Matchmaker, matchmaker,
Make me a match,
Find me a find,
Catch me a catch
She wants someone from her generation; taller, dark-haired, maybe olive-skinned; someone who wears skinny jeans – as long as they are in fashion; someone who loves the out of doors and has all the right gear for camping and skiing and climbing and travel; someone resourceful who could be a survivalist if necessary; someone who loves music. And I? I am her mother. I want someone who will be good to her – love her – appreciate her brain and skills and qualities. All those other things? May they be so as well, but there are many, many things wrapped up in the phrase be good to her.
Today is an historic day. Today my parents will sell the house – a shelter they have clung to for the last 55 years; refusing all offers to sell, moving away, coming back, adding on, remodeling, clinging to this third acre of land carved from 35 acres north of town once owned by my maternal grandparents. I spent the summer of my 10th year at the construction site, pounding nails and breathing sawdust and learning about 2 X 4s and insulation and what makes for a quality structure. At that time, we were living in the “old” house next door – the house belonging to my grandparents. We moved into the new house just in time for me to catch the school bus to fifth grade.
Over the past 55 years, my parents and my brother and I have moved in and out – to Guam, to Seattle, to college, to marriage, to Germany, to Virginia, to Dallas, to Chicago – sometimes all of us, more often, one of us branching out and then returning temporarily. My brother has not stayed in the house since 1986. Much to my dismay, I have been more of a boomerang child, returning out of necessity due to military schedules, marriage lapses, and job layovers.
Close to midnight in 1973, my oldest son was born in this house. Today, August 29, 2019, that same son will close on this house. The house he was born in has become the house he remodels for his family of six. The house of Sunday dinners and family reunions and memorable water fights will be the place he shelters his family and launches from for further adventure. The property will stay in the family for yet another generation. My parents have moved – but only to the upper room. Thus they will be able to live on their beloved property until declining physical capacity dictates 24-hour skilled assistance.
Yes, today is an historic day. My son will close on his own newly remodeled house – the one with six bedrooms and four baths – and move on to an even bigger project – remodeling the house in which he was born. If anyone can do it, he can. After all, he made his original entrance into this world with only 45 minutes notice.
Lone woman paddles around Lone Rock, finds biceps. Yep. There they are. Not only can I see them, I can feel them. Just call me River Mouse…
As I stuffed items in my daypack, I tried to review everything Janice had taught me. Chubs for the sunglasses. Sandals for the feet. Tie ons for the hat. Tethers for just about everything essential. A little dry sack for the phone. The phone? Last time I left my phone at home. Back then my phone was a phone and I had a little camera. Back then was three years ago; wait! Has it been three years or seven years? Back then I made makeshift ties to keep my flip-flops on my feet. Back then Janice loaned me a dry sack for my lunch and essentials. Janice also loaned me a kayak. Yesterday, I rented.
These days I am more comfortable on the water and more comfortable in my own skin and more comfortable alone. Nevertheless, when you rent, you have to read and sign three pages of paper; paper that says you are responsible for anything that happens to you. Back then, Janice and I and the other women we kayaked with knew we were responsible for everything that happened – including the poison ivy – but that is Janice’s story.
One of the pages you sign says that you were given an opportunity to inspect the vessel before embarking. The young rental attendant walked ahead of me on the floating dock, turned left on an extension where three kayaks were moored, grabbed one by the rope, chose a different one, “This one,” she said. “Get in, I hand your things.” Fortunately, I had just taken time to snap on my PFD.
Stepping in to a low kayak from a dock feels much less secure than shoving off from a beach with all items organized and secured ahead of time. I plopped on the seat back and had barely achieved balance when she passed me my backpack and the oar. My experiences with Janice were on the Gunnison and Colorado Rivers. This is the first time I have ever stepped into a kayak bobbing in 20 feet of water. Let me tell you, I felt much more secure stepping into the shallows of the Colorado River, though if I were to believe my mother, “The Colorado River is treacherous with undertows, stay away from the river, people have drowned there!” Suffice it to say, I have not stayed away from the river. I paddled a portion of the Gunnison, which joins the Colorado in Grand Junction. I paddled a portion of the Colorado from Palisade toward Grand Junction. I drive down Highway 128 as often as possible. I have hiked to the confluence of the Green and the Colorado, I have been swimming in Bullfrog. I swim often at Wahweap; and last weekend I rented a kayak two days in a row and paddled around Wahweap Bay in Lake Powell.
Lake Powell, you will ask, what has that to do with the Colorado River? Everything. Every drop of water in Lake Powell is merely stored water of the Colorado River and its tributaries.
My brother doesn’t think the lake should exist, doesn’t think the dam should have been built. Be that as it may, that water, that Colorado and Utah and Wyoming snow melt, cannot help the fact that it is dammed up. I have followed the river and it is unlikely I will stop following it anytime soon. There are people I love that are dammed up – anal – and I still make the effort to visit them out of love and respect. And, dammed or not, I will still visit the river as often as possible.
The first time in a long time, I really felt like writing a Christmas letter. Looking back, there were so many landmark accomplishments in 2017, we don’t even need to talk about toils, trials and setbacks.
For location, location, location, you can’t beat sleeping in a beautiful place whether in the company vehicle or your own camp worthy conveyance. Here’s a sampling of my favorite, beautiful, sleeping in the car locations:
Ouray Colorado
Notom Road just outside Capitol Reef
Moki Dugway near Muley Point
Williams Arizona near the Grand Canyon Railway
Bluff Utah for a star party
Dixie National Forrest
The main difficulty with sleeping in the company vehicle lies in remembering to transfer all the necessary items from your own, perfectly outfitted Subaru, into the company car while still leaving room for the merchandise you are delivering or the event you are supporting. I spent the night in the company vehicle four times in 2017. I matched that number in my Outback. Though smaller, my Subaru has lots of little niceties- things like curtains, a sleeping mat, a fuller range of hiking gear.
You make discoveries when you sleep in a car – whether the company vehicle or your own. You acknowledge things like:
Burrrr it’s cold. All I really want for Christmas is a zero degree, down sleeping bag.
I spent the first two and a half months of 2017 at Natural Bridges National Monument where I am pleased to say I hiked all the trails. On March 15th I arrived in Page AZ. I waited through a long hot summer in Page for a chance to really get out and hike and explore the area. With temperatures often breaching 100 degrees, all hikes had to be completed before 8:00 am. While I waited – not so patiently – I swam in Lake Powell every night after work just to lower my core body temperature to a comfortable state.
September temperatures slacked off enough to start seeking beautiful trails. In October came reward in a big way for a tedious and difficult summer. With my daughter, Andrea, I hiked the South Kaibab Trail into Grand Canyon, stayed the night at Phantom Ranch and hiked out the next day via Bright Angel Trail.
In November I got the serendipitous chance to drive to Kanab and spend a few hours with son Philip. Also in November, I spent a weekend near Torrey with my brother and sister-in-law. There have been scattered trips to Grand Junction to visit family, friends, son Kevin and grandkids, though not enough to satisfy my parents.
I continue to write and make music-mostly for my own fulfillment. A few more experiences are in my inspirational arsenal and a few more guitar chords under my belt.
I wish you a Merry Christmas 2017!
In the coming New Year, I wish you the healing tonic of getting out in Nature. Nature is beautiful. Nature heals. Nature is God’s gift of love to those of us who are unable to find solace in the arms of a human lover. Whether you hike, bike or drive; camp, glamp, or pamper, I wish you Beauty – and the Great Outdoors.
Sipapu Bridge largest of the Natural BridgesLake Powell from the airAndrea heading down the steep and multitudinous switch backs of the South Kaibab.Me smiling at Bright Angel Bridge
I took a hike in honor of my little brother’s birthday. How could he possibly be 59 when I am still young and fit enough to exchange a 2-mile hike for 6 miles on a whim? Six miles is a feat I could not have pulled off when I was half his age, by the way. But age has its privileges and its victories!
“Where do you want me to hike in honor of your birthday?” I asked.
“You know the area better than I,” he responded. “You choose.”
Owachomo Bridge is the oldest and most fragile of the natural bridges. My brother is not the oldest nor the most fragile in our family, so that’s out. Also, Owachomo is a short hike, less than half a mile round trip. Not a fitting distance in honor of a brother – or my day off.
Sipapu Bridge is most fitting, I thought. It is the second oldest bridge after Owachomo and the second largest natural bridge in the United States. Of the three bridges here in the monument it is the most symmetrical and beautiful. Besides, Sipapu means “place of emergence” and my brother is obviously the more emerged member of our family. But Sipapu Trail is also steepest and lies in shadow. We have been advising visitors against Sipapu for the past week because of the cold and melting snow.
Kachina Bridge, the youngest of the three bridges at Natural Bridges National Monument, is so named because of the Kachina symbols found in the petroglyphs in the area surrounding the bridge. Petroglyph hunting seemed fitting for my brother’s birthday. Destination decided. Three quarters of a mile down. Wander around a bit taking pictures of petroglyphs. Three quarters of a mile back up. Easy Peasy, right?
My roommate expected me back in a couple hours. I was pleased with my total time of four hours. She will learn not to trust in my early return with an open day, a prepared daypack and (most importantly this time of year) strap-on YakTrax.
Trail Diary for a brother’s birthday hike: Made it down the slippery slope to Kachina in excellent time. Found the Petroglyphs and wanted more. Did a bit of exploring. Found more Petroglyphs. Wandered up the canyon toward Sipapu. Remembered that Horse Collar Ruin was somewhere up this canyon. Kept putting one foot in front of the other. Canyon often in sun and just as often in shadow. Passed Horse Collar Ruin where I had hoped to find sunny spot to eat a snack. Sunny spot occupied by other hikers. Found fabulous pictographs – an entire congregation of high-fives – just beyond Horse Collar Ruin. Rounded the bend and saw Sipapu up ahead. Ascended Sipapu Trail. Steep ascent, manmade staircase. Snowy and icy in spots. Crossed the road to Mesa Trails. Mud slippery and sloggy across the mesa. Ate apple and peanut butter while slipping and sliding. Successful and satisfying hike in honor of my brother’s birthday. Returned to residence to be greeted by Bear’s Ears Monument news. Well now, that rather upstaged my efforts. Happy Birthday, Brother!
In the late seventies I worked in the women’s sportswear department of a locally well-known and respected retail store. Our biggest sales day of the year was the Saturday preceding Mother’s Day. Everyone has a mother – 100% of the population – and most take time to remember and honor her at least once a year through gifts or our presence.
Christmas Eve runs a close second in record retail, but Christmas shopping is often fraught with chaos; noisy crowds, toys that screech, having to find something for everyone when not everyone has needs and some of the things on Santa’s list have not even been invented yet.
Part of the joy of shopping for Mother’s Day is there is only one person to shop for. Most mothers receive well and are not too picky. They are quite practiced at receiving dandelions, broken robin’s eggshells and refrigerator pictures. I have only one mother and it is a joy to try and find just the right thing to delight her. Gifts are part of my love language and I love to give. Turns out however, that delighting her is no easy task. She’s a little concerned about the cost of things and the value of my time and she does have her style standards. Nevertheless, I ploughed through two shopping trips this year.
The offerings were especially good with regard to color and fabric and cut. I found several things that suited her needs to a T. I even went back for more. As she revolved in a new skirt and blouse, dad and I complimented her. “It’s very nice,” she said, “I got a gift in the mail from your brother today too. But we are going to have to put a stop to this gift giving.” “Why?” I asked. “Why would we stop now just when we are old enough to afford to give?”
Happy Mother’s Day to you and yours! May we never stop giving and receiving. May we always have the joy of finding just the right thing for a special person.
She wanted to die doing something she loved. And she loved hiking in beautiful places. Each time she hiked, she made her peace with the God of the Universe. On that particular day, she thought about dying. This is a beautiful place, she thought. I am comfortable here alone, in my solitude. I would be okay with dying here, although I am feeling quite healthy. But, if I should die, would my grown kids know what to do? Would they shed needless tears or spend useless money? Would they cry over the fact that I died alone, out in the wild? Tears of grief should only be shed because they miss me and loved me. There is nothing wrong with dying (or living) in solitude. Would they feel compelled, out of grief, loss or guilt to spend money on useless things like caskets and plots and headstones? Ah, there it was, the challenge of dying without money. It is expensive to die in a hospital. It is expensive to die on the trail. It is expensive to die in your sleep. It is expensive to legally dispose of a body no matter how and where that body breathes its last. Therein she was not ready to die. She had little money to leave to her descendants and less still that she was willing to have them spend on the dead! Money should be spent on life! What she did have in abundance to leave with them was music and a love of music. She had birthed, raised-up, trained and then released; not one, not two, but three passionate musicians to the world. Different genres, different eras, different goals, yet all three saturated with acute audio receptors, secure pitch, word-smithed lyrics and throbbing rhythms. Music told the story of her life and her contribution to the lives of others. And this is what she wanted to communicate to her offspring:
Cremate me. Scatter my ashes in a beautiful place. And if you choose to spend money, let it be on musicians. Throw the concert of the century. Tune the piano! If there are any black limos, use them to ferry musicians. Pack them full of instruments and bands. Let the music be well-prepared and well-performed. Skip the church and choose the concert hall or the amphitheater. A church building does not add one bit of holiness. For that matter, skip the speakers and preachers. Do not. Do not go down the moralistic route of speakers who try to shame, blame, coerce or manipulate the audience into a change of heart or lifestyle. The only kind of speakers I want to celebrate my life are those necessary for amplification of sound. Let the virtuoso string players play their adagios. Let the pop vocalists belt. Let the guitarists and drummers rock. Let the gospel choir sway and stack up the harmonies. Let the pipe organ thunder Bach. Let it be music well-prepared and well-performed. Fill the time with musical memories. Let the music comfort and speak. A good piece of music needs no explanation. Cut the preaching. Nix the manipulation. Play the music. Tell the story with music. Love and support the musicians. Take a trip down musical memory lane in my honor. Take a hike in a beautiful place. And I shall be at peace.
She lives in an abandoned house and spends her days away, searching for jobs, and her nights shivering under extra comforters because there is no warmth in an abandoned house. Another person sleeps there too, and is employed. But still, whether the occupants are at home or at work the house is abandoned, for you see, something that would make that house a home is missing. No one fills the role of keeper of the house. There are two who huddle there. It would seem they could come up with an understanding of how to make that house a safe haven or even a comfortable temporary harbor. But plans are most successful when everyone concerned is on board. A team of one becomes exhausted without reciprocity from the other.
Meanwhile, in the same state, two other unrelated and unattached people occupy a large house. They both work and they both travel frequently. The house is often empty of people – but never abandoned. Both people are housekeepers. Broken things get fixed. Needs of the house are addressed as a means of meeting the needs of people. Both principal occupants are agreed that a stitch in time saves nine and that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Both the principal occupants understand the value of beauty and cleanliness in making a house a place of refuge, renewal and restoration for all who lodge there. The house is a place of welcome for all who pass through, whether for tea, dinner, or a temporary bed.
All four of the persons living in the two households share a philosophy in common: people are more important than things. All four verbally champion: “Use things, love people.” (The polar opposite, of course, is to use people and love things.) Yet, in an attempt to emphasize loving, some ignore or neglect material things. Notice how the two in the second household operate: Needs of the house are addressed as a means of meeting the needs of people. How much more effective and efficient it is to use things to love people!
She was just 18-and-a-half and not a drop of alcohol had ever touched her lips. This was partly because of temperance promises made as a youngster and partly because she lived at home until she turned 18. During those first 18 years of life, her parents kept pretty strict tabs on her activities. Not legal. Not allowed. Not according to their standard? Not allowed. This was her first Christmas away from home. She was now a full-fledged adult, married five months previous.
Along with her teenaged husband, she was living in Germany, land of cautionary beer. Her husband was on the fast track for sampling everything adulthood had to offer. The young woman was doing her best to cling to the strict religious rules with which she was raised. There were times they clashed. Christmas Eve was a narrow escape.
The young couple was invited downstairs, from a tiny attic apartment to the living quarters of the landlord, to share in the festivities. Sparklers on a Christmas Tree. A full spread of breads and cold cuts served at the family table. An exchange of gifts around the tree. And then, a cut glass decanter passed round with tiny crystal cordial glasses.
A quiet soul and not given to making scenes, the young woman endeavored to pass. But the 19-year-old son of the host noticed. “Why do you not drink?” he asked with some suspicion, re-offering the decanter. The new husband, who could make a scene when the principle warranted it, knit his brows and glared at his teenage bride. The meaning was clear, “You are embarrassing me!” Meekly, she took the cup. Not out of blind submission or intimidation, but in respect to her hosts. In her quietness, she had been reading earlier that day. And what she read, loud and clear was: “ [When you are invited to a feast] eat or drink whatever is put before you without raising questions of conscience.” Obedience to a higher ideal.
An hour later she became violently ill. But it was not due to a fastidious reaction of conscience. Nor was it caused entirely by the abundance and variety of bread and salami urged on the couple by hospitable Germans. The illness continued four months. In late July, she brought forth her firstborn son. And they named him something rather Irish sounding that meant handsome by birth. To the young woman, he was the most handsome baby she had ever seen. But he was only the teeniest tiniest bit Irish and not a bit German.
I would like to say she never gave a second thought to rules about what she ate and drank ever again, but that is not the truth. The truth is, she still had a lot of growing and learning to do and she had only just begun to think for herself.
I had been writing for several years and was already published as a High Timber Times correspondent when I started blogging in 2006. My daughter-in-law had a photo blog, which she updated regularly with photos of my infant grandsons; and she was honing her writing skills by blogging with other young mothers. Shortly, I became addicted to the daily routine of checking out the internet and composing comments.
By 2008 conventional author wisdom said writers needed a platform on Facebook. Dutifully, I built a profile. The first friends I chose were my technology wise children. With the oldest in media business, the second in college and the third in high school, I lurked, I stalked and basically kept up with their busy lives by watching for daily photos and conversations.
I visited college. I met my daughter’s dorm mates and support network. I friended some. Others made insightful comments. I followed them. I met my younger son’s girlfriends. I shared prom pictures. Some of the girls remain my Facebook friends today.
So really, is it any wonder I proceeded to “research” my daughter’s new network when she began working high in the mountains at an adventure camp this summer?
Of course I began with Facebook. For starters, I had to find the last names of the young men by cross-referencing mutual friends. Then I plugged a name into Google.
Up came a series of images. The usual suspects. An accountant. A couple of college professors. A farm-team athlete. Gasp! But, who was this movie star? Hot. With a photo like that you’d have to be a household name like Zac Efron. Maybe James Marsden. Well-known heartthrob! Yet, the features are unmistakably those of said co-worker. But the hair! The clothes! Expensive. The obvious mark of a professional. Publicist. Stylist. Savvy photographer. “Andrea,” I croaked aloud, “do you have any idea who you are working with?” Alert! Movie star undercover at AIE Base Camp!
Leather jacket. White, white for the T-shirt. Confident and engaging pose. Reminiscent of, of…. Wait – let me think while I fan myself. That’s it! Senior pictures. Reminiscent of the senior pictures of my youngest son. Photo shoot compliments of my oldest son.
Who is this undercover movie star who works with my daughter in the wilds of Colorado? Relax mom, these are only senior pictures of a hot teenager with intuitive style. And the artistic work of a savvy professional photographer!
Philip Shellabarger 2009, Photo credit Kevin Decker, Paradice Studios
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
