a good place to park and a perfect tree 101 feet away.”
But first: First the wilderness ranger went to church to be the drummer for the praise band. First I went to the French Bakery to play the piano for three hours and a half. Then he and I ate lunch and waited for the drummer to come home. Time to go. But first he pulled on wool socks over the cotton pair. First the wilderness ranger had to unload the camping gear from her four-wheel-drive truck. Then she ate lunch. And that is how it came to be we set out four hours before departure time to find the perfect Christmas tree.
But first: We needed to stop by the One Acre Wood to get the tree saw and hatchet. No problem. We were at the One Acre Wood only three days ago on Thanksgiving afternoon. Eight inches of new snow had fallen in the interim. With full confidence she drove her knobby tires over the snowy barricade caused by the neighborhood snowplow and began the descent to the camping shed and tool chest. I jumped out and loaded tools onboard. Jumped in, buckled my seatbelt and after slippery attempts at each of the ramps out of the circle drive, and critical assessment, we found we were – – stuck.
Gentle Reader, he did not – he did not wait in the car. Nor did I. Shovel by shovel, bucket of gravel by bucket of gravel, mud mat by transferred mud mat; we advanced car length by car length up the slippery incline until the angle of ascent became manageable. 90 minutes of intense workout for three persons each well-conditioned for their respective ages. Some will not need to go to the gym for a few days. All will need a hot tub. And, yes, thanks to forethought and planning, we made it to the airport on time – but we didn’t pass home. And we don’t have a Christmas tree.
Success! A week later. The wilderness ranger completed the mission alone.
It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
Stalking the Sleuth
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
Salt Water Park
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
