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 |  Who knows what's to be found inside my head? |
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March 12, 2007 Life in transition. It’s a common theme for everyone, I think. In one way or another all our lives change day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year. Sometimes though, the changes come fast and hard. When I got married I moved out of the home I’d lived in since I was eighteen months old. In a few weeks I’ll move out of the house I’ve lived in for the past twenty-eight years, and away from the local I’ve lived in my entire life. After thirty years of being the wife of an executive who worked sixty hours a week, and took numerous business trips out of the country each year, I will find myself the wife of a semi-retired man who works from home. After a lifetime of suburban living, where no convenience is out of walking distance, we’ll be living in the mountains, thirty minutes out of town. Yeah, life is changing. Can I keep up with it? That’s the question. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Sunset in April on the lake in our Forest Lakes back yard. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thank you to Voxxylady  for the fantastic sig!Thank you to carlton607  for the gift of the awardicon. If you have time, visit his port. He's a talented writer, and I'll bet you enjoy the Cash N'Advance and Gil and Dolores stories.{/b}
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| Here's the photo that goes with the previous blog: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Notice that the front half of him is red. If you compare this picture to the earlier ones in my blog, you may be surprised. Before, he had a pale blue body. About an hour after I took this picture, Finn showed a full body of deep red. Wow. The book said that in the proper environment, water temp, and all, that the fish would become vibrant. They weren’t kidding! |
| I don’t know if I’m the last of the suckers, but I’m a big one. As most of you know, I was given a little beta fish that I named Finn. He came to me in a small vase and I soon upgraded his digs to a two gallon bowl with a plant and an attractive gravel carpet. He clearly enjoyed the roomer condo, but still didn’t really have much room to spread his fins, so to speak. But even if he wasn’t ecstatic, he seemed happy in his bowl on my desk, and so was I. Then my sister mailed me a book about betas and our fate was sealed. How could I read the detailed instructions for setting up a lovely ten gallon aquarium for your beta and not feel a tad bit guilty about the quarters I’d provided my little buddy? At the time I felt I was doing him a big favor, but suddenly his accommodations looked shabby. Kinda like wearing the sweater once belonging to your first cousin twice removed. You know, the one Aunt Martha gave her for Christmas that one year, but she never wore it because she didn’t like it all that much? So now you’ve got it and yea, it’s clean and all, but the sleeves are too short and it’s a bit pilly from sitting in the bottom of the drawer. My Finn deserved better. I can hardly believe I just wrote that. But here’s the thing – this fish is not like any other fish I’ve ever had. He knows when I come into the room and does a little happy dance. He swims around so he can watch me work and if I put my face to the bowl, he maneuvers so he can look at me. This danged fish knows who I am and likes me  I’d never tell you this, for fear of being exiled into a blogville padded room, but my book says this is a common trait among betas. They are actually intelligent (as far as fish go), they like the company of humans, and can even be taught tricks. I never.So I decided I’d set up an aquarium for my scaly friend. You men know that rule that says any home improvement project requires a minimum of four trips to the hardware store? It applies to any fish improvement project, too. And it’s a bunch of work.  Buying all the correct equipment, including plants, gravel, filter, heater, bucket, hidey place – all of which have to be chosen with great care and planning Cleaning the tank Rinsing 25 pounds of gravel Arranging gravel and plants in tank with an eye to creating adequate swimming area, artistic impression, and hiding the filter, too Building the aquarium stand (handed off to son-in-law) – actually a money saving choice: a file cabinet on sale at Target Visiting market to buy spring water to fill tank (a shortcut to get around water hardness issues) Filling the aquarium with water, only to realize the gravel hadn’t been rinsed adequately Hoping twelve hours of running the filter would clear the murky water The Next Morning: Emptying the tank and rinsing the gravel again, this time in tiny batches and stirring vigorously with hands Returning to store to exchange excess gravel for thermometers and more plants Cleaning tank of murk and rearranging gravel and plants again, and again, and again – until absolutely perfect Going back to market to buy more water Transferring gravel and marbles from condo to custom home Moving fish into new crib Doing a final plant rearrangement Cleaning kitchen of empty boxes, as well as measuring cups, bucket, mixing bowls, ladle, salad spoon, and old fish bowl Gathering wet towels from floor in front of fish tank and tossing bits of cardboard and empty paper bag Preparing to change out two gallons of water per day for a weekThe Next Morning: Making another trip to the pet store to buy water test strips and pH reducing drops. And to buy a proper tank stand tall enough that I don’t have to kneel to see into the dang aquarium Building the aquarium stand – Rebecca and I put together this one Moving the eighty pound aquarium onto the new stand (after removing a few gallons of water to make it lift-able Next Month: Pay Master Card billNow Finn is exploring his new home, flitting among the plants and swimming ‘round to look at me when I turn to watch him. He’s not on my desk any longer, but is right next to it, so he’s still close. I learned two days ago that Finn is a year and a half old. Betas live from two to five years, so he may be at the end of his life even now. Moving into these new accommodations may either:  Extend his life due to sheer happiness of living Send him to an early grave due to the stress of movingI hope he lives. He’s supposed to come with me on the Nada’s adventure: "Invalid Item"  to visit Scarlett. |
| So, how many decisions do you think you make regarding food, each day? And how many extra calories do you imagine you consume as a result of those decisions? Dr. Brian Wansink Ph.D, a food psychologist and director of the Food and Brand lab at Cornel University, thinks he knows. In his book, Mindless Eating – Why We Eat More Than We Think, he’s given some fascinating insights. Variety of choice yields more food eaten. People faced with the decision to eat either out of a bowl of multi-colored M&Ms or a bowl containing a single color of the candies will choose to eat the multis. If a bowl of first one, then the other is set out, they will eat two times more of the multi-colored candies than the mono-colored ones. The size of the dish matters. They did a fascinating experiment, inviting people to help themselves to a free meal in exchange for a rating of the food, and then secretly weighing their portions. The folks were given a plate, upon which they placed a serving of pasta and sauce, then they were asked to go get themselves a drink while the “waiter” brought their food to them. While their backs were turned, the waiter weighed the plate of food. As he brought it to them, he made a gross show of coughing all over the pasta. Then, of course, he told them they could come up and get a fresh portion. BUT, this time he gave them a bigger plate. To a person, the bigger plates weighed in with 25% more food. The size of the glass matters. Bartenders were asked to pour a shot’s worth of liquor into two glasses – one was short and wide, the other tall and narrow. 30% more liquor got poured into the short, stubby glasses. Now boys, don’t you go be takin’ your own short little glasses with you to the bars! Convenience influences calories. We have all probably experienced the phenomenon of the disappearing potato chips. Funny how a bag lasts much longer when we leave it in the kitchen and come out to the couch with only a handful at a time! If a secretary has a dish of candy on her desk, she’ll eat twice as much as if the dish is moved six feet away. You eat less when you eat alone. If you share a meal with one other person, you’re likely to eat 35% more, and if you eat with seven people, you’ll consume 90% more. Romantic mood lighting isn’t good for a diet Dining by candlelight or dark ambiance lighting generally results in more food eaten. According to Dr. Wansik, we make 250 decisions about food each day, and most of them happen below the conscious level. The result is an extra 200-300 calories shoveled in over a 24 hour period. He says that if we can cut 200 calories each day, it will result in a twenty pound weight loss over a year. Seems like a long time to shed twenty pounds, but it’s the kind of lifestyle change that makes the loss permanent. Of course, the quality of the food matters, too. Consuming the proper number of calories from unhealthful foods may keep weight down, but won’t enhance wellbeing. That’s a topic not addressed in these studies, though. |
Somehow, in the Best Western hotel in Moab, Utah, I left behind my book of matches. A total bummer since I was then without a means of lighting my camp stove for the making of my oatmeal. A perfect solution presented itself, but not before I’d experimented with a not so perfect try at making my oatmeal in two coffee mugs in the microwave at our next hotel. I can generally manage some solution to any problem but, as in this case, it’s not always pretty. After cleaning the microwave, and before embarking on our bike ride in Zion, I fished through my saddle bags, hunting for the sunscreen. The search didn’t yield the orange tube of natural, unscented, zinc oxide based sunblock, but it did offer a surprise. A cigarette lighter. What the heck? I’ve never smoked and don’t even know how to use one of these things. I mean, I’ve seen them being flicked, sure, and I could figure out that I had to roll the little wheels under my thumb. But I didn’t know that I had to hold down the little red tongue to keep the flame lit. I am a lighter ignoramus. This thing definitely was not mine. It gets better. This cigarette lighter is emblazoned with this word: HUSTLER. This well-used, scuffed up lighter advertising pornography came from WHERE? Surely some miscreant didn’t happen to toss it in my bike’s saddlebag to keep his mommy from knowing he had it. The only logical explanation is that I put it there, but I swear on a stack of Bibles – King James versions, no less – that I have no conscious knowledge of ever having seen or touched it before. Well, it showed up at a good time. It saved me having to do battle with boiling water and oatmeal in a couple of coffee mugs, making a mess of the hotel room microwave on my last morning in Zion  |
| Lookie what I found. A blog written weeks ago during vacation, and forgotten. Actually, I found two blogs, one I'll post today, the other tomorrow. While at home, Ron rarely eats breakfast on weekdays. A few days a week, he’d gotten in the habit of running over to see Elizabeth at the little joint she managed, visiting with her and eating the large breakfast they serve up, but generally he’s out the door and on the freeway with an empty belly. On vacation though, he needs breakfast. Every morning. The routine in the past has been for Ron to go out to some fast food joint or local diner for breakfast while I slept a bit longer, and gradually roused to the day. This had been easy as I’d never really been a breakfast eater, and would rather sleep than have breakfast. But, in the last year I’ve gotten attached to a particular morning meal. Here’s what I eat: a quarter cup of one-minute oatmeal cooked with a handful of Ningxia wolfberries, an eighth of a cup of organic cocoa beans (which have been air dried beneath banana leaves and broken into small bits), and an eighth of a cup of unsweetened, organic coconut flakes. This meal is super concentrated with phyto nutrients and antioxidants and fiber. It’s become a staple combination of nutrients that help me to keep ahead of my virus. Now, when I go on vacation, I don’t like to do without my special breakfast, since I’m more vulnerable to outbreak when I’m under the stress of the physical activity and broken schedule that vacation brings. At the condo, or when I was staying with my sisters, making breakfast was no big deal, but on this trip, when we were staying a week in hotels, it posed a problem. How was I going to make oatmeal in a hotel room? The answer came to me in a flash of inspiration. I took a trip to the local sporting goods store and bought a backpacking camp stove and a small can of fuel (it will boil a liter of water in three minutes!!!). I prepared baggies of breakfast ingredients, packed a bunch of paper bowls, plastic spoons, a measuring cup for the water, and a small stainless steel mixing bowl for a pan. I forgot matches to light the stove, but fortunately, Ron had some in his overnight bag. So, on our last morning away from home, while Ron ate his bumbleberry pancakes in a neighborhood restaurant, I got to eat my oatmeal while sitting in the Adirondack chair on the patio, serenaded by the river, splashed by the warming sun and enjoying the breeze. A decent finish to our vacation, I think. |
| Pre blog: Some Sundays are better than others, have you noticed? Yesterday was one of the good ones for Ron and me. We had the opportunity to visit with Nada and her hubby, Lance. I’ve got to hand it to those two men, accepting with pleasure the challenge of meeting strangers. At least Nada and I had some inkling we’d enjoy visiting together, but for the men it was more like a blind date. And this had been the second such experience in a week for Nada and Lance, since they had breakfast with SSTheWriter just a few days ago!To top it off, they had graciously invited us to their home, which upped the ante considerably. I mean, it’s a bit hard to tell someone to leave your house if things don’t go too well. Ron began the day wondering how he and Lance were going to fill a couple of hours talking. Four and a half hours after we arrived, we finally realized how much time had passed and made our farewells, still wishing for more time to get to know them better. Let me just tell you, every good thought you ever had about Nada and her hubby is more than justified. Ron and I are the lucky ones, getting to cross paths with them. And I want to know how the woman looks so fresh and youthful. I never got around to asking her the secret, but if I ever learn it, I’ll pass it on! This was my first experience meeting an on-line acquaintance, and it was a pleasure not soon to be forgotten. Now, for the BLOG: HALLOWEEN I remember well the Halloween nights of my childhood. The streets of my neighborhood were a sea of children trick-or-treating. Roaming the sidewalks after dark in a crowd of other children was in and of itself an eerie experience. Then there was that house at the end of the street that was always too scary to go up to. Today, I can’t even remember what made the place so frightening, but I always told my daddy that I’d skip that one. The one year I swallowed my fear and followed a group of courageous children to the door, I was rewarded with a treat that lasted for years. It was a hand made wooden toy – one of those movement things that a child with a predominant right brain could sit with for long minutes at a time, cranking and watching. How I wish I still had that thing. I only recall three costumes I ever wore. The first was my older sister’s outgrown dance outfit – magenta satin bodice with ribbon shoulder straps and a mesh tutu studded with sequins. The year I donned that costume I had to wear a white turtleneck underneath it because it was cold outdoors. That spoiled the effect of the costume, but I knew better than to argue with my mother, and it was better than having to wear a jacket. In jr. high I wore my dad’s worn out work clothes, stuffed pillows in the pants to give myself a beer belly, then smeared my face with Vaseline and smushed coffee ground into it for the illusion of a hobo’s scruff. I carried an old pillowcase for my treat bag. When I was done going door to door and wanted to have fun handing out candy, I combed my waist-length hair over my face and put my glasses on. Cousin It on growth hormones. By the time I reached the back end of my teen years, there were fewer kids knocking on doors and as the designated hander out of treats for my parents, I had few interruptions to whatever we were watching on TV. As the years have passed, the number of trick-or-treaters has continued to decline. Still, over 36 million kids are out there on Halloween night pounding on doors. And this year, 64 percent of consumers say they’ll be celebrating Halloween, up from 52.5 percent last year. Decorating homes for the holiday is becoming a seasonal tradition. Halloween is coming to be viewed as a bridge celebration, spanning the gap between the end of summer and the winter holidays. Here’s the frightening part. Consumers are expected to spend five BILLION dollars on the holiday this year, averaging $60.00 per person, including $22.00 spent on the perfect costume. Ninety-six percent of Americans will be buying candy, and of the twenty-five pounds per individual consumed this year, most of it will be eaten at Halloween time. And, our friend andrew will find himself in good company as 3.5 million other Americans will also be dressing up their pets for the night.Well, I gotta tell you, someone else is spending my sixty bucks, because I’m not, that’s for sure! We get so few visitors on Halloween night, we don’t even bother buying candy to hand out anymore. We turn off the porch light and watch TV and never get a knock or a ring at the bell. It’s just an ordinary night for us old fogies these days. What are the rest of you doing on Halloween? Do your kids go out anymore, or have they found some substitute activity for trick-or-treating? I wonder what all the children are doing, now that they aren’t on the streets, yet according to the stats, are celebrating. |
| Who says there’s no time travel? Ron left Shanghai at 4 PM Friday. He flew for about 13 hours and landed in Los Angeles at noon on Friday – today! He got to (or is that had to?) re-live four hours of his Friday. Every time I think of that, it creeps me out. By the time he goes to bed tonight, he will have had a 49 hour day. Another bit of news in our life. rjoym told us that she is expecting another baby. Wow. An unexpected turn of events, but not altogether unwelcome. Who can help looking forward to another grandbaby? Life just keeps getting interestinger and interestinger. Now hubby is home and we’re gonna have a fun weekend before the madness of regular work begins again. Well, as much as fun as we can have while he gets over his jet lag  |
| Here I am again, ready to write a blog entry, and deciding not to. I just read ronnylm’s entry and can’t come up with anything nearly as entertaining. Instead of reading here, look at "Invalid Entry" and enjoy a journey through the streets and restaurants of Shanghai with my jet-lagged hubby. I’m still laughing. I’m almost wishing I was a purse collector, now. |
| This morning I phoned ronnylm I spoke to him from my Tuesday morning as he occupied his Tuesday night. I was rising to the day, he was in bed for the night. Later this afternoon, he’ll call me from tomorrow. Ron’s in Shanghai, on a business trip. Travel became a regular part of his job a few years ago. Sometimes I go with him, other times I don’t. I went to Florence and Hawaii, and I'll likely go with him next month when he travels to Palm Srpings, CA but I’m never too keen to spend four days on my own in China, so I stay home when he goes there, or to Korea. It’s different for me this time since I’m really alone, now that Rowdy is gone, too. Getting adjusted to the total emptiness of the house is a challenge. The house is empty during the day when Ron’s at home and at work – but when he’s out of town, it’s different. There’s emptiness in the knowledge that he won’t be coming in the door at the end of the day, an emptiness that multiplies as he fails to show up and recharge our home with his personal energy. Add to that the emptiness left by Rowdy and the energy he contributed. Can emptiness be multiplied? Zero times zero is still zero. Anyway, Finn is here to keep me company  Ron has posted a blog entry about his visit and observations. Check out "Invalid Entry" and enjoy a view of this Chinese city. |
| I need help! I’m getting nothing done, well, almost nothing. OK, I’m getting things done, but I’ve got to turn off the radio to make it happen. Unless it’s housework. I can get the housework done. But not anything else. Not if the radio is on. Not if those seventies tunes are playing. I was a teenager in the seventies. 1971 was the year I entered junior high school – seventh grade. I’ll never forget that year because it coincided with a monster earthquake that forced my family to evacuate our home for the days required to drain a dam-created lake above our neighborhood. Some things leave an indelible print. Like the central staircase at my school which ended up a pile of concrete and twisted rebar. And the local hospital that lost its four storey outer walls, revealing paraphernalia scattered about in empty rooms and unoccupied beds dangling, tight hospital corners shaken loose, leaving sheets flapping in the breeze. And the freeway overpass that lay crumbled on the highway below, having opened ragged-edged gaps and room for the imagination to recreate that moment early in the morning, when cars making their way beneath were crushed by the falling roadway. And the police cars cruising our street, announcing through their loudspeakers instructions for evacuation. And the pump of adrenaline when aftershocks rumbled through, sending us scrambling to crouch behind the sofa, which would hopefully protect us from falling fireplace stones. Such was my initiation into those teenaged years that universally set in motion a lifetime of emotional growth and discovery. The six years of junior and senior high school, and the first two years of my marriage spanned the seventies. These were the days of LPs and AM radio. Eight track tapes came and went in a heartbeat. Cassette tapes were becoming popular as replacements for easily scratched vinyl records. I had been given a stereo record player for my thirteenth birthday, and an AM/FM radio a couple of years later. Between the two, I listened to music day and night. Instead of watching TV, I preferred to sit in my room and listen to my music and daydream or read. Unless I was doing homework – with the radio playing. Now, we’re “blessed” with FX radio. Satellite radio is a new feature in our house, thanks to a free offer that came with Ron’s new car. Same deal Nada got with hers. I really like a few of the stations, but it was when I turned the dial to channel 07 – the seventies station – that I met my end. I’m telling you, even when I hear a favorite song from one of the most recent two decades, I can’t sing along all that well – the lyrics escape me. But for the last few days I’ve found myself listening to just a couple of bars of music and knowing the words to a song I haven’t heard in thirty years. What’s really odd is that while some of the songs I remember loving, others are songs I only know I listened to because when they play today, I recall the music and lyrics. I’ll bet some of them were played on the radio so infrequently I may have heard them only a few times. Yet here I am, accurately anticipating the music runs and singing the verses. What’s that all about, anyway? Is it that my memory abandoned me in my twenties and I just can’t remember lyrics to songs anymore, and that’s why I can’t sing along with 80’s and 90’s songs? Or does it have to do with the emotional expansion I experienced in those younger years that set up an extraordinary link to memory banks? Is it simply a matter of tags of emotion hung on those old songs, forever pinning them in my memory? Whatever the explanation, old feelings rise up within me when I hear those songs again, and I’m rooted to my seat on the couch wanting nothing more than to sit there all day long and daydream while singing along to long forgotten songs. It fits well within the place I find myself just now, too. I’m not in a full-blown Epstein Barr flare up, but I am doing battle with it. When I began this blog, I was in a flare up that had me physically and mentally crushed. This time thankfully, I’m only in the pit half way. I’m managing to keep physically active without paying the price of weeks in pain on the couch. Yea for that. But my brain is mush. I can’t focus or concentrate. Thoughts evaporate as quickly as they appear. Words are apples floating in a mire, teasing me with their closeness, but running away when I try to bite into them. Mental organization is a fantasy. I can’t read or write, well only barely and with great effort. It took me three days to write this blog entry and make it somewhat intelligible. So, if I’m only here now and then for a while, you know why. I’m turning off the radio and making myself sit at the computer and write or edit. I’m studying and reading as best I can, knowing that some day (hopefully soon) my brain will clear again and those cells will be firing, creative thought will return and with it, the words to make it more than images floating in my head. |
| There are these commercials advertising California Cheese. They’re hilarious, showcasing cows playing football, having races, enjoying the foot massages that come with earthquakes, playing tricks on tourists and ding-dong-ditch on the farmer. They are always shown in green grassy pastures, happy as can be. It’s a lie. Dairy cows in California congregate in small dirt fields, and get herded into small barns for milking twice a day. They line up side by side, reaching through gratings to nibble at their feed. Driving by one of these dairy farms is not a pleasant olfactory experience. To make matters worse, the cows are injected with a bovine growth hormone that enlarges their udders to such an extent the poor girls are stepping on themselves. They’re pumped up with antibiotics that produce pus, which is integrated in their milk. They live a couple of years before dying, used up. However, there in ONE dairy farm in California that is a bovine Mecca. Organic Pastures is a dairy farm that produces organic raw milk. Their cows graze 24/7 on green pastures that have never seen pesticides or fertilizers. The milking barns come to the cows. Each girl is named and allowed to nurse her calves. Since they are not injected with the BGH, they live long, happy lives producing fewer gallons of milk per cow, but milk untainted, and teeming with the rich, beneficial bacteria they and we need in our guts to protect against disease and illness. A few years ago, I spent several days with Mark MacAfee, the owner of the dairy. He shared about the difficulty he had getting his venture off the ground because of push back from the GIANT pasteurized milk industry. He fought the fight and won and has been marketing his healing milk, cheese and colostrum to millions of Californians. Here comes a chicken Most who are lactose intolerant have found that they can drink this raw milk, since it contains the living lactose devouring bacteria, which are killed off during pasteurization. Raw milk nurtures and nourishes the GI tract and can be an important part of treatment for those with digestive issues and depressed immune system problems. Because raw milk contains no dead bacteria, it does not spoil or go bad. It does sour though, as the living friendly bacteria multiply, and this ability to sour increases its therapeutic value. Think yogurt. Now, back to the subject at hand. Organic Pastures was doing good business and growing as more and more Californians discovered the marvels of organic raw milk. Then, spinach got recalled, due to an infestation of e-coli. Another chicken ahead!!!! E-coli is a bacterium that actually lives in our guts and is not dangerous, unless it finds a way to mutate. This sometimes happens. A mutated strain showed up in spinach – Not organic spinach, by the way – and 175 people got really sick. One died. Of those who didn’t die, some may have permanent kidney damage. It’s a nasty thing, this mutation. What does this have to do with raw milk, you ask? Well, four children who ate spinach and got sick also drank raw milk. Oh my. Didn’t the California Department of Food Administration just do a jig? Now they could finally shut down this upstart of a company competing with the big, money making business of Dairy. Or so they thought. And they tried, surely they did. They quarantined the milk for two weeks while they ran tests. No e-coli was found in the milk or at the dairy. Organic pastures runs tests on every batch of milk, every day, and they post those results online for anyone to see. Never has there been any contamination of harmful bacteria in their milk. In fact they had UCLA run tests and discovered that when harmful pathogens are introduced into the milk, those bacteria actually die – killed by the resident good bacteria. It was a fruitless effort to shut down a business offering an important product, and OP is now suing the state for half a million dollars for the harm done to their reputation and for economic losses they incurred during the quarantine. I hope they win. I’m glad to have my raw milk back! Check out the Organic Pastures website and see pictures of the cows and family www.organicpastures.com To learn more about the bovine growth hormone go here: http://www.mercola.com/2002/feb/27/rbgh.htm Here’s an excerpt: Seven years ago, Feb. 4, 1994, despite nationwide protests by consumer groups, Monsanto and the FDA forced onto the US market the world's first GE animal drug, recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone (rBGH, sometimes known as rBST). BGH is a powerful GE drug produced by Monsanto which, injected into dairy cows, forces them to produce 15%-25% more milk, in the process seriously damaging their health and reproductive capacity. Despite warnings from scientists, such as Dr. Michael Hansen from the Consumers Union and Dr. Samuel Epstein from the Cancer Prevention Coalition, that milk from rBGH injected cows contains substantially higher amounts of a potent cancer tumor promoter called IGF-1, and despite evidence that rBGH milk contains higher levels of pus, bacteria, and antibiotics, the FDA gave the hormone its seal of approval, with no real pre-market safety testing required. * * * * * For information about pasteurization check out: http://www.mercola.com/2003/mar/26/pasteurized_milk.htm |
| Finn is watching me intently. Not very imaginatively named, this Japanese fighting fish is my new companion. I think of these Betta fish as “–ese” fishes because they are called Chinese, or Japanese, or Siamese fighting fish. rjoym couldn’t stand that I was so lonely after Rowdy left, so she brought me a replacement pet. In truth, this fish had belonged to the girl who’s renting a room from Rebecca. This adorable girl has owned him for a year, and in that time has tried diligently to kill him, but failed. She has stopped feeding him, but he lived on. She went away on vacation for a month and came back to find the neglected fish swimming in an inch of water, alive still. I’m guessing she was tired of taking care of him and couldn’t justify to her conscience an act of flushing a live fish down the toilet. (She says it’s because she didn’t have time to feed him.) I don’t especially blame her. You may recall my mentioning in an earlier blog entry about the time I bought a couple of goldfish for Rowdy, having read that border collies often find them fascinating and will spend hours watching the things swim back and forth. My dog was heartbreakingly disinterested. Heartbreaking for me, that is. I found myself responsible for two fish that my dog couldn’t care less about. That I didn’t find interesting, either. That had to be fed every day. That had to have their bowl cleaned and water changed every week – a stinky ordeal involving the use of mixing bowls and strainers and necessitated the occasional hand down the garbage disposal to retrieve stray gravel. I found myself wishing they would die a peaceful, fishy death, and daydreamed fondly of finding them floating belly-up. I wondered how old gold fish lived. How old were they when I bought them anyhow? I couldn’t bring myself to flush live fish either, and thankfully Rebecca had a friend who was wanting a couple of goldfish. I guess I’m riding the Karma wheel, because last week, when I was bereft and alone, I became the perfect target for the passing on of the fish that now lives happily on my desk. He came to me unnamed, and I was instructed to christen the thing. So I take credit for the lack of fish-naming imagination. I try not to feel sorry for him, living in his bowl all alone. My research has given me the understanding that they are not social fish and don’t need company, or especially desire it. In fact, they frequently attack other fish, unless they are tiny things. But I did feel bad about the little home he had to live in – a vase the size of a grapefruit. OK, so they can survive in such tiny spaces, and often do, but does that mean it’s the best way to keep them? He may not want any company, but surely he’d be happier with a bit more swimming room, wouldn’t you think? Not going the multiple gallon goldfish bowl, or aquarium rout. But I was willing to compromise and buy him a one gallon bowl and a plant. They’re supposed to like having a plant to hide behind if they feel insecure. This new home of his is still small enough to stay on my desk and hopefully won’t be a headache to keep clean. Now, I feel better. My gosh. All I need is another pet to get attached to. And I already like the little guy. I sure hope he lives. He’d have some nerve dying now, after I’ve taken such care for him. They’re supposed to live four years or more! Ai Caurmba! Here’s a bit of trivia for you: these fish have a special organ that allows them to breathe atmospheric air. So, if he jumps out of his fishbowl (I guess they can do that!) he won’t suffocate right off the bat. Here’s Finn in his first home ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** And here’s his new upgraded fish condo ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| In the year 1956, at the age of 60, Tressa Prisbrey took a trip to our local dump to find building materials. She wanted to build a building on her property to hold her collection of 17,000 pencils. Little did anyone guess, least of all her, that by the time she left the property in 1972 she would have erected a village that was destined to be named a city, county and state historical landmark. She built by hand, and all alone, twenty three structures – all out of bottles and other found objects, filched from the dump. This was a woman you have to see to believe. She was married at 15, to a man who was 57. “I think I was sold, don’t you?” They had seven children. She outlived all but one of them, as well as all but one of her siblings, two husbands and one fiancée. She had a beautifully optimistic outlook on life, but tinged with an acceptance of reality and disappointment in the dishonesty of others. She also battled the tug-of-war born of stardom and weariness of being on call all the time. She began charging a quarter to the public to go through her little village and it wasn’t long before her name and home were known around the world. She enjoyed entertaining her guests, but also found them a bit exasperating at times. “Grandma” Presbrey died in 1988, at the age of 92 and in 1994 our area was hit by an earthquake that had its epicenter just a few miles from our valley. The bottle village suffered damage and its conservators are still working to get adequate funds to restore it and bring it up to code so it can be reopened as a tourist destination. Do yourself a favor and set aside some time this weekend to look at the following links. You just have to watch the video. Make yourself some tea and settle in for a real treat. Check out the web page and look at the map and photos of her artwork/building. If you look at the map and photos first, the video will have a bit more meaning, I think. "Anyone can do anything with a million dollars. Look at Disney. But it takes more than money to make something out of nothing, and look at the fun I have doing it." http://www.folkstreams.net/film,102 http://users.adelphia.net/~echomatic/bv/ Enjoy, and let me know what you think of this eccentric lady and what she accomplished. |
| Waste Management is the waste hauling company operating in our valley. In fact, they collect garbage and run recycling plants and landfills across the US, Canada and Puerto Rico. No small business, this. And this is a company dedicated to making a better planet for us to pass on to our children. Their environmental strategies have saved 41 million trees, and amazingly, have produced enough energy to power about a million homes. Who would have thought? Listen to the words of the CEO: “Ultimately, we should do everything we can to benefit our own neighborhoods, families, cities, and quality of life. We are stewards of the earth’s resources.” At our local landfill, methane gas is produced through the decomposing of waste, but rather than merely allowed to escape, as I’ve seen in other landfills where it is burned off like eerie torches, here it is recovered and converted into electrical power. This “green” energy is enough to power 800,000 homes and saves more than 8 million barrels of oil. Not only that, the company’s landfills double as wildlife habitats. Believe it or not, more than 17,000 acres of their land is protected as wildlife habitat and 15 landfills are certified by the Wildlife Habitat Council. And there’s more  Since 75 percent of their trucks run on alternative fuel, 247 tons of those awful air emissions are reduced each year. They just issued their yearly report, which was printed on recycled paper, manufactured at a paper mill powered by methane gas provided by one of their landfills. This saved 43 trees and reduced the accompanying solid waste (that comes with manufacturing virgin paper) by 2,756 tons. This process also saved 26,000 gallons of water and reduced atmospheric emissions by 5,350 pounds. What a breath of fresh air this is. It makes me feel like applauding as I sit here watching the green WM trucks make their way down my street, emptying our green, blue and grey cans. Here’s a list of what is recyclable: Aerosol cans (completely empty) Aluminum foil, clean Any kind of paper* Laundry bottles (remove caps and lids) Plastics* Tissue boxes and any kind of cardboard Aluminum and tin cans Glass bottles and jars, and any unbroken glass items* Pizza boxes (clean) * some exceptions in the next list Non recyclable items: Carpet Cigarette butts Dirt, cement, rocks Flooring Styrofoam Mirrors Plastic toys Toothpaste tubes Waxed paper Carbon paper Cat litter Dishes Disposable diapers Old clothes/ shoes Rags/ sponges Soiled paper plates Window glass I thought I knew what to put in the recycle can and what to put in the trash, but these lists taught me a thing or two. I was also surprised at the need to include some items on the Non list, especially ones I left off, like Animal Waste  I’m just so glad to know there is a company out there doing some good, and not looking only at the bottom line. |
| Update: I did go and visit Rowdy today, and I’m glad I did. He is so adjusted. He greeted me with joy, but no frantic cries and he played with a little girl, chasing his soccer ball. As I left, he followed my car, but waited at the gate with the man, and I watched in my rearview mirror as he wandered off with him and explored the horses. Even if taking him back was an option, I could never do it now. His life there is idyllic. I feel better today, now that I have another more clear picture of him in his new home. He’ll be cared for lovingly until the day he dies, he’ll always have jobs to do, and he’ll never have to spend a moment all by himself. A border collie could ask for nothing better. In The News Health insurance rates have gone up, again. At a 7.7 percent increase, this is the smallest rise we’ve seen, but it’s more than twice the rate of inflation. In the past six years, health insurance premiums have gone up 78 percent, while incomes have risen only 20 percent. Most of us get help with insurance through our employers, but that’s no real consolation, because the costs get paid by all of us, one way or another. And fewer business, especially small ones, are offering this premium to their employees – they simply can’t afford it. So, it’s no surprise that a recent census reported an addition of 1.3 million people to the ranks of uninsured. No wonder, when it costs $4,242 to insure an individual and an incredible $11,480 for a family! This is hitting home for me now because in the next few years, Ron and I will be responsible for carrying the full load of our health insurance. It seems an impossible thing. I’m dumfounded and angry. It’s true, that when it comes to trauma treatment and surgical interventions, the US is the supreme leader. But as far as taking care of and preventing disease, we’re woefully inadequate. And it’s the vast majority of us who will need care for the later, rather than the former. I am connected with the world of alternative medicine, and I can tell you from personal experience as well as from hearing the testimonials of others, there are other answers out there that are more effective in managing illness, even curing disease, than anything our allopathic medics are offering us. The problem is, these answers won’t make anybody rich, and they step on the toes of the men and women who believe they already know the right path to travel. The other problem is, these remedies cost money, and with the need for us to empty our pockets into a largely useless system just in case we may one day need it, there is little left over to spend on other, effective treatments – or on quality foods and supplements that will keep us healthy and prevent our needing to use the so-called health care system. We’re caught in a vicious cycle that is strangling us. If Americans were healthy, if disease was prevented, many individuals would be forced to watch their cash cow die. For those in the industry, it’s in their best financial interest to keep us sick and dying. They’re doing a good job of it, and all of us, the ill and the well, are caught in the web. I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t believe it’s socialized medicine. I think the only answer can come when people are willing to give up making millions for the trade off of doing real good. Like that’s going to happen any time soon. |
| Today’s blog may cause some of you to criticize me – people have strong feelings about this. As you know, Ron and I are preparing to move to Colorado in the spring. This was originally a five-year plan, but has been accelerated to a six-month plan. The result is that I am suddenly faced with emotions and decisions I thought I had plenty of time to deal with and prepare for. Our home in CO is on a lake and situated on a mere half acre, partially wooded lot. When we bought the property I had misgivings about how Rowdy would do there, but figured he’d be five years older and needing much less exercise – that he’d be entering doggie middle age and find himself content to lounge, guarding his home from the comfort of the deck; that he wouldn’t particularly miss a day or more of not getting out for a hike or walk if I wasn’t feeling well, or it was too wintery. I also anticipated five years of healing for me, as a hoped for guarantee that I’d stay healthy with the move and be well enough to get the dog out each day. Winters were a question mark, but I figured between his age and my anticipated good health we’d make it work. When I learned we’d be moving so soon, I had to rethink the situation with my dog, especially since part of this sudden life change includes the probability that Ron and I will be away from home several weekends each month, on business. All I could see for Rowdy in Colorado was a diminished quality of life, particularly if I should have a bad flare up after moving, and find myself unable to get out and tackle the world with him. Right now I’m feeling well, but I know from experience that I could find myself unable to function at any time. Here, I can take Rowdy to my friend’s, where his parents and siblings welcome him into the pack and he has a fun time watching over the cats and chickens on the property. In Colorado, there will be no such place for him to go to play when I’m out of it. So, I put the word out, with the hope that I could find a perfect home for him here. And suddenly, one showed up. Here is a portion of an email I sent to Nada yesterday, as part of a correspondence:Yes, things are working out for Rowdy. They love him there – he’s so well trained that they have a ready-made dog that doesn’t need any work. He romps from early in the morning to bedtime, chasing the tractor taking feed to the horses, playing with the other dogs, watching over the cats, running around the six acres of property. There are lots of jobs for him to do. Because he’s so well trained, and rattlesnake trained too, he’ll get to go on trail rides with the horses. Even in the winter, he’ll get out to run and romp – horses get fed twice a day, rain or shine – so he’ll never have a boring day. And, he and the other dogs get to be in the house, too. In fact, he got to sleep on the couch last night! It’s paradise for him, and just what I’d hoped to find for him. Ron and I went there today to tell him good-bye (so he’d understand I meant for him to stay there – I was not the one who delivered him to the place) and meet his new owners. It was good for me to see him in the new environment and obedient to the woman, approaching the man for a pet. He’ll adjust just fine. For me, it may be a different matter. I’m grieving the loss. Some moments I’m OK, others I feel like throwing up. Rowdy was our first dog that was truly mine. I hand fed him for many months and played with him and trained him and kept him by me – all with the goal of having a dog that was ideally trained and looked to me in every moment, so I could trust that he’d want to please and obey me, no matter what. I was successful in that and the bond that came along with it I realize now, is deeper than any I’ve had with of our other dogs. The kids are gone, and now with Rowdy gone, the house is truly empty. When Ron is off to work I’m alone in a way I haven’t been since I gave birth to my first child. All the memories of seeing Rowdy around the yard and house, watching me shower , the tasks of letting him in and out, getting pestered by him at dinner time – they are all vast voids that make me unutterably sad. This morning, I hiked a trail that I have never been on without my dog. Today, I had Ron with me. Next time, I’ll be alone. I’ll have to re-live this first time by myself experience for each of the trails we hiked together. I keep reminding myself that I’ve done this for his good, which is true. But it doesn’t abate my sorrow. The life he’ll have there will be so much more wonderful for him than what I could give him in Colorado, and in a perverse way I tell myself of the advantages that come with being pet-free. They are numerous. But still. It’s a relationship lost, and that is always difficult. I try telling myself that he never really belonged to me – that I had him for three years to train him and prepare him for this ideal border collie existence. I did my job well, and as a result he’ll have a wonderful life. I don’t know how long the grief will nag at me. I expect it will be a long time. I may never let go of the sadness until we move away and I’m not surrounded by things and places that trigger memories. This morning I made myself go out on another of our trails and hike it alone. Parts of the hike were torture, at other times I had my head together and was glad for Rowdy’s sake he was in his new home instead of huffing by me, wishing he could lie down in a patch of shade. Then I’d fall back into the trough of sadness. I’m surprised at my response, I really am. I thought I’d be OK with giving him over to someone who I knew would take good care of him for the rest of his life – giving him a life that is really better than the one I can give him, even here. With me, he gets a couple of hours of fun activity each day. There, it’s an all day adventure, perfectly suited to a border collie – one of breed of dogs bred to be workers and active all day long. He was never a cuddly dog, asking for much attention, or one to crawl up into my lap. It was when we were hiking or walking that he was closest to me, because even when he ranged ahead, he always trotted back to check that I was following and OK. He did his own thing during the day at home, never sat at my feet, and only followed me around if he thought I might be getting in the shower or changing clothes for a hike. So I didn’t expect to miss him this much. I didn’t expect to feel the emptiness of the house and yard with such keenness. I didn’t expect to see his ghost everywhere or to hear myself think “this way, Rowdy!” while out on the trail. I didn’t expect to miss seeing his nose prints on the newly cleaned French door glass, or his hair floating on the wood floors. I had worked to imprint him when he was a puppy. I didn’t realize how much he imprinted me in the process. I have grieved the loss of cats, dogs and horses over the years, and only with my horse did I struggle this much with the loss. It will be a very long time before I’m good with this. I’m thinking I’ll go and visit him several days a week, play with him there in his new home and watch more of his adjustments to the place and people. Let him introduce me to his new friends. I’ve been invited to come back whenever I want to, and after thinking hard about it I don’t believe my going to visit will cause a problem for Rowdy. With his border collie brain, as soon as I’m gone, he’s tracking the closest thing that demands his attention, and I’m out of his thoughts. I’ve seen this many times, when I’ve left him at my friend’s house for the day. With the loving attention of his new owners and all the jobs for him to do, I won’t be anything more than something that pops up in a dream. I don’t regret that – I’d hate for him to grieve as I do with the separation. I have given him a gift. I just need more time to let him go. |
| One thing Ron and I have not yet done is hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Once, we made our way part way down one of the trails, but we had the girls with us and they were young, so you can guess we didn’t make it very far. Our experiences of that canyon have all been rim-based. Zion, on the other hand is a canyon we’ve experienced now in two ways. In years past it’s been hiking from the canyon floor to various points above, but this time it was cycling along the base, showered in the cool shadowed fragrance of its weeping rocks and hanging gardens. There is an aroma there, unlike any I’ve experienced in the Grand Canyon, or in Yosemite National Park. It’s a perfume arising from millennia of flora returned to the earth, making possible the emergence of new, fresh life that will one day join the on-going compost. This exchange of life for life creates a fragrance that is deep and grounding. It smells of must and earth and rain. It courses through me and fills the part of my being that is not physical. It lightens my thoughts and makes me greedy for more. I inhale deeply and involuntarily look for the source of this perfume. I’d like to find where it originates and stand nose-close, breathing. But there is no source. The fragrance is all around; like the wind, this smell of death and life is just there. And you only smell it along the bottom of the canyon, in those places where people aren’t congregating on trails. It’s the canyon’s private horde. And we got to share in it – for some brief moments we had the privilege of passing through it, this gift of the canyon parceled out grudgingly. Whooee. Invalid Photo #1004955 and following photos in the album are samplings of the Zion canyon. How can such places exist? And then, there’s Bryce canyon, just around the geographical corner from Zion, but so different and amazing – incomparable to any of the others. I know I’ve got some pictures of our hike there a few years ago. I’ll go look for them. |
| Ron and I generally have the same attitude about things. There are those times, though, when we see things differently. Take, for example, Angels’ Landing. This is a hike in Utah’s Zion National Park. Zion is a different park from the Grand Canyon. While both places are canyons, at the Grand Canyon visitors are introduced to the wonders from the rim, and have to hike down to get to the floor. At Zion, it’s the opposite. You enter the park at the canyon floor, and hike to the top. Three years ago, we came here for a hiking vacation and took the Angel’s Landing trail. Here’s the guide description of the hike: A five mile round trip hike taking four hours to complete. Strenuous Long drop-offs and narrow trail. Not for anyone fearful of heights. Ends at summit high above Zion Canyon. Last 0.5 mi follows steep, narrow ridge. Chains have been added. For the first two miles the trail is either paved or improved and made as easy as possible for the hiker. But there’s no way to make it easy; it’s steep and strenuous and seems never to end. At that two mile mark, there is a vista view of the valley floor below….and the towering rock above, whose flat top was given the name Angels’ Landing by Mormons who envisioned angels landing on this tall, narrow mesa. Ron and I relaxed at the vista way-point and watched the tiny figures of courageous souls mounting the rocky edifice on their way to the top. With my lack of depth perception (a legacy of lasik surgery) and Ron’s fear of heights, such an assent for us ranked right up there with the impossible. More famous last words. For some unfathomable reason, Ron decided he was going to do the climb. And no way was I going to let him have all the terrifying, heart-stopping, nausea inducing fun by himself! So we climbed half a mile up – and I mean straight up – the face of the rock outcropping. It wasn’t free climbing though, folks. Some crazy pioneers had gone before and carved out steps in places where the natural rock formations left no foothold, and there was just enough of an incline to be short of ninety degrees. In a few places chain “railings” were strung for hand-holds. Ron went ahead, and I followed in his footsteps. I looked at nothing but his feet, which were eye level or just above, and thought of nothing except mimicking his every move. In this manner, I got to the top of the rock, with him. Once again, focused concentration kept fear at bay. It was well worth the effort. The view from the top is unsurpassed, and the thrill of just being there was worth the price of arrival. Somehow, going back down wasn’t as terrifying, even though it was impossible not to see the drop-offs or to focus on Ron’s feet. Perhaps the accomplishment of safely getting to the top instilled a subconscious sense of confidence. I’ll tell you, we both walked a bit taller when we finally made our way back down to the road, and looked up at where we had been. That day for each of us became a watershed. We were never quite the same after that. On this recent visit to Zion, Ron was eager to hike Angels’ Landing again. I was not. For him, it was a romantic recollection of that first-time experience that he hoped to relive. For me, it was a knowing that any repeat hike will never be as wonderful as the first time. There are some things that I like to keep in memory, hanging on to the emotions associated with them, undiluted by subsequent repetitions of the experience. I simply was not ready to relive that experience. I think that the next time we come here though, we’ll do the hike. Between now and then I’ll get myself ready for it. I discovered some pictures taken when we did the hike. Click on Invalid Photo #1005096 and move ahead in the album to see this amazing trail. |
| After riding along the paved road at the canyon rim, Ron and I headed out for a biking trail we’d noticed just outside the park. When we’d driven by the previous day, I’d seen a gravel fire road leading off into the forest and thought that would be fun to ride. The turnoff was marked with a lovely blue sign blazing the familiar icon of a bicycle. What I didn’t realize was that the fire road was NOT the biking trail. On this day I was introduced for the first time to real mountain biking. For three hours we road on a trail that was strewn here and there with soft beds of pine needles, harboring land mines of pinecones to be ridden over or navigated around. Narrow gullies embedded with rocks and pebbles were interlaced between passages of steep, rocky inclines to be ridden both up and down. Ron taught me the finer points of shifting to the lowest gears for climbing the short, steep sections, as well as weighting my pedals for the bumpy descents so my feet didn’t bounce free. I was on my own for figuring out how not to fall down when my back tire fishtailed or slid. He was on his own for trying to keep up with me. For the first half of the ride, I stayed behind Ron, fearful of making bad decisions about what section of the trail to ride on. I felt safer following his path. But for some reason, no matter how hard I try, my bike goes faster than his and even when I intend to keep behind him, I slowly catch up, then have to slow down even more. I discovered on these trails that is a recipe for disaster for me. I don’t have the set of technical skills to maneuver on my bike at a slow speed – the slower I go, the harder it is for me to steer and keep control of my wheels. Forward momentum – read speed – is my friend. So, on the second half of this ride, and on the one we took at the top of the Durango mountains, I stayed ahead and barreled my way along. That second real mountain ride was a doozy. It started really fun, with a ride on the ski lift to the upper portion of the mountain. My first ride on a ski lift. From there we rode our bikes nearly one thousand feet higher up, to the top of the mountain. The good news is that this upward ride was along improved dirt roads so the only obstacles were thin air at ten-thousand feet and steep inclines. The ride down was a different story. Steep, with loose rock, alongside gorgeous but scary dropoffs. Washboard ridges (very fun) and muddy gullies (it had rained for the previous two days). I rode ahead and spent lots of time airborne. I didn’t have to worry about lack of traction when my tires were in the air I learned from riding horses that concentrated focus will banish fear and it did that for me on the mountain. In fact, there were many places where the cycling sensation felt close to riding through a gymnastic riding course, with my horse/bike beneath me clearing closely set obstacles while I balanced, weight in my stirrups/pedals, allowing my relaxed joints to open and close with the movement so my torso and head stayed still and perfectly centered. The physical beauty of that interplay was not lost on me, even in the throes of concentration.If only I’d followed my intuition and walked my bike down that one section of gullied rock. When I picked myself off the ground, my knee was gushing blood and my hip was scraped up good. What I was in blissful ignorance of then, was that the tires on my bike were simply not suited for this type of mountain biking. They gave me minimal traction and it’s a wonder I didn’t crash a dozen times. We had a blast and made it down to the ski lift, then continued down to the resort for a total of over a thousand feet of steep descent. I think I’ll mention here that Ron and I were the oldest farts biking up there. I don’t know if that makes us go-getters or idiots. Especially considering our inexperience. When I think back on what I rode, on those tires, I feel terrified. Then, I feel excited and let my body recall the thrill of the ride. We had other fun rides, got stuck in a thunder storm on one of them, and discovered lots of places to check out after we move to Colorado next spring. But, the next time I attempt to ride a real mountain biking trail, I’m going to have proper tires on my bike. Invalid Photo #1004982 Invalid Photo #1004981 Invalid Photo #1004980 Invalid Photo #1004976 Invalid Photo #1004975 Invalid Photo #1004974 Invalid Photo #1004973 |
| Invalid Photo #1004945 Invalid Photo #1004946 This was written on the road home I wonder how many “firsts” in life we miss. Every experience happens for a “first time,” but usually we don’t really pay any attention – for good reason. For instance, right now, we’re pulling up to a Shell gas station along a desert highway in Utah. This is the first time we’ve been here. Inside the food mart you can buy an Arby’s sandwich and Krispy Kreme donuts, as well as some Busch Light, on sale for &14.99 for a six-pack. This is a first that is easily relegated to the file labeled, “no need to pay special attention to this.” Can you imagine how cluttered our brains would be if we attached equal importance to every first-time experience? I have such a difficult time hanging on to what really is important, the thought makes me shudder. There are some experiences however, that merit special attention, yet we breeze through them without giving much thought to the impact they will have on our lives – to the way they will change the way we view our world, ourselves and our lives henceforth. To the memories they will provide that will enrich the years ahead. To the obvious or ever so slight alteration in the path of our lives they force upon us. Some experiences are so big they sink their talons into our minds and souls and we forever are able to say, “I’ll never forget the time when…..” This is the kind of adventure I had on our first day out riding at the Grand Canyon. Riding along the rim on a portion of road reserved for trams offers a unique perspective. Cruising past as the opposite wall of the canyon glides by in silence brings the hugeness of the place home. Hiking along is nice too, in the sense that there is an intimacy of connection to the land not to be experienced any other way, but the far rim of the canyon seems to follow, not pass by – it anchors. On the bike, the passage of landscape miles away gives me a place as a witness to the moving history of this ancient earth carving. It feels as if I’m a part of the grandness of the minute daily changes taking place here, contributing my human energy to the gradual metamorphosis. If we’d been able to ride on dirt trails, it would have been just a smidge better. But we got that later in the day, when another “first” – an important one – invaded my life. As I’ve mentioned in earlier entries, I’ve never been too fond of mountain biking. Mountain bikers ride up and down the trails I hike. These are trails called one-tracks because there’s only room for a single file line of hikers. Each time Rowdy and I have stepped aside to make way for a biker I’ve looked at the cyclist with a mixture of awe and incredulity. Riding up the trail looked too hard to be any fun and riding down, though thrilling, would be scary as all get out – each pebble and bump and gully an invitation to go tumbling down the side of the mountain. Not for me, no thanks. Famous last words. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Here are photos from my album that correlate to ronnylm’s most recent blog entry, Number Nine. Invalid Photo #1004972 Invalid Photo #1004971 Invalid Photo #1004970 Invalid Photo #1004969 Invalid Photo #1004968 Invalid Photo #1004967 Invalid Photo #1004959 Invalid Photo #1004958 Invalid Photo #1004957 Invalid Photo #1004956 |
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