I am single. She is single. We’ve both been around the block a few times. A couple of those trips ended at the alter and ultimately in divorce for both of us. Through it all, we have remained friends. We are occasional traveling or hiking buddies.
Ouray is always a good idea and it could not have been a finer morning on the Perimeter Trail. We found access easily enough. All streets lead to trails and I had camped, content and solo, there a few weeks before. Layers off in the sun. Layers on in the shade. It was an active day as we made our accent, then cut across a meadow dotted with wild flowers. Carefully, we chose our footing while descending slick dark rocks with deep claw marks of a glacier. Deep gorges and a footbridge across a waterfall took our breath away and left us weak-kneed to tunnel through caverns and surmount a mega-sized flume with the aid of a stile. Trekking between the flume and a magnificent rock wall, I was suddenly overcome by the majesty of it all. I cast myself on the rock, embracing it with all the expansive wingspan I could muster. My heartbeat pressed into the comfort of sun warmed Precambrian.
“Oh God,” she cried out spontaneously, “Give me a man like this rock!” But what I was thinking was more along the lines of Jane Austen’s perspective when she writes Elizabeth Bennet to say, “Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks, and mountains?”
I hug trees. I pat rocks. I embrace nature. Nature embraces me. I am comforted.
Perception and Decisions We made decisions. We would go early. Three digit temperatures were expected later in the day. We would explore new terrain. We would not take our hiking poles. It would be added weight. We planned on two hours out and two back – a nice half-day hike. It was beautiful. The conversation was good. After a few miles and hours on the unmaintained, but easy to find trail, we realized we had been heading steeply up, on loose rock for some yards. Not for the first time, our goal seemed just around the next switchback. Time to consider the logistics and practicalities of our return. Up is often easier than down, particularly without hiking poles. We were well out of the shaded canyon by now and sweat gathered at the hairline. Time to go back, she said. Stay right here, said I. I will go just around the next bend and see if it opens up. More circuitous trail. We turned and slipped and grappled our way down the hillside, always cautious of loose rock and cactus. The agreed stopping point was a most beautiful section of riparian canyon where we paused for repast. Lunchtime! We found the shade and comfortable, flat rocks for each of us. I withdrew my lightening pad to use as seat. Hunger pangs had been gnawing for some time now. We unwrapped apples, peanut butter, Kind bars. She checked her watch. It was 9:00 a.m.
It was 6:45 am and she was still sleeping in the neighboring room – with the door open for circulation. Should I wake her? Or should I steal out the door and commence hiking alone? She has been meeting fellow hikers fairly frequently at 7:00 am, I reasoned. So I texted, “Want to hike before it gets too hot?” We were at the trailhead by 7:30 – Gold Star to Wildwood – not a maintained trail but we were at least familiar with both ends. We dropped a car at Wildwood and set out for adventure. We got beauty. Red rock outcroppings and rock formations galore – all the features you never notice from the busy valley below. We followed the path, we followed washes, we followed wildlife trails. We got back on the beaten path and made our way along “the bench.” We confirmed that desert bighorn live here – all over the place. “You are a good trail finder,” she said. I nodded. Actually, I usually can sense where people need to go. I am also pretty good at getting them there. “People have not always acknowledged that in the rest of my life,” I said. She affirmed it was worth the steady ascent at the beginning of the trail. We found a random boulder. “I want to be on top that rock!” she said. And she did. We were not travelling an officially maintained trail and somehow we lost the usually travelled path. “I bet it is above us,” I said. “I bet it is below,” she replied. We cut straight overland through cacti, brush, chinle and talus. Then, the inevitable happened, she lost patience. “You are now fired as trail finder,” she jeered. “Where have I heard that before?” I thought sarcastically. Yet, 30 feet later, we stepped out on an unmistakably well-used trail. Some yards further on, we joined our destination trail, familiar and official. Another mile of rugged downhill hiking and we were at the car, fist punching the air, “We did it! We did it!” Hooray for us! Four hours of Wednesday morning well spent, followed by salad at an establishment that glorifies local produce.
She threw down the gauntlet in such a casual way via Facebook private message. “Why don’t you,” she said, “Write an essay like this about our hike today?” Very well. I love to hike. I love to write. The only problem is, the example she attached is that of a well-known uncategorical naturalist, wilderness lover and advocate. So what am I supposed to say? “Move over Edward Abbey, I am here to write poetically about today’s hike with another great old broad – a regular rock toucher – a tree hugger – a lover of dirt in the great outdoors and fastidious, clean, professional detail indoors”
Contemporary that I am, I am no Meloy, Childs or Tempest. In fiction, I write about the philosophical struggles of relationships; girl meets boy, nefarious religion tamed, childhood injustices overcome. Truth is, the best way to ferret out these bits of philosophical thought and what I really think is to take a hike. Sometimes a stroll by running water, other times rigorous switchbacks on high desert boulders, and still less frequently, a hike with a friend.
“I believe that there are semblances between seemingly disparate ideas if we can stand back and see a larger picture.” Terry Tempest Williams
Very well then, I whole-heartedly agree. I take up the challenge – daily.
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
Oops I did it again. I followed one of those links. You know the ones that begin, “You’ll never believe….” I hate them. They lack credibility. They don’t make me LOL or cry like they promise. But then, I am a bit more analytical and skeptical – less easily entertained than the average bear.
In this case, I considered the source and took the bait. Shared between a good, mainline Christian couple, with many years of marriage to their credit; I thought it would be a comedy. What followed was a video reenactment of a young man getting revenge through publicly humiliating an unfaithful bride. Right on the wedding day. Interrupting the ceremony. Though it made some people laugh, to me it seemed more like a Shakespearean tragedy. It made me squirm. Was the groom hurt? Yes. Irreparably. A cuckold through the actions of his best man. Did complete and pre-meditated revenge make him feel better?
Does revenge make any of us feel better? Does it solve or salve our hurt to humiliate someone else? With all my heart and brain, I believe there are consequences when we are untrustworthy. Justice demands consequences. Punishment may be necessary. But does justice demand public humiliation? Overkill? Unnecessary roughness? Is gouging and turning of the dagger somehow more healing than precise extrication with a surgical knife? Mercy and righteousness say, “no.” Truth must be spoken. Yes. Relationships may need to be severed. Yes. But revenge has never been the domain of the righteous.
Judeo-Christian ethic teaches that vengeance belongs to God and God alone. Forget your WWJD? zeal and the resulting 70 X 7. Look a few years B.C. and ask yourself, “What would Joseph do?”
Joseph, you may remember, was engaged to Mary. Mary was pregnant and Joseph knew he had not slept with her. “Because Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.”
A pox on your “Joseph had an angel,” excuses. I refute them. Joseph had already decided to keep the law. He had determined to keep it quietly, rather than vocally bludgeoning Mary and all her kin over the head with it. Consequences would be leveled, but without the catalyst of revenge.
Whatever happened to civility and good manners? Why does hurt trump love? When did humility become humiliate? What happened to doing good to your enemies? Or the golden rule? And when did revenge become the triumphal war banner of the righteous?
But I am! I am at this address. I am residing at the address to which this important piece of mail was directed. Not once, but two times the woman at the desk asked me to verify my home of record and the address to which I wanted the renewed license delivered. I was provided with a temporary – good for 30 days.
When I was young, we had a traditional mailbox. It was metal, weathered pewter color with the family name and address painted on both sides in the artistic script of my sign-painting uncles. Mounted on a post of rough, but precisely measured timber, it served as receptacle for penny postcards and 4-cent first-class missives delivered by a rural route mail carrier. Airmail was even more expensive. Christmas packages meant the postal carrier took a little detour up our gravel drive and knocked on the kitchen door. We got to know our mailman by name. As times changed with inevitable postal increases, we placed a canning jar lid in the mailbox – upside down. This lid was for additional postage due. For pennies and nickels on those occasions a friend or relative shipped us a package that was a bit too fat or weighty for the stamps attached. Our mailman delivered anyway and we just put the change out next day.
When I became an adult, things were a bit more complex. Neighborhoods had grown and folks seemed to move more often. It was possible to receive a piece of mail for someone who previously lived in your house. If you recognized the name, you simply wrote, “moved” or “please forward” on the envelope and put it back out. The mail carrier would take care of forwarding it. Postal persons have vacations and days off just like normal people and substitute carriers can get a bit confused. On the rare occasions a letter addressed to someone else got stuck to your bundle, you simply walked across the street and placed it in the right mailbox or mail drop or courteously knocked on their door and got to know your neighbor better.
Nowadays the free-standing individual mailbox is rare. Gone too the mail drop in urban doors. Security, you know. On our street we have a stack of numbered boxes on a pole, each of the boxes with an individual key. One of the boxes has a slot for outgoing mail, but none have a slot for in-coming. Those times we get mail in our box for some other street address we simply put it back in the outgoing slot to be redelivered. But that is not what happened with my driver’s license.
I watched the mailbox diligently for 30 days. Mail came and went. We received personal letters. We received bills. We received junk mail. We received business mail for each of my roommate’s three grown children. We accepted letters for two other individuals who used to room here. I attempted to call the driver’s license bureau for Colorado and found I had to go back down to the agency and wait in line to address my issue. I took a number. I communicated the problem. The helpful young man verified again that the address on my temporary license (which was now expired) was correct. He conferenced with a supervisor. They went back to the database. Bingo! This flag just in. My license was returned to the post office as undeliverable. “It will take about a week for it to get back here,” said the supervisor. “Try back next Tuesday.”
Tuesday came. I waited in line. I waited through a concentrated team search. Nothing. “Try back after 3:30. That’s when the mail comes.” I returned 20 minutes before closing time, 42 days after renewal, and there was my license. Correctly addressed to the place I reside. Neatly printed across the front by an unknown neighbor, “Not at this Address.” No. I am not at their address. The mail was obviously miss-delivered. Would it not have been better to simply put the envelope back in the out-going slot? I am, in fact, at the address on the envelope.
Birthdays are the best of times when your primary gifters are bibliophiles and the package arrives on your birthday. My parents will gift me – usually money – since I am known to be picky; but my Brother and Sister-in-law, consummate gift givers, inevitably send a book – as does my cousin.
We are readers, thinkers, cerebral. We trade ideas. Theirs are stronger. I usually lose. Except when it is my birthday or Christmas and then I reel in the catch. Not one, but two books this year. Two books arrived right on the day.
I opened them hastily and devoured the note. “Happy Birthday, Cherry, Signature was a pleasant surprise to me…Though science wasn’t the the focus, she (Elizabeth Gilbert) had an impressive grasp on the field….Hope the other one is good. Women at King’s English love it.”
Almost reverently, I opened the cover of The Signature of All Things, and began reading immediately. It was my Friday, so reading irresponsibly was an option. Good thing I had flexible time, because it was a page-turner. I had to agree with my S-I-L, “It pulled me in, pushed me away, called me back…” Deftly written, with succinct word choice, I got just enough character sketch to profoundly understand the players. Fully enlightened with authentic Victorian vocabulary, social customs, sexuality, ideals and intellectual thought, the writer takes an epic anthropological and historical safari through Darwinism, abolitionism, 19th century religion, and nods forward to Freud’s eventual analysis of human relationships.
Next day I met my cousin for lunch. She handed me a gift bag commenting something about the women in her book club and reminding me I could exchange the book if I already had it. I never exchange books, I just gift them on to someone else. I knew I had not read it, but the cover looked vaguely familiar, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry.
Back in my room I continued my mesmerizing read of Signature. There were times I wept and times I wanted with everything in me to resist the inexorable magnetism toward penultimate redemption, to hope against hope for a relational ending different than the inevitable. Abruptly, came a moment of suspense. Page 344 was followed by page 377. Unannounced cliff-hanger! Idly, I toyed with the idea of turning to the second book. But this would not do. Signature, is the type of book that stays with you, lives in your head while you go about your work and play. Nevertheless, I unsheathed the other book. Sure enough, it was twin to the one in the gift bag from my cousin. I switched off the light and fell asleep.
For the next few days, I took a reader’s hiatus. Summer being the busy season at work, there is not much opportunity for reading once you allow for overtime.
Following work one evening, I grabbed a quick dinner to go and stopped at Barnes Noble intending to find and read the missing 33 pages. There on the bargain shelf – for under $6.00 – was the book I sought. Hearing my story of missing pages, the clerk surmised that was the reason for the crate of hasty discounts. We checked the pages. Intact. What is the harm in purchasing a duplicate book? Already, I knew it to be the most well-written book of the decade – though not my favorite.
And that is how there came to be duplicates of two very good reads on my nightstand.
Yesterday was a holiday. I opened The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry at 5:00 pm. I closed it at 11:15 pm. I am not sorry I own two copies. One will go on loan immediately.
Have you read these two books? You should. Immediately. Which shall I loan you first?
Some of my friends – and mostly friends of friends – are euphoric. A few days ago the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that any mutually consenting couple of any gender may marry, in any of the 50 United States, and be legal. Forget common law unions, you can have a little piece of paper that says you are legally hitched. You who celebrate, may I ask what you have gained? If Millennials don’t marry, if Baby-boomers once believed in free love anyway; who is this marriage ruling for exactly?
Marriage
Marriage. You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
You may say this Supreme Court ruling was in favor of love. Will marriage guarantee you are loved? For centuries couples have married for love and just as many (if not more) have married for security, power or position. The legal act of Marriage does not put an end to longing and yearning. You will not be alone anymore, but you may still be lonely. Married or not, your love may or may not last.
You may say this ruling makes it possible for those in love to make a legal commitment. Let me know how that works for you. In my experience, people who are committed are committed with or without the legalities and people who are commitment- challenged are not magically changed by a legal document.
Is this SCOTUS ruling resoundingly in favor of sanctioned sex? As a consummate legalist, this where I bit the dust, not once, but two times. What is it about this word sanctioned that adds catalyst to sex? If there is any more powerful motivation than sex, for a legalist, it must be the word sanctioned. What else is motivation enough for giving up your good birth name and taking on that of another? For becoming collateral? For placing all of your worldly goods, talents, reputation and education at the behest of a spouse – legally – so you have to go through an even more convoluted legal process if you ever want to get back what was yours in the beginning?
Do you think this ruling insures society’s affirmation and acknowledgement of your relationship? Opinion or Feelings are deeply rooted and not often changed by mere laws. There were people who did not sanction nor acknowledge my second marriage. It was legal. It was reasonable and well thought out. No matter the reasons or legalities – I was a divorced woman so a second marriage could never be acknowledged.
Do we need this ruling to legitimatize procreation? It no longer takes a conjugal relationship of one man and one woman to procreate. I know of more than one family that consists of a committed man and woman and a test tube baby.
Do you see this as a nod in favor of companionship? You can have solid, caring committed companionship without the legal paper that says you are married. Loyal friendships often endure for decades, simply because they are unchallenged by the legalities of marriage.
Do you think legal marriage automatically provides medical benefits? I was married for a total of 31 years. During only eight of those years did I enjoy medical coverage as a benefit of legal marriage.
To raise children! Perhaps that is the most worthy goal for legal marriage. It takes two. At times, it even takes a village. Preferably extended family. My heart goes out to the single parent trying to give the best life possible to children who do not have two very present parents fulltime. Once again, I am not convinced that a marriage certificate guarantees a stable childrearing team, but yes, let’s do our best to provide a nurturing environment for the children.
It is my sad conclusion, after a lifetime of experience and observation, that you cannot legislate morality or love or commitment; nor control it with a bit of legal parchment.
Truth is, there are many wonderful things to be had with or without the benefit of legal marriage:
Love
Companionship
Commitment
Procreation
A village
Sex
Respect
Independence
Nature
Music
Beauty
In spite of my litany of negatives, some people still want desperately to be married. And some need desperately to be sanctioned. Though I’m sticking with Inigo Montoya, in conclusion, may I heartily say,
“Dear Friends of every inclination,
May you be happy; may you be merry;
May you be gay and marry;
But most of all, may you love and be loved in return.”
The woman was barely in her sixties, trim, fit, well-kept; in fact, she still shopped for her clothes in the junior department, not because she was an ill-adjusted old lady, but because clothes from every other department had to be adjusted to fit. She didn’t look a day over 45. She arrived at the party late, when things were breaking up and people were dispersing – an accurate indicator of her desire to be somewhere else, maybe up in the mountains, solitary. A distant acquaintance had invited her to this neighborhood party – pressed her to come – to someone else’s neighborhood. Her parent’s neighborhood. So she curtailed her hiking activities on her day off and slid in – to old home plate -just in time to greet the other guests and wave goodbye.
For a moment, her eighty-two-year-old mother’s face lit with pleasure on seeing her. Then a passing and quickly veiled expression of shock was directed toward her still shapely and tan legs protruding from stylish shorts, followed by composed greeting and introductions. Octogenarian Mama covered well, but her compulsions did not escape the 60-year-old woman. Mama tugged two or three times at the side of her own skirt bringing the fabric ever lower over her knees. It was a familiar gesture to the woman, one her mother employed liberally during the teen years to remind the daughter to cover her legs, to be more modest. 42 years. 42 years later, Mama could beam with pride outwardly, yet her subconscious betrayed her embarrassment through compulsive action.
It would be uncharitable to infer the older woman had not grown over the years. In as much as she was capable, within her limits, she made the effort to acknowledge the changes in culture, the successes of her children, to express her pride in their achievements, though they were certainly not making the exact choices she instilled in them. Like most mothers of grown children, she wanted to be a part of their lives as often as possible. And like most grown, well-adjusted adults, the children pursued lives of their own in other cities and visited their parents sparingly. Healthily, the children, it seems, have become successful individuals. It is Mama who has failed to individuate. One simple gesture revealed volumes. She still sees the daughter as an extension of herself. Daughter’s legs are showing and she is mortified. Who can save her from the shame? Only herself. She must shake off that mortification and individuate. Learn to be happy and at peace by savoring her own independence as a unique individual. Respect and applaud the independence and individuation of others. She is no longer responsible for her children. Her reputation does not rest on them. And, in truth, they are not responsible for her happiness.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
