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.”
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.”
It is more truth than myth, the idea that struggling musicians, actors, and opera aspirants work in a deli while waiting for a big break. It is vintage legend and it is just as true today in any music city as it was 100 years ago. New York, New Orleans, L.A. Durango. Yes, Durango. I heard the tourists talking as I sat at the piano at Jean-Pierre French Bakery during the recent Blue-Grass Meltdown. They were talking about the prolific amount of musical talent in such a small town – especially the pianists. Very true. The Strater Hotel anchors the other end of the same block as Jean-Pierre and boasts two restaurants and one saloon. The Diamond Belle Saloon is historic and famous and houses a grand old upright piano. During the season – May through October – there is a continuous line-up of ragtime pianists playing every night of the week. The most famous is Adam Swanson – four-time World Champion Old-Time piano player. Another piano man appearing regularly at the Diamond Belle is Daryl Kuntz. He and his brother have been in the movies. Daryl also plays piano one morning a week at Jean-Pierre. I cover Saturday and Sunday mornings.
For my side-hustle, I administer the private lessons schedule at Stillwater Music.
So I get to meet them, 25 or 30 of these aspiring and practicing professional musicians, as they carry out another traditional side-hustle of musicians – private lesson teacher.
She is a musical theater major, an opera singer headed to graduate school, and she gives voice lessons three days a week to students of all ages, five-year-old Disney princesses to 65-year-old choral singers. She also cleans houses to supplement her living – and walks dogs – and works evenings in a liquor store.
He is a coffee barista who manages one of the many, many hip coffee shops in Durango. He also is an accomplished fingerstyle guitarist who plays, bass, mandolin, and uke. Other musicians refer to him with the nickname Prophet of Jazz. He has not always been in Durango, but he always comes back.
He is a much revered, most veteran of piano teachers; so laid back he could be a bass player. He has toured with his guitar, finished his piano degree as a young adult and married man, and sometimes takes time off to attend his son’s soccer games. His son also plays cello. His daughter; piano. He used to take time off to tour with Chevel Shepherd on keys and guitar. I am not sure whether being a sought after gigging musician and recording studio staple is his side hustle or weather teaching 32 students a week is his side hustle. But either way, he is making a full-time living in music.
She will ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic tomorrow – all the way to Silverton – on a bicycle – racing the train. She only graduated college a year or so ago – with a double major. She has 30 piano students and is dedicated to giving them her best. As a side hustle she accompanies for the local middle school and works mornings at the golf-course. She will leave for graduate school in the fall, but she will keep as many of her students as possible online, because even in graduate school, you’ve got to have a side-hustle.
Eight musicians, count them. All well over the age of 21. Four in their sixties. Four GenXers. All lifetime musicians. All proficient and experienced and talented enough to have made a career of music, yet their daytime jobs are thus: The drummer is an emergency room doctor; the horn section consists of a nurse, a counselor, and a dentist. The guitarist is an engineer. At the keys, a non-profit administrator with experience as a music teacher. Singing vocals and playing every auxiliary instrument one can think of is a classically trained musician turned marketing and design agent. The instructor possesses a music doctorate and spends his days wallowing in music education and arranging music for students of all ages.
They participated recently in an adult band showcase – four adult bands sampled from the twelve possible adult bands of differing skill levels at a music school boasting 800 students. Comments overheard at the showcase included such nuggets as, “hard to tell there for a minute if that wasn’t Kansas on Carry On My Wayward Son.” “These bands are ready to be gigging fulltime.” “I had no idea….”
Seriously! Who would have thought? Adults. With careers. Working professional jobs every weekday and rehearsing weeknights. Grownups who never gave up on their music. Students in a music school of 800 students. In an – anything but sleepy – little town of about 20,000.
And she – one of the multitude of graying baby-boomers – she is so fortunate to live in a music town; a town musical and savvy and bohemian enough to support a music school; a school that reveres rock and jazz and classical excellence. A school that has rehearsal studio space and instructors and arrangers and gear and instruments and show contacts and a gig trailer and a roster of better musicians to play with.
Would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for? Some of us would, I am sure. Some are always giving it their best shot, always repeating, “it’s now or never.” But timid, conscientious rule bound folks like me, would we ever have adventures if we always had something to live for?
She was packing up her minimal overnight cargo bag in the basement of her oldest son’s sleekly remodeled home. One of the last items she folded into the bag was a silk robe – straight from China and straight from China Town. She has considered it part of her wardrobe now for 13 years – used only for light travel – and therefore hung in the back of the closet, unused for much of the intervening time.
2009. That was the year she took off and traveled solo, caught the train to San Francisco, booked a cheap hotel sight unseen, rode the connecting bus from the train station across the Golden Gate Bridge and to her lodging and spent three days exploring the heart of San Francisco, the crooked street, the wharf, the pier. That was the year the sea lion rose out of the water for her and her alone – no one else was on the misty pier – and blew her a kiss. That was the year she forgot to pack a robe. She needed one. Not for her solo motel room. Not for the train. But her next stop was Washington and Seattle where she would be staying with cousins. A robe would be necessary. She purchased a silk robe. She traveled forward, visited cousins and an aunt.
She returned to Colorado glad to have had the experience. Glad to have taken the risk. She went on to take many more risks because she had nothing left to lose. Her kids were grown, gone from home. Her 20-year marriage was over. She had, quite literally not a thing for which she had to be overly responsible. For eleven years she lived alone. She lived and hiked and adventured and worked in beautiful places. Seattle. Utah. Arizona. Once again, Colorado.
These days she hikes and kayaks and plays music and writes and has a great roommate and new friends. Old friends come to visit and hike and explore. Life is good. But as she packs the silk robe from China Town, she asks herself, am I still ready and willing, eager, game for new adventures? Solitary adventures? A little bit of risk? Or has life become so sweet; do I have so much to live for that I can no longer step out of my box and risk a little?
I love my life. I love my Victorian apartment. I love living within two blocks of hiking trails.
One of my most frequently re-watched romcoms is Sabrina.– the one starring Harrison Ford – but it is not Harrison Ford that attracts me to this particular movie. A favorite scene is Sabrina talking to her father – a grown man – a man the age I am now, older and wiser. He is, by occupation, a chauffeur for a wealthy and successful family. He lives in the studio apartment over the garage. I can identify with that. I have lived in studio apartments. I have lived in a studio apartment over a garage. I have a daughter of marriageable age – as does he. I find the idea of a studio apartment over the garage romantic enough that I wrote one into a novel – The Cemetery Wives. Anyway, in an apartment over the garage, well-appointed but cluttered with books, the mature man and his daughter are conversing. His daughter is a grown woman just returned from a year abroad.
She reminisces that one of the things she loves about her dad is that he decided to become a chauffeur so he would have time to read. He has loved his life all those years; made a living, become financially secure, while just waiting in the car for the Larabees. Waiting and reading – doing what he most loved – all the while improving his mind and his bank account
The weather was perfect as I walked home from Jean-Pierre – the French, French Bakery at noon. The slit in the side of my little black tank dress let in a cooling breeze, my silver-trimmed sandals were perfect for the weather and for walking. I was coming home from an activity I most love; sitting at a grand piano and playing for 3 or 4 hours, evoking musical memories for all the guests dining on crepes and French pastries, and in the process making my daily bread. “I love my life,” I said to myself, “What a wonderful world! I love living in the mountains. I love being in Colorado. I love the great out of doors. I love life in Durango. I love that I get to make music every blessed day!” I am reminded of something I heard Paul Harvey say many years ago, “Find something you love to do and do it so well you make a living at it.”
He stood, stooped and bent, and leaning on a walking stick. A whimsical smile played around the corners of his mouth and a plaid fedora sat jauntily on his head. He chuckled, watching his grandson load six paddleboards atop the roof of a Ford Expedition. He shuffled a few feet toward them as daughter and grandson hefted a kayak to the top of her Rav4. “What a lot of work,” he commented, “for a little bit of fun.”
Had it been fun? Yes! 90 minutes on a sundrenched lake in the waning days of summer. Bliss. Beauty. Invigoration. Was it work? Undeniably, yes. She had driven two and a half hours from Durango and past Telluride just to spend a couple hours with her grown son, her aging father, her four grandkids, her daughter-in-law and the DIL’s parents – a standard, but all too infrequent meet-up in the gorgeous mountains of Colorado. Was it worth it? Isn’t fun always worth it? A day spent on the water is soul nourishing. Yet a spontaneous meet-up is very rare amidst responsibilities and work commitments.
Fun seems so expensive in the day-to-day rush. Fun costs time. Fun costs effort.
If we are not careful, somewhere around the age of 25 we lose our grip on fun. We are too exhausted to go the extra mile for recreation, and we feel duty bound to do the unfun tasks first. Unless of course we have doctor’s orders to run every morning – or hike – or go for a swim – or sit in the sun! Then we can take our recreation like a pill, mark it off the list like a chore and not feel guilty about recreating.,
She remembers fun when she was young and tagging along with her parents. They were youth sponsors in the local church. Having barely grown into adulthood themselves, they remembered how to plan fun activities. Youth get togethers, being church sanctioned, were obviously for the glory of God so copious amounts of time were spent lavishly decorating spook houses, bobbing for apples or taking a moonlit hayride. Likewise, church picnics could rightly be considered obligations. No amount of effort was too great to shlep the ice chest of cold fried chicken and potato salad to the group picnic site or to set up the volleyball net or horseshoe pit. But her understanding, her unspoken training, her unconsciously formed opinion was that personal recreation is selfish, self-centered, and therefore ungodly.
Here’s a newsflash: some people garden for fun. It is true! Also true that some garden to survive and it becomes acknowledged, hard work. But garden hobbyists, they work long hours, bending, stooping, hauling and they exude enjoyment.
Some people fish. For fun! Not for food. They rise before dawn and move silently to the river. They stroke and cast and stroke and cast and sometimes they catch. And then they release. For fun. Just for fun. They are home in time for breakfast – before the sun blazes over the one remaining mountain.
Her perspective throughout early adulthood was that fun was expensive; a luxury, forbidden fruit, pleasure to be quaffed only when every other self-sacrifice had been performed to generate income. Now she knows that fun itself may take a copious amount of effort. She must be content to embrace that work, those duties, and then luxuriate in the fun – reap the benefits of rejuvenation!
She rarely drags her heels in dread at birthdays. What can you do to stop them? Nothing. The years will march on. So why not party? Eat the cake, blow out the candles and not rue the passing of the earth one more rotation around the sun. But this year? She doesn’t want to turn another year older. She knows these truly are the best years of her life. Sixty-seven has been the best year ever and therefore she wants to stay 67 forever. Finally, she has tasted it all. She has enjoyed the accomplishments she longed for, basked in snippets of affirmation, engaged in friendship, made the decision to enter in to self-confidence, greeted most days with gratitude.
Does she now have it all? Is the bucket list complete? Is it time to fold herself up and return to her maker? She doesn’t think so.
She wants to stay 67 forever because she has finally tasted what life can and should be and she wants more of it. She wants to know the rest of the story. She wants to continue the momentum. She wants to keep saying to younger people, “It gets better! Hang in there! The 60s are a great decade! You have so much to look forward to!”
Still, she would like to linger in this year just a little bit longer, enjoy a second helping of this year’s goodness, perhaps order dessert, savor another cup of tea, a few more hugs and the promise of kisses, another sigh of satisfaction at a job finally, finally well done.
She is 67 and she is abundantly aware that the best years of her life, the most enjoyable, the most productive, are now. She has all she ever wanted. She is livin’ the life. She makes music. She is immersed in music. She plays music for money. She has traveled and lived in many beautiful places – beyond what she originally imagined. She has walked and hiked in sunshine, blessed with the wind to her back and a breeze on her face, and crafted essays that describe her feelings, and lived to see a book or two in print. She has floated more than one river and seen the ocean. She has passed through fields of flowers in bloom at the peak of the Continental Divide. She has experienced the solitude of alone and independent in the wild.
She has birthed children and watched them grow and loved them and been loved in return.
She is 67. She knows what she wants. All she ever wanted is right now. Yet she does not sit on the couch waiting for the bell to toll. No. She wants more. More travel. More music. More beautiful places. More love. More JOY. For the remaining years of her life. Because the two final things on her bucket list are:
Sail into port grandly
Die in a beautiful place
She wants the last thing to leave her body to be music – along with her soul. Or is music her soul? Or is her soul music? She is not quite sure. But she knows they are inextricably twined. And she wants more. Why? Not because she is greedy. But because the cup of life at its fullest evaporates. One must constantly replenish.
To be clear, she feels a little more like The Cranberries and much better treated than Oliver.
What a wonderful morning. The air, though wintery, was alive with portent. Her sleep the night before had been complete, restful, scattered with positive dreams rather than riddled with anxiety. The morning cup of tea was just the right temperature juxtaposed with the frosty air from the open front door. The morning was like a bordered jigsaw puzzle waiting for a choice piece, the piece that had been held to the light, examined from all sides, compared with each preceding piece and each potential piece until, yes! Even from 18 inches away one could tell it was a perfect match. The piece, that one choice piece, was falling into place. Home. She was singing a new song. She had purchased a feeling, a feeling of home and happiness and success for yet another two months. She was alive. She was grateful. She savored this moment, enjoyed it fully, all the while knowing that once you finish a puzzle and breathe that sigh of satisfaction, soon enough there will be another challenge waiting in the wings.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
