tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48593505924326820712024-02-29T21:41:17.907-08:00Box of TalesBOX OF TALES: Travels, Musings and Storiesboxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.comBlogger254125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-45605865178850398982024-01-12T11:03:00.000-08:002024-01-12T11:03:45.587-08:00Canned Curriculum, Underfunded Childcare<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE6bRTePTxPnYsC_kCkIIm9vEH6BwRYY-aXKqQWBesCN0sVFQsQ9TkN2A_A0cXP1WTPUZ_lWjNksGatwaBKTc5IfB41R4KrtOlzf4JTosCHG0elW8zAzGnRk048h9HnOWd3IqW6277phDjmSTbscZq6UuFAQ0d0oAMhxu65ldW0czFnTzgemfYlKAYNA/s4032/20240112_100209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibE6bRTePTxPnYsC_kCkIIm9vEH6BwRYY-aXKqQWBesCN0sVFQsQ9TkN2A_A0cXP1WTPUZ_lWjNksGatwaBKTc5IfB41R4KrtOlzf4JTosCHG0elW8zAzGnRk048h9HnOWd3IqW6277phDjmSTbscZq6UuFAQ0d0oAMhxu65ldW0czFnTzgemfYlKAYNA/w300-h400/20240112_100209.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>In the mid-1970s, I graduated with a degree in education and a minor in history from a university in Arizona and could have taught high schoolers, but when my partner and I moved to a neighborhood near his work in his family’s business in north St. Louis, Missouri, the only jobs open in my field were in inner city schools in neighborhoods where there had been race riots over the previous summer. I was leery of my immaturity and my limited knowledge of Black history, so improvising, I walked down our hill and applied for a job-opening advertised at a childcare center. In a neighborhood confused between being residential or commercial, the former doctor’s office in an old brick house was squeezed between a service station and a commercial building, but faced modest brick homes across a busy arterial road. The house, now a daycare center, had a front door and second entrance door off to the side into the doctor’s former waiting room. </p><p>I was hired on Christmas Eve day as the fourth teacher in barely a four-months’ time for the same group of now wherried children, exhausted from being a recycled class thrice over. Turnover of teachers in the field of childcare has often been bested only by that in the field of garbage collection. A fact I did not know at the time.</p><p>I taught in three different classrooms at the center over a little more than a year. My first class of three-year-olds shared the living room/dining room with a group of four-year-olds. The first day I entered the classroom, I was confused to see the fours sitting in little wooden chairs backed against a wall facing their teacher who scowled at my interruption. I soon understood that the teacher had few materials and kept the children occupied and riveted with litanies of “Repeat after me.” The job site could have been the focus of a brilliant case study revealing the status of for-profit daycare in America of the time. After that first trial teaching the unhappy three-year-olds, but before my stint in the surgical suite, I was reassigned to teach the two-year olds in a former 10-foot-by-10-foot bedroom. </p><p>On my very first sighting of that classroom, it reminded me of those sad advertisements for grim unfurnished rooms. Supposedly the furniture was stored every evening for ease of vacuuming, but it was difficult to tell if the dark brown wall-to-wall carpeting had been cleaned or not. I’d gingerly cross the rug and raise the blinds on the far windows to brighten the space, but even the industrial-smudged light of north St. Louis seemed reluctant to enter into that foreboding nook. The light lit upon the sills and ventured no further.</p><p>I’d slide one of the closet doors open and tussle a table out clanking and banging, followed by seven little chairs drug and bumped across the nubby carpeting. The classroom was ready. Two small shelves in the closet held a pitiable cache of toys for the seven twos who would shortly arrive, be unbundled by their mothers (always mothers), and left to toddle about upsetting the chairs and sometimes me.</p><p>Once, I skipped uncloseting the table and chairs and we roustabouted unhindered by any furnishings. It was better. One of the un-tabled days I recall quite fondly. We were doing some kind of physics lessons with Campbell soup cans and ramps. Canned curriculum. I don’t know what the parents thought we did all day in those empty rooms.</p><p>The former doctor’s surgery suite was the opposite of the two’s room. It was sterile with low hanging florescent lighting blinging off the high, white-tiled walls—perfect for operating. I’d set my tools on the table. The Crayola’s colors seemed extra riveting under the fluorescents, particularly the blood red and vein blue. Jumbled in an old and quite unsanitary cigar box, the crayons were mere nubs with their paper slipcovers mostly missing. Next to them I laid a pile of Xerox pages. These were the only tools provided me for the delicate operation of teaching ten three-year-olds every morning for many months.</p><p>My skill of delighting the two-year-olds, earned me the childcare center’s position of morning supervisor, a lovely title seeming to convey that I would be responsible for the sun rising over the city or the dawn breezes wafting off the nearby Mississippi River beyond the railyards. I was naïve to accept the position.</p><p>Every state has licensing regulations. Some in the 70s were so minimal that the only requirement to become a preschool-aged teacher was if you thought you might like to become one. The field is better regulated now and the licensors have more discretion to shut down centers providing inadequate care. That is if they can catch them.</p><p>The morning I became aware of the childcare center’s cheating and hence the morning my administrative duplicity began, I was teaching in surgery. The owner swished behind me hurrying through my classroom to the little hall just beyond where there was a doorway to an attic classroom of four-year-olds. Moments later children flowed down the stairs, their momentum momentarily frozen when the first child saw me, uncertain for a nano second if I was the one they were all to avoid. Their hastily donned coats were askew, flapping open as each in turn pivoted at the bottom of the stair while they glanced back at me with their silenced stiff faces. Their teacher hustled them through the former doctor’s waiting room—itself another classroom— and out into the chill air to walk aimlessly about until the unannounced visiting licensor had taken her authority elsewhere. Late for lunch, the children returned and jostled noisily back up the stairs to their unlicensed garret. </p><p>A half a century on, there is more funding for early childhood programs, licensors, and tax credits for parents so they can afford to pay higher fees at better stocked centers. Still, the funds are often not enough. If you Google a former doctor’s office turned childcare center in an old brick house in north St. Louis, it is still a childcare center, looking forlorn between the now boarded-up service station and plywood-windowed commercial building. Fortunately the air is cleaner due to such things as the Clean Air Act, so possibly the back bedroom gets better light. Some things change. </p><p>I wonder what the attic is used for. State filings indicate the center is now licensed for twenty-four children. (In my day there must have been closer to fifty-four children.) But the current tuition for a preschooler at the center is $500 per month. A modest amount. Luckily for the teachers, Campbell soup cans are still available and cheap. </p><p>Postscript: I moved on to teach in a better-funded preschool the next year and then enrolled in a master’s degree in early childhood education. When I eventually became the director of newly-founded childcare facility on a college campus and stayed twenty-seven years, I leaned on what I had learned at that first center. Retaining staff, better funding, and having environments “dense with potential” were my goals. I had learned my lessons early on. </p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-41710478919576692742023-11-29T20:49:00.000-08:002023-11-29T20:49:08.937-08:00Winter Breathing on Fall—Photos <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyxcwSYEkhCj7C1ebS3hRLP-4iYLREiyP_rLbBpPLvOmeI2PEzvajr7F-V4yUFtNxA5g1Clt5BJnxcuzfpgq5BMvAUP_jlGjrbem-sxwmbTMd4ZriHXoDUWBJ8bZ9OJdW8HKXlu6Lyi6iN-88D5Fa6i4EYIjbL5w0P3IGLj5AZ3SWwWOkMpYs7P885nU/s3227/20231128_115045.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3227" data-original-width="2419" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyxcwSYEkhCj7C1ebS3hRLP-4iYLREiyP_rLbBpPLvOmeI2PEzvajr7F-V4yUFtNxA5g1Clt5BJnxcuzfpgq5BMvAUP_jlGjrbem-sxwmbTMd4ZriHXoDUWBJ8bZ9OJdW8HKXlu6Lyi6iN-88D5Fa6i4EYIjbL5w0P3IGLj5AZ3SWwWOkMpYs7P885nU/w300-h400/20231128_115045.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p>I love the turning of seasons when fall lingers and winter breathes frozen fog on bright leaves.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFQhGJEehMbNh3mdO3YqFqOHCtAswM0cxPr6eQfWhRjXHPSWm4gw-ICh1YWAWQjWf6fdffgD5unLcaLyPFquLtOW3SS_CgQX36lOcEWQUsCY2ULvJRFrcmhEfvEseLw0usvCXk3467v2fuqYqWrQSGJwPSswHi4QVj3L1c08C14DEW13I4R7ZlrdfDDc/s4032/20231123_110301.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFQhGJEehMbNh3mdO3YqFqOHCtAswM0cxPr6eQfWhRjXHPSWm4gw-ICh1YWAWQjWf6fdffgD5unLcaLyPFquLtOW3SS_CgQX36lOcEWQUsCY2ULvJRFrcmhEfvEseLw0usvCXk3467v2fuqYqWrQSGJwPSswHi4QVj3L1c08C14DEW13I4R7ZlrdfDDc/w400-h300/20231123_110301.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>In the past week, I have been walking a dirt lane on a hillside near my cabin seeking late afternoon sun. Pockets of deciduous trees between the evergreens have left piles of bright leaves. As the temperatures dipped at night, the frost left lovely laced skirts of ice on the ones lying in the deeper shade. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-HyD2_TqySKwI9Z1pH7W1x6tIRcR84G4Qc2fqBoviWX2gZw53neWOdUCR2ZlMEtIA-FivN8qyPEJ6FE84qIC46L9_yFTYTON_h3oCo61FPj_R3cK33-o6ZRgxENwNx8MFDNR256zP2Hh4ajDhMag5t166cvPUTm9UGWQVH112JwsEBFLUvihieIqyrQ/w400-h300/20231127_141352.jpg" width="400" /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes it is foggy in town and sunny up here, but this week the fog moved in and didn't leave. All night long over a few nights it brushed frost on stairs, on car windows, and rough rocks.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTY51L0mtelyIoRbfGmunGYAq8afkDqNqfAefSsM66n36GKykTwXQKE-6vZGhAq9f8MlooWJ_XmhY1rycWQ_OA2Tu84i1Cii1nhr30uI3pdgR6HR141201QcGRgCFuWlJnCSo6OulNzNibNETkMPAa-yC_NfZPm7gmTJ5PDeZih3SMr1CpkUmojy7708/s4032/20231117_163715.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTY51L0mtelyIoRbfGmunGYAq8afkDqNqfAefSsM66n36GKykTwXQKE-6vZGhAq9f8MlooWJ_XmhY1rycWQ_OA2Tu84i1Cii1nhr30uI3pdgR6HR141201QcGRgCFuWlJnCSo6OulNzNibNETkMPAa-yC_NfZPm7gmTJ5PDeZih3SMr1CpkUmojy7708/w300-h400/20231117_163715.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFYD2nniKlQ0ohycb-Q5GdwmhQkPL4p3KvC9dCei1XKSmkr6SbJlA4k64ojw487En21KlGwyBFDuNaRm0IRGNQnDiklTpoK5jHHhFCzgJnDxm_ezgBg1SrMskaoQqZpSHQaZPNH7l2Su1bgeNRCBxisIU9pq7T13vRKXyqxnkmo7GYzvbiaFxCJKFnLE/s2952/20231128_104723.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2952" data-original-width="2214" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFYD2nniKlQ0ohycb-Q5GdwmhQkPL4p3KvC9dCei1XKSmkr6SbJlA4k64ojw487En21KlGwyBFDuNaRm0IRGNQnDiklTpoK5jHHhFCzgJnDxm_ezgBg1SrMskaoQqZpSHQaZPNH7l2Su1bgeNRCBxisIU9pq7T13vRKXyqxnkmo7GYzvbiaFxCJKFnLE/w300-h400/20231128_104723.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>By the third night of below freezing weather, I knew that if I turned off the dirt lane and hiked a small trail to a stream there might be icicles or if I walked along the river, I'd find something of interest. In the river I spotted a leaf holding its fall color entirely encased in ice. If I could have broken it off the rock where it was frozen tight, I would have had a leafcicle with which to enchant a child. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpn0oUFUx3g3KovHhH79B2qfBeqX7b2Jh2PzezbWmIHnXAZs_EF32-cdCvDnzrtHcVOdZHGQ6FwbFTSKf2NN-LunjCkaK_6XWAwYxSv22A4iwdbehu5G9TfSIYTuJs6Feh7N4J5EAX-zWUT-Dnmbi0ca-uRNyezrGVPtVwEops0qz9Thh9q0eJkZA9Z4Y/s4032/20231128_100518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpn0oUFUx3g3KovHhH79B2qfBeqX7b2Jh2PzezbWmIHnXAZs_EF32-cdCvDnzrtHcVOdZHGQ6FwbFTSKf2NN-LunjCkaK_6XWAwYxSv22A4iwdbehu5G9TfSIYTuJs6Feh7N4J5EAX-zWUT-Dnmbi0ca-uRNyezrGVPtVwEops0qz9Thh9q0eJkZA9Z4Y/w300-h400/20231128_100518.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />The stream held its own enchantment <i>and </i>unexpected humor. My macro lens caught the beauty of ice forming. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzToE9xTae9w_1V2IvgcssILhKo5qS_oj-8he7RMycUU1av7KgnseLizLDlpyLQcmFW29oTMxAdbHNVhhYbegeD1zjprzwlsBLrZmxqhyHJyszd1CwPur3C5EyrmgOQ2Sncqi6uDsmhQI1c7GxVSAdEA1Rir3aW3Cl8kUfK86xBK912HyFaKs1PAi3QY/s4032/20231129_103551.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzToE9xTae9w_1V2IvgcssILhKo5qS_oj-8he7RMycUU1av7KgnseLizLDlpyLQcmFW29oTMxAdbHNVhhYbegeD1zjprzwlsBLrZmxqhyHJyszd1CwPur3C5EyrmgOQ2Sncqi6uDsmhQI1c7GxVSAdEA1Rir3aW3Cl8kUfK86xBK912HyFaKs1PAi3QY/s320/20231129_103551.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>But it was the long icicles that made me laugh. What would their scientific name be? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuA5NFu5ipGSf7PPGGilXbf35Kt8CELjzq10fH3JhhBLKVrWqiPGkRpZEHVUUKYJqVbxMH-lA7UsPuiz5Ndiucuo4gitdaGSly_FHVp0NG2OR90DRWNWXKt2QAEoF4XgruxtsfrlfeHczmE6ATdMHce0Ng3Q2Z-fluGGYjgpLTM4PKPDWnKK-3w4Z_Tw/s4032/20231128_093736.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuA5NFu5ipGSf7PPGGilXbf35Kt8CELjzq10fH3JhhBLKVrWqiPGkRpZEHVUUKYJqVbxMH-lA7UsPuiz5Ndiucuo4gitdaGSly_FHVp0NG2OR90DRWNWXKt2QAEoF4XgruxtsfrlfeHczmE6ATdMHce0Ng3Q2Z-fluGGYjgpLTM4PKPDWnKK-3w4Z_Tw/w400-h300/20231128_093736.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Peniscicles?</span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-HyD2_TqySKwI9Z1pH7W1x6tIRcR84G4Qc2fqBoviWX2gZw53neWOdUCR2ZlMEtIA-FivN8qyPEJ6FE84qIC46L9_yFTYTON_h3oCo61FPj_R3cK33-o6ZRgxENwNx8MFDNR256zP2Hh4ajDhMag5t166cvPUTm9UGWQVH112JwsEBFLUvihieIqyrQ/s4032/20231127_141352.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-67203047779054315972023-10-12T19:07:00.000-07:002023-10-12T19:07:09.588-07:00A Precision Tool: Contentment<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AckJYL3BWLqqshaxek_QP8X5Dq6nuLa1kt0_xFA_-BnsCfB4dn_RD1dX6j3_BELze8cElSHDTHQ_GN-sz81iLjtLsOQUqpFmtv5FUjWHAf0oNeO5_U3tDfLZJbYh5R2KKoDK-j3RAMBCA4dCft9TSq969NBP8m9fB6c7L5yD6yaLiZC_HuxYo_PnIYI/s4032/20230815_145431.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AckJYL3BWLqqshaxek_QP8X5Dq6nuLa1kt0_xFA_-BnsCfB4dn_RD1dX6j3_BELze8cElSHDTHQ_GN-sz81iLjtLsOQUqpFmtv5FUjWHAf0oNeO5_U3tDfLZJbYh5R2KKoDK-j3RAMBCA4dCft9TSq969NBP8m9fB6c7L5yD6yaLiZC_HuxYo_PnIYI/w300-h400/20230815_145431.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p>When I remove the cork sheath from my Exacto knife’s blade, I always feel a small rush of pleasure. The ease with which the blade slices through paper—even if the cut produces an error—pleases me. Not long ago, I cut a backing for a photo and my dog Chester Muggins, PhD. (his actual name) seemed to share in my pleasure of the work. He was curious of course, a trait which earned him his degree, but likewise I think he intuitively felt my contentment and wished to participate in its benefit.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYisUSVTSBpPLZrxraSmCdTuzI5QoI_s73ersswDvPGsO19b-K_9z5wCQUDJRDHVva_oeZm9ynnjcNPrThMFjj402pU42rYz0P_MQhzozRNg980Pgd0RiVbfWCchv2QaDBDy9psXe1-Ujfjw9QyfCfN2n0aHSHb5QR8fPFbLNXo2J-ya_30W3VlaAPps/s4032/20230815_145139.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyYisUSVTSBpPLZrxraSmCdTuzI5QoI_s73ersswDvPGsO19b-K_9z5wCQUDJRDHVva_oeZm9ynnjcNPrThMFjj402pU42rYz0P_MQhzozRNg980Pgd0RiVbfWCchv2QaDBDy9psXe1-Ujfjw9QyfCfN2n0aHSHb5QR8fPFbLNXo2J-ya_30W3VlaAPps/w400-h300/20230815_145139.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p>Contentment as a tool—as an instrument with which to engage in life's work—carves precise slices of joy even through repetitive, challenging, or lonely times and tasks. Recently I officiated at a wedding where a gentleman told me he loved traveling alone or how he could spend hours working in his gardens by himself. Some people I know are frightened of such solitude, but cultivating contentment with one's own company has its usefulness. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhShoqOUCJjpRhDpLEuoiwzsXlnV6Ad3W-RZLLzlTMCpjE0xsBEkae17N_ufjPLXg3XpLOHuMLJta5YYKd1ChUN6CLdMt6otdF4OGe2sOpp3LLKK4cKY-rjV1bdsQIzz2iXSDxSIYCn6C5i-tZvGw_NQOUjoC4U2vEW91_V1IAyncf-vNlPehAhgOkxsms/s4032/20230610_172259-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhShoqOUCJjpRhDpLEuoiwzsXlnV6Ad3W-RZLLzlTMCpjE0xsBEkae17N_ufjPLXg3XpLOHuMLJta5YYKd1ChUN6CLdMt6otdF4OGe2sOpp3LLKK4cKY-rjV1bdsQIzz2iXSDxSIYCn6C5i-tZvGw_NQOUjoC4U2vEW91_V1IAyncf-vNlPehAhgOkxsms/w400-h300/20230610_172259-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I took the photo above while sitting on a bridge—momentarily no one around—tucking my camera under and against the bridge edge. Most photos taken of Silver Falls on the Ohanapecosh River are of the falls, not the channel downstream. Ohanapecosh, which translates from the Yakima and Cowlitz languages as “Standing on the Edge,” is a place I have wandered both with and without company. My dear husband Gary loved Mt. Rainier and especially the western area of Ohanapecosh. Walking its paths and exploring its edges alone, I intentionally put contentment in my pack. I was content I once shared this place with Gary and content that now I have the bounty of being footloose, snapping photos without regard to time or inconvenience to a companion. At the falls I found contentment by exploring ways to take a self-portrait in the pools of water caught in the crevices of the rocks along the river. I might not have captured this image (which I am very happy with) if I had not been alone. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-afEBDslCu_Fc3lWGIpFTJuo9ob9wTOmggWiApfrGM_kgcriScVs5beStKxTiHpkhmQ-pqRn8GEhg1f2c33C11oXJ2OHjKFz6U7YUPuPxwcVuW5f1YEMfkSJefcquBJHwcEHxPzPhNU4bwDYbAxrpldHNprjgDS_J4yeXYVix3SGlJU1QFWex7mDjKK4/s4032/20230907_161452.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-afEBDslCu_Fc3lWGIpFTJuo9ob9wTOmggWiApfrGM_kgcriScVs5beStKxTiHpkhmQ-pqRn8GEhg1f2c33C11oXJ2OHjKFz6U7YUPuPxwcVuW5f1YEMfkSJefcquBJHwcEHxPzPhNU4bwDYbAxrpldHNprjgDS_J4yeXYVix3SGlJU1QFWex7mDjKK4/w400-h300/20230907_161452.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>At the wedding I mentioned, the couple acknowledged the role of intentional contentment in their wedding vows. Sadie said this: "There are countless big life milestones that I look forward to doing together – but I’m just as excited to continue grocery shopping together, going on evening walks, and having coffee before we go to work. I look forward to every mundane day-to-day thing if it gets me to be by your side." Andy echoed her attention to being content together, making these observations: “I love every second I spend with you… I love how when we see an older couple who seem so in love we look at each other and telepathically say “I want that.”</p><p></p><p>These two dear souls have sharpened their tools of contentment ever since they first met. When I asked their former boss when she first noticed their relationship might be something special, she said, “At the Christmas party on the night they met.” Their connection was palpable to everyone who saw them together over the next few years. They already look like that older couple who seem so in love. Its lovely when two people bring the skill of contentment, the skill of loving the "mundane" to their marriage. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklf-TqiRwNPndHxc4x466pyBF7DtJsWpDA8ZdYarxpD0SpEKxZaf-fDh6oXRImcgbN6Iox2nRYwc-P9NbDMOZBVXmoOMIOSUn710rWxeTKkluM9dpZGhsM8r9J1yMnyUlsKnj8jqsmB-qUBgLT1n6e_fNeN69hpT3a6UFZd9E4PJ5Tb1UNTf2bJY2t3A/s2076/0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1384" data-original-width="2076" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklf-TqiRwNPndHxc4x466pyBF7DtJsWpDA8ZdYarxpD0SpEKxZaf-fDh6oXRImcgbN6Iox2nRYwc-P9NbDMOZBVXmoOMIOSUn710rWxeTKkluM9dpZGhsM8r9J1yMnyUlsKnj8jqsmB-qUBgLT1n6e_fNeN69hpT3a6UFZd9E4PJ5Tb1UNTf2bJY2t3A/w400-h266/0.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: www.katemiller.photography </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: center;">May their tools of contentment be ever sharp.</p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-60649565818081225342023-08-22T20:33:00.001-07:002023-08-23T09:34:48.936-07:00Eagle Cap Wilderness, Lakes Basin Region<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vnm40TegvfvcLrJIi6BcpyWiQoAf8UEOzT3x56Lpm6sE8kEZDL5ko4GcWSEcJk1x5Cs8NoG-UK1lxBEA0vNGtegdkm9xGjiWH_oZN4X8IC3icpHbjJ4M6-KiWYjA8N3mygYaFCyrOfFLVajh5twkouK5IxPTe1xhf_Kp6kg5PLxMfO_3FGllEdZd53M/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2vnm40TegvfvcLrJIi6BcpyWiQoAf8UEOzT3x56Lpm6sE8kEZDL5ko4GcWSEcJk1x5Cs8NoG-UK1lxBEA0vNGtegdkm9xGjiWH_oZN4X8IC3icpHbjJ4M6-KiWYjA8N3mygYaFCyrOfFLVajh5twkouK5IxPTe1xhf_Kp6kg5PLxMfO_3FGllEdZd53M/w300-h400/IMG-20230724-WA0038.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Connor the Wrangler. <br />Photo by Art McBreen</td></tr></tbody></table></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Connor the wrangler wrapped our totes with canvas in precisely-executed folds and then tied them with knotted ropes looped in exquisite designs. With this skill he could have secured a job in the gift-wrapping department at Neiman Marcus’s flagship store in Texas. Instead, we met him at the Two Pan Trailhead into the Eagle Cap Wilderness in northwest Oregon. His calm demeanor settled the horses and the dogs and us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For more than thirty years I have camped by the Lostine River. The clear water with its rocky bottoms pleased my sensibilities. On occasion I hiked up the tributaries of this river, but never far enough to reach any of the lakes that are its origin. Friends hinted at their glory, but I was aware of my limitations. I never felt I would be strong enough to carry my shelter, my sustenance, and my weight all on my small frame. When my friend Art suggested hiring a company named Del Sol Wilderness Adventures to haul our food and equipment and ensconce us in waiting tents high in the mountains above Wallowa Lake, I was hopeful that with some small effort, I could do it. Art’s daughter Al accompanied us, but she hiked in and out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trip to the Lakes Basin Region of the Eagle Cap Wilderness was originally planned for September of 2022 until Art got a call two nights before informing us that a forest fire had shut down our route along the Lostine River. In rescheduling for 2023, Art considered the likelihood of more mosquitos in July, but a lower chance of fires. He was right about the fires and the mosquitos. (We carried multiple bottles of insect repellant, but by the time we returned to civilization, I even had a Big Dipper-like constellation of mosquito bites on my right calf. Still, the trip was worth the bites.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Both years Art and I had scheduled horse-riding lessons to get us comfortable in the saddle. In addition, I ordered a pair of horseback riding underwear in a classic black shade... well-padded in the rear. I justified the expense by deciding the underwear would be perfect should I ever be relegated to sitting all day in a wheelchair. If I have developed dementia by then and can’t dress myself correctly, these underpants are so beautiful and expensively made that I should be able to mistakenly wear them on the outside of my slacks and still look stylish. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Before Art and I mounted our horses, Conor checked every rope, saddle, and stirrup twice. We were off. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uX8fwOaX7wyvv7fpdyrM-Jw1rnbhgaA3ZR-xRuOSOtfslI72iex8Bcr2dkmjw0OVLinhi71zMu9SSYPJRQrQ9E6dA93JNMsRYv7cpPxF_jT7c_dTkJyqyunPmBEGw3JCG9uVG4FcPbW4n-XlXvL-KDWsJ_wq2T8KTEmaArSmutw4Q8NQwXAVqntlVIY/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uX8fwOaX7wyvv7fpdyrM-Jw1rnbhgaA3ZR-xRuOSOtfslI72iex8Bcr2dkmjw0OVLinhi71zMu9SSYPJRQrQ9E6dA93JNMsRYv7cpPxF_jT7c_dTkJyqyunPmBEGw3JCG9uVG4FcPbW4n-XlXvL-KDWsJ_wq2T8KTEmaArSmutw4Q8NQwXAVqntlVIY/w300-h400/IMG-20230724-WA0002.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lottie and I. <br />Photo by Art McBreen<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">I rode the seven-and-a-half miles to camp on a horse named Lottie. On the way out I rode Belotti. Although Art rode these same horses, when he rode them they kept their noses near the horse in front of them. When I rode them they would lollygag slightly behind and then on any straight and soft patch of trail jogged to catch up—putting the underwear to the test. The bouncing would set me to laughing until around mile six-and-a-half, I finally figured out I should stand in the stirrups during the jogs. I was tickled with my newfound skill and then laughed in delight. </div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_k4KGE67H0v1CJruDTamsoG5iC1ejQX1twVuBJoe8Wr0XbHwfJnwBC1KIoDsPOVctvQ5jb5PQTuj21sxy5kVzDvOHeJwvl8Xm1pRu3Al3MpUH2ZtnJao-n8hfe9RZsmBIEyaQlHGF1aKUeqg7-HsJT47x4NSBKdCRyHMRJDhU2hsbqj1S6RgEuy9iNE/s4032/20230722_092031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_k4KGE67H0v1CJruDTamsoG5iC1ejQX1twVuBJoe8Wr0XbHwfJnwBC1KIoDsPOVctvQ5jb5PQTuj21sxy5kVzDvOHeJwvl8Xm1pRu3Al3MpUH2ZtnJao-n8hfe9RZsmBIEyaQlHGF1aKUeqg7-HsJT47x4NSBKdCRyHMRJDhU2hsbqj1S6RgEuy9iNE/w400-h300/20230722_092031.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al in the Cook Tent<br />Photo by Kathy McConnell</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Del Sol’s campsite was off the trail on a rise overlooking the valley’s meandering stream. Al reached the camp ahead of us and welcomed us to camp at lunchtime. The canvas cook tent was kitted out with everything we needed to cook and the horses had carried in our food. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTdS5CrbGS7vu5j3z0Zrb117s_kbKBcrMl3hC3Ztixe-EooRjdKmstSeopkE6w2kosscHnusq1b8ZFQonKsKqPk-KVka6UqwTAfJqvWCBahCVF8GbnVxqaF0a8xfcBTQiytjEUaqa0KCKm_PRHABTu5mJsiFkP6jDHQYIQbuKdKVclcNaiGyd1toFpbk/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTdS5CrbGS7vu5j3z0Zrb117s_kbKBcrMl3hC3Ztixe-EooRjdKmstSeopkE6w2kosscHnusq1b8ZFQonKsKqPk-KVka6UqwTAfJqvWCBahCVF8GbnVxqaF0a8xfcBTQiytjEUaqa0KCKm_PRHABTu5mJsiFkP6jDHQYIQbuKdKVclcNaiGyd1toFpbk/w300-h400/IMG-20230724-WA0025.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art Cooking<br />Photo by Kathy McConnell</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Al had planned most of the meals, but she had consulted with us about the menu. Having the horses pack in made it possible to splurge on ingredients. Below are a couple of photos of meals. (You would hire Al to plan your meals if you could.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_8iRqxylGHlv8zbTsNdj2oRZq_qvidZGwAb9pesB7NVghP9xqkRjZx51mfcI0btsMTtZvvJnRM9AM0I41aUqt03SfrOCj1BOMfd-NT2ybgCGH50DgigFkzK2SRVM4RUCbSF5a8Ly-hoNF80q-3kt_nlYc9DUHrFAV-b0-zdSVAH4ntbbPqir24Qj4eM/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_8iRqxylGHlv8zbTsNdj2oRZq_qvidZGwAb9pesB7NVghP9xqkRjZx51mfcI0btsMTtZvvJnRM9AM0I41aUqt03SfrOCj1BOMfd-NT2ybgCGH50DgigFkzK2SRVM4RUCbSF5a8Ly-hoNF80q-3kt_nlYc9DUHrFAV-b0-zdSVAH4ntbbPqir24Qj4eM/w240-h320/IMG-20230724-WA0013.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Savory oatmeal with mushrooms, adocado, sesame seeds, an egg and soy sauce. My Favorite Breakfast!</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1qOmY3l6ozf0jgSjrLbuDaE3qTR7KDmfpjSDB-urTch0QkzTTZo2tk2QLeNEXntCqnmB16rfIBnsMp-QbVNoYJyz4fEI59ANll6iejLG-lc1pEB2jMaRIC1dA18RWdhRroAgFNjx-ud-eGfK4h61gJ3xgG0g8w4dX3H7LqqQ0i6JUVntI8b3A-CVglk/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1qOmY3l6ozf0jgSjrLbuDaE3qTR7KDmfpjSDB-urTch0QkzTTZo2tk2QLeNEXntCqnmB16rfIBnsMp-QbVNoYJyz4fEI59ANll6iejLG-lc1pEB2jMaRIC1dA18RWdhRroAgFNjx-ud-eGfK4h61gJ3xgG0g8w4dX3H7LqqQ0i6JUVntI8b3A-CVglk/w240-h320/IMG-20230724-WA0019.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shakshuka with eggs.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We each chose our sleeping tent (already set up) and put the coolers into a small snowbank. We ate lunch, read, rested, and ate again before we made a fire from scavenged wood, watched the sun set on Eagle Cap Mountain to the east, and waited for the first stars before retiring to our respective tent cots.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPG4DgHtsdotCDR02adPC2EbULXnfHjFbkNbvyAV3Mk2PLQVVFBfxJ4Z6tbOmMxe2xt7gh2tdI7yJo0MbVci9OIM7KUmCMSKAm4Z68g3D9KE9016O4PCjxRFWpCyPpdLh2KjH-NuemnD1FFp3GYCObYCEp5IDJ7qqTKbiPHAST9p-aQy7ku4vGqyv_sWg/s1024/IMG-20230819-WA0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPG4DgHtsdotCDR02adPC2EbULXnfHjFbkNbvyAV3Mk2PLQVVFBfxJ4Z6tbOmMxe2xt7gh2tdI7yJo0MbVci9OIM7KUmCMSKAm4Z68g3D9KE9016O4PCjxRFWpCyPpdLh2KjH-NuemnD1FFp3GYCObYCEp5IDJ7qqTKbiPHAST9p-aQy7ku4vGqyv_sWg/w300-h400/IMG-20230819-WA0027.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathy and Art Reconnoitering<br />Photo by Al McBreen</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the second day of camping we prepared to hike a loop around four lakes, crossing four ridgelines to accomplish this. We examined maps, packed a lunch and swimsuits, and set out around 11:15 in the morning.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoejh_S2RFwdV-rA9Ti5TnWQlWlY_QTqGVmZWiTMhteGcrV3VCEZFwgBv8_74hdkDphO9wl3CSkKd3SmcqC3dIqwGs3Sc5tUQPWi40p4UHj_es7CdjzS10EbPQYFk9bWp3wv66Kmqvvy36-f2IGoPuMPqwRsaBwJ0TmjNPR_p_50IOODKludyTpdALfSo/s3979/20230723_184842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3979" data-original-width="2984" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoejh_S2RFwdV-rA9Ti5TnWQlWlY_QTqGVmZWiTMhteGcrV3VCEZFwgBv8_74hdkDphO9wl3CSkKd3SmcqC3dIqwGs3Sc5tUQPWi40p4UHj_es7CdjzS10EbPQYFk9bWp3wv66Kmqvvy36-f2IGoPuMPqwRsaBwJ0TmjNPR_p_50IOODKludyTpdALfSo/w480-h640/20230723_184842.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mirror Lake<br />Photo by Kathy McConnell</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>The first lake, Mirror Lake, was a stunner. A large group of teenage boys were camped on a ledge above the lake. We moved on to Moccasin Lake where we ate lunch while watching a large dog retrieve sticks on one side of us and someone fishing on the other.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeYQKj4UXsJYQra493j2_HO7LJYQRhJa3HloxJlfqvDN2DYUadXgQ1-MBewe2uYx-pS139RatDDY1yjVZvsgqTnhoy8hel5D2-QnG3jIPP5Pk0rFGVGRZCW_2hSbm2GFgBfkWcqou0pKKtXiBYqx1JXPrK415hMetT5oCINjD0I7WFtsrzd6J7NgzIdA/s1024/IMG-20230819-WA0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeYQKj4UXsJYQra493j2_HO7LJYQRhJa3HloxJlfqvDN2DYUadXgQ1-MBewe2uYx-pS139RatDDY1yjVZvsgqTnhoy8hel5D2-QnG3jIPP5Pk0rFGVGRZCW_2hSbm2GFgBfkWcqou0pKKtXiBYqx1JXPrK415hMetT5oCINjD0I7WFtsrzd6J7NgzIdA/w300-h400/IMG-20230819-WA0023.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al, Kathy, and Art<br />Photo by Al McBreen</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />Afterwards we walked the length of Moccasin Lake and left Eagle Cap Mountain behind us. This is when I found myself pleased that I could walk the length of a mountain. It felt as if I had moved the mountain from in front of me to behind me. As if I had lifted it up and repositioned it. This sensation happened again after crossing a ridgeline, descending to Douglas Lake with its blooming lily pads, and walking along a good portion of Craig Mountain. Just before arriving at Sunshine Lake over another ridgeline and through heather-lined paths, we looked back and were surprised with a view of both Craig Mountain to our right and a huge mountain, the Matterhorn, on its left. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAxL_2BsWyq1UXg19FSFuLHcLrX7TRVALu-LpADpfRQMoSnSJA5DMS6VdHqf7uqexcZxAkFkEBsBWHtkb-T589RRIHmyuOAT89z5caws3HVl8-Nw1OL2AvaoREIzFJLhsrn56AtOnZ-2kTVVd1jjebpySYsP_9r4xX4kBZb2I6jKIKGIF3hMcJ2r2Im8/s1024/20230822_151256-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAxL_2BsWyq1UXg19FSFuLHcLrX7TRVALu-LpADpfRQMoSnSJA5DMS6VdHqf7uqexcZxAkFkEBsBWHtkb-T589RRIHmyuOAT89z5caws3HVl8-Nw1OL2AvaoREIzFJLhsrn56AtOnZ-2kTVVd1jjebpySYsP_9r4xX4kBZb2I6jKIKGIF3hMcJ2r2Im8/w400-h300/20230822_151256-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matterhorn Mtn. (left) and Craig Mtn. (right)<br />Photo by Art McBreen</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By this time we had passed a handful of backpackers. We noticed that no one was anywhere as old as Art and me. In fact, no one seemed older than in their mid-forties. As we approached Mirror Lake again and stopped to soak our feet in the cold lake water, we checked how far we had to go to get back to the camp. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkdoC8b8g9rn7VrzLRu1prjqplG7zCQjEXB2DZCuMZxJvC4O37qimenfmRtqkKjlGojRxCoShNupL03Z4UtTW06TRYU2uY6us7BOTyyIhjLYPWJdzHgy6iW0gYkb9uz2AWe3vEsgxfudo5YrNjtCiBRe0KxNHnfTHwpHstqXIwKT1VYndPecddXoYKRA/s1024/IMG-20230819-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkdoC8b8g9rn7VrzLRu1prjqplG7zCQjEXB2DZCuMZxJvC4O37qimenfmRtqkKjlGojRxCoShNupL03Z4UtTW06TRYU2uY6us7BOTyyIhjLYPWJdzHgy6iW0gYkb9uz2AWe3vEsgxfudo5YrNjtCiBRe0KxNHnfTHwpHstqXIwKT1VYndPecddXoYKRA/w400-h300/IMG-20230819-WA0003.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathy and Art at Mirror Lake Soaking Our Feet<br />Photo by Al McBreen</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>All of us were flagging as we crested the last ridgeline about 7:15 in early evening. My step count for the day totaled 28,424 steps. We had walked 9.2 miles on the loop and I had walked a total of 11.58 miles for the day. I am not sure that I could repeat this feat (seven hours of walking and moving two mountains) when I am in my eighties. </p><p>The next day we “rested.” I walked a short distance in the cold mountain stream near the camp, taking photos of rocks on the stream bottom.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKqZTa0DPn4neslvIwqLMZePpFskjhzt25vom-dEPFfhUxYuOlZuTCmv7iSbxY0EaZbrn3k9_VFCBVlzGHJqhzSbbPkr-uNBNUntZg90224awm11tq8YeTQRwljvr0ZKqVZqZxjzG40rPG4mnRGVn1ZBOG6hWcHNo2XdSY5W94dce-mKHHtbBrX5_CH90/s1917/20230822_144702.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1917" data-original-width="1917" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKqZTa0DPn4neslvIwqLMZePpFskjhzt25vom-dEPFfhUxYuOlZuTCmv7iSbxY0EaZbrn3k9_VFCBVlzGHJqhzSbbPkr-uNBNUntZg90224awm11tq8YeTQRwljvr0ZKqVZqZxjzG40rPG4mnRGVn1ZBOG6hWcHNo2XdSY5W94dce-mKHHtbBrX5_CH90/w400-h400/20230822_144702.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Cold Foot in the Streambed<br />Photo by Kathy McConnell</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had taken off my outer pants to keep dry. (I was in a secluded spot after all.) By the time I was thigh deep in the chilly water, I was gasping. The experience was exhilerating. (More stream photos were taken the next morning.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVexId-3FU_Ge0R80kWBUObbtz_bFmjQVnDoDYZnfPpWYJl-pMAnulwzN64FZ_NYLtc5Sa_SeMSbzsczlNTAZRElzfCAKx-XaTN3LeS6ZB-cSLgWAfaSvMnkJgBwprmEqhITWjpC39-Gz-nu5Kbm3NE_4Mi43eokWLD1auBPeuC73RJkLv0fFHibgJHjM/s1024/20230727_195924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVexId-3FU_Ge0R80kWBUObbtz_bFmjQVnDoDYZnfPpWYJl-pMAnulwzN64FZ_NYLtc5Sa_SeMSbzsczlNTAZRElzfCAKx-XaTN3LeS6ZB-cSLgWAfaSvMnkJgBwprmEqhITWjpC39-Gz-nu5Kbm3NE_4Mi43eokWLD1auBPeuC73RJkLv0fFHibgJHjM/w400-h300/20230727_195924.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Curve of Water over Rocks<br />Photo by Kathy McConnell </td></tr></tbody></table><p>I dried my legs with my camp towel and walked the banks looking for photo-ops of flowers. Even if I thought it was summer, the high valleys were in the middle of their spring season. Snowbanks were still in evidence. Larkspur, elephant’s ears, heather, buttercups, penstemon, pearly everlasting, and so many other unknown flowers carpeted the valleys. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1DmJXJvoJ52ONyQTNCE8JJZKMejzzqI87azR0BVuNX3quypnlwa392VzJRLOv8yPQyUp-r-vfy7UxTWK0FcKpmZwmYqzwhquSrKEAzWexvyPhUyH804Yx0kI2g6hw-pEapdJxaelAHwWSM4MZuVdrbgq8BYhy8XAR7TV_HxoRSNC8eC2J5z35e9Ftz4/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV1DmJXJvoJ52ONyQTNCE8JJZKMejzzqI87azR0BVuNX3quypnlwa392VzJRLOv8yPQyUp-r-vfy7UxTWK0FcKpmZwmYqzwhquSrKEAzWexvyPhUyH804Yx0kI2g6hw-pEapdJxaelAHwWSM4MZuVdrbgq8BYhy8XAR7TV_HxoRSNC8eC2J5z35e9Ftz4/w300-h400/IMG-20230724-WA0017.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heather and Larkspur<br />Macro Photo by Kathy McConnell </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHd_4y-b-MrLZ2skQ87vlHJkTPONseOyFoKsG7Jmq_veYcZ_K6BbcqPyxLjDP-0UixhvTev9_98FeGP05PTQVuJdrPQrdD6yoiZghL4uI2g1gKB0XDrCh7Ak0kuivgrBknJRQV32WUmv6EA2qjuNfRuL1E16ceGkK5kdd52zo4Ris95QYwQLrDfFMe-pg/s1024/IMG-20230819-WA0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHd_4y-b-MrLZ2skQ87vlHJkTPONseOyFoKsG7Jmq_veYcZ_K6BbcqPyxLjDP-0UixhvTev9_98FeGP05PTQVuJdrPQrdD6yoiZghL4uI2g1gKB0XDrCh7Ak0kuivgrBknJRQV32WUmv6EA2qjuNfRuL1E16ceGkK5kdd52zo4Ris95QYwQLrDfFMe-pg/w300-h400/IMG-20230819-WA0004.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Us in camp with Eagle Cap Mtn. in the background<br />Photo by Al McBreen<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>We took a photo from camp of us the last evening with the sun setting on Eagle Cap. Later, when I woke in the middle of the night, I slipped on my coat and shoes before going out to see the stars. Across the sky lay the Milky Way. I had almost forgotten of its existence.<p></p><p>The trip to the Eagle Cap Wilderness Lake District will be on my top-ten weekend trips of my entire life. Art, Al, and the Del Sol horses with their capable wrangler, Connor, made it all possible. Thanks, everyone. Lovely trip. Gorgeous place.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz3n4rx3vuk7k-ajHukI4q_PLgDCG-dNw-Itj_7SsQcuLSBIdve6wDggbpQlCOoB7Ga8Yh8eFEU3G4eg2qsTm9M8bhm0AJvXQ3Tu4vYNL6oSsx_IdAVKHa7polsK29Dbv5HvbPzSPZGZy0Xm_2VdnpNToS5PTjoxVwGpnk5liulK7efXEJfb0ND0a-UA/s1024/IMG-20230724-WA0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcz3n4rx3vuk7k-ajHukI4q_PLgDCG-dNw-Itj_7SsQcuLSBIdve6wDggbpQlCOoB7Ga8Yh8eFEU3G4eg2qsTm9M8bhm0AJvXQ3Tu4vYNL6oSsx_IdAVKHa7polsK29Dbv5HvbPzSPZGZy0Xm_2VdnpNToS5PTjoxVwGpnk5liulK7efXEJfb0ND0a-UA/w640-h480/IMG-20230724-WA0036.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sky Above My Tent on the Last Morning<br />Kathy McConnell</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-30776329377456155722023-07-04T19:37:00.001-07:002023-07-09T16:46:59.334-07:00Waiting for the Results of a Biopsy<b>For Bryan</b>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbscVfxg_2zVNDkkDX-bXQsb6yG_7pfa0hAYCnX-kxtg8S54QmT_d84IhbHrcHZEoJ6GmcksFon4nqSSXHQl9-OCzrRhSEr9bG05GJl5lLSxU32cElcCWQ0SfEoA_gPXWPai7L9Q8GjJEWunfeitMSQ7yzZ44AdeiYp0L-CLJdggsblGZjTuYckh4HCw/s3024/20230704_154306.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbscVfxg_2zVNDkkDX-bXQsb6yG_7pfa0hAYCnX-kxtg8S54QmT_d84IhbHrcHZEoJ6GmcksFon4nqSSXHQl9-OCzrRhSEr9bG05GJl5lLSxU32cElcCWQ0SfEoA_gPXWPai7L9Q8GjJEWunfeitMSQ7yzZ44AdeiYp0L-CLJdggsblGZjTuYckh4HCw/s400/20230704_154306.jpg"/></a></div>
Like discovering a small tear in the fabric of your favorite sweatshirt, a cancer diagnosis induces reflection. Could you not have been more careful? Eaten better, slathered on more sunscreen, refinished furniture with less toxic components, or donned a mask on those smoke-filled summer wanderings? <i>Or</i> be born to a different family, in a different place, or at a different time? Started a relationship sooner?
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFjnK5EkKd9aiJvuI3iY8Y4VcZ1hOfOz2hkwDK_4kBdw6TI6We5DN2j0kWgJEL_lTWOa-QdKHTVquGNRDbtwka_jzgk1I6ibQDi8gZ-XBvH-WWMewZjPSDBhT4Vjf669gOOj71XrTj1TCspWngZvkQuOSbhWZWFe3DtOaEcDP2rNQoWt5pZNlThsrMGI/s3024/20230626_125047.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="2664" data-original-width="3024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsFjnK5EkKd9aiJvuI3iY8Y4VcZ1hOfOz2hkwDK_4kBdw6TI6We5DN2j0kWgJEL_lTWOa-QdKHTVquGNRDbtwka_jzgk1I6ibQDi8gZ-XBvH-WWMewZjPSDBhT4Vjf669gOOj71XrTj1TCspWngZvkQuOSbhWZWFe3DtOaEcDP2rNQoWt5pZNlThsrMGI/s200/20230626_125047.jpg"/></a></div>
Everything has a lifetime: in the photo above my father’s sweatshirt with that little tear had its lifetime, my first Volkswagen (which already had rusty floors when I bought it) had it, my childhood cat had his, and then there is you—you have a lifetime. Were you surprised about yours maybe coming sooner than you expected? I was. When my friend Missy died of pancreatic cancer in her early 60s, I regretted that her lifetime hadn’t extended into her 90s. I had always assumed we would run stairs together with our senior knees creaking out a rhythm. It is frustrating when longevity doesn’t match up with an individual’s capacity for living—particularly living with bright intentions, intellectual acuity, and beloved.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbzCPOfYZzwxLIOVsb3A49amBCgWOxEtzjCvRv8Giys6CXGP3hXhgRi7A8aGjv3ewDINb9S_S35iTFDsu8OejYH_z4YoTAUfAWFPR_f5kYQcai9SOujLM-Q42WyrdnYDwDv2XU-58tc9g9PyQjFDpjFhYDzpqgNciQnSxkRq8qmu1fCpjllrQbCzNUCE/s4032/20220117_135437.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGbzCPOfYZzwxLIOVsb3A49amBCgWOxEtzjCvRv8Giys6CXGP3hXhgRi7A8aGjv3ewDINb9S_S35iTFDsu8OejYH_z4YoTAUfAWFPR_f5kYQcai9SOujLM-Q42WyrdnYDwDv2XU-58tc9g9PyQjFDpjFhYDzpqgNciQnSxkRq8qmu1fCpjllrQbCzNUCE/s400/20220117_135437.jpg"/></a></div>
Waiting for the result of a biopsy is like waiting for an icicle to melt. It will melt in time, just as you will know the results of the pathology report in time; and yet, the result comes too slow and at the same time too fast. Too slow to ease the anxiety of what will be possible and too fast to entirely comprehend what might come next.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDsqoEyhffxasAOMG-1bAq29pZdjEmdKRumumHpOzArO-zBrc8q7NXTw8QRZ2zVXBg9MgfvTU3TlnErDiD8NxEPxv-_LFdGybJJaY3fl_0IjyBwkzqCws5BBww5zZClMXR5w1fErRvRmWGPW5ToG8jp_yzEsI3euSaK2a50kUWymAvUzh83Qvd2kkTzk/s4032/20230610_172259-1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZDsqoEyhffxasAOMG-1bAq29pZdjEmdKRumumHpOzArO-zBrc8q7NXTw8QRZ2zVXBg9MgfvTU3TlnErDiD8NxEPxv-_LFdGybJJaY3fl_0IjyBwkzqCws5BBww5zZClMXR5w1fErRvRmWGPW5ToG8jp_yzEsI3euSaK2a50kUWymAvUzh83Qvd2kkTzk/s400/20230610_172259-1.jpg"/></a></div>
How much longer will your life last? Where have you not seen yet, who have you not loved enough, or what stories have you neglected to tell? Even those, who have faith they will somehow exist in another world beyond, surely have regrets in leaving this gorgeous plane of existence. They may dither about whether their spirit has garnered sufficient substance to even exist in the next world. (Don’t worry on this count, you tote gobs of good karma should there be an afterlife.) Prior to knowing the results of a biopsy, the tear in the fabric of your life is small, but it has become a slit through which worries and regrets slip.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzpfZ7l23EALXnKE9M69DoA1K2bYf0gPUkGHo4QtWA5EJUswUarXEQSht0iH9CaO-OCbdR_Fqk-f3ac6PwVaDcESziqBBtAmFU_Ndl0ZTDpMXov9soRC8xg_9aENobIPQRPjpDXPrXEP5zfJY4lPvi73MilAttBRrxWX5l1TVNNbqkzPCBLJvQVnUfRs/s4032/20220820_101936.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzpfZ7l23EALXnKE9M69DoA1K2bYf0gPUkGHo4QtWA5EJUswUarXEQSht0iH9CaO-OCbdR_Fqk-f3ac6PwVaDcESziqBBtAmFU_Ndl0ZTDpMXov9soRC8xg_9aENobIPQRPjpDXPrXEP5zfJY4lPvi73MilAttBRrxWX5l1TVNNbqkzPCBLJvQVnUfRs/s400/20220820_101936.jpg"/></a></div>
I have often tried to photograph the very moment when a drop of water shapeshifts and falls earthward. Hence, my pleasure when I discovered a drop of sap dangling from the loose threads of a rope. Here was a drop for whom I didn’t need to wait. By the bounty of physics, it would test my capacity to hold a camera long enough. Its life as a drop would be extended. For you—waiting for the biopsy—your journey onward will not be precisely like you imagine. The scientific world, that incredible, innovative medical community in whose times we live, may help you hold your shape longer than might seem possible. And maybe not. Your days ahead, all of them, will be different. Mostly intense in a lovely sort of way. Celebrated for what was and what is. Shared by family and friends and acquaintances. There will be difficult moments though. Breath deep, gather your atoms, and stay with the rushing current of this life as long as you can. You are loved by many and we hold you with care. The biopsy will be what it is.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfHtdbLMoU-jEahxZIviiLRxJcocLUNbpq8HCe0ZdblbHL3QWZ7HnNT808OkYg2PSK9aHsYDvuXSwgUuttn817ODQz8S0VAdb15BAzHN0NcwXlYQRzApuWeQdNBRoTWqptbDtBnFhaUBw23CtwzEN9snMBSEEmEx1Y0P3xxpizD_rlOpRFrsGJ7LKEcg/s2542/20230610_194818.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="2542" data-original-width="2542" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfHtdbLMoU-jEahxZIviiLRxJcocLUNbpq8HCe0ZdblbHL3QWZ7HnNT808OkYg2PSK9aHsYDvuXSwgUuttn817ODQz8S0VAdb15BAzHN0NcwXlYQRzApuWeQdNBRoTWqptbDtBnFhaUBw23CtwzEN9snMBSEEmEx1Y0P3xxpizD_rlOpRFrsGJ7LKEcg/s400/20230610_194818.jpg"/></a></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-7908995408471632652023-06-18T19:06:00.000-07:002023-06-18T19:06:28.072-07:00Privy to the Secrets of Fish, Ode to My Dad<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietvErRxWxr6gxfEjLLI30mcrLVcQxRxeoOx91cKpilkIQNFa33n4t3eXJNRZKHjU9g4Pqia5Brb69FYFnQErZrI7tsOPRgYSqp8Ol9LvlKHi3GwnCjxAP-66H9R01C1cBkCIW_cURL-C6IZ8KI1akmJBXMHuGBOCoXZXsthY6RzIMzxC-2tjl-OTN/s4032/20230618_183216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEietvErRxWxr6gxfEjLLI30mcrLVcQxRxeoOx91cKpilkIQNFa33n4t3eXJNRZKHjU9g4Pqia5Brb69FYFnQErZrI7tsOPRgYSqp8Ol9LvlKHi3GwnCjxAP-66H9R01C1cBkCIW_cURL-C6IZ8KI1akmJBXMHuGBOCoXZXsthY6RzIMzxC-2tjl-OTN/w400-h300/20230618_183216.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>My dad was already legally blind when he stepped down into the small boat that squeaked and banged as it nudged a dock in Nanaimo, Canada. In his peripheral vision—the only vision remaining after the most recent stroke—the horizon must have bobbled, tilting disconcertingly into the slate sky before dipping like a roller coaster into the choppy water. Cocking his head to the side, my father found his footing on a cross bench before stepping down to the fish-slick, water-splashed hull floor. Being more experienced than either the kid or me, my father took the stern seat and rested his hand on the motor’s control lever to steady himself as the boat rocked when the kid and I boarded behind him. From under the brim of his fishing hat, he smiled at his small accomplishment or maybe for the adventure to come.</p><p>Across the dock four guys (among them the kid’s dad and the kid’s uncle along with a couple of his uncle’s friends) carelessly jostled each other as they boarded their manly bulks into a similar small skiff. Exuding confidence and casting superior and pitying glances our way, they were already blustering strategies to each other on how to catch their limit of salmon. As they pulled away in a hurry to use every minute of their boat rental time, one of them shouted a flippant encouragement our way as if doubting a blind man, a boy, and a woman would manage to even steer clear of the dock.</p><p>Among my earliest and dearest memories of my dad, I faced him in a rowboat on a lake on Grand Mesa, Colorado—near where his ashes now nurture a grove of pines. Rain dappled the surface of the lake and sent ever-expanding ringlets off to kiss the shoreline, a smack smack of gentle kisses. My dad said, "Fishing in the rain is best. Fish think the raindrops are insects hitting the surface. They jump to catch them." I watched with my child-eyes-a-wonder as shimmery mermaid-like trout leapt from the water around us, gently slapping the surface with a farewell wave upon each re-entry. I felt like my dad had imparted to me a trout’s secret, fish lore of the most basic and useful kind. </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30jW01orY5jt3j7Vq16oCfPg1lEv8vwWXdfylrK40h3nX4mHPpieUpEJG-nnfxKpwncSPYXdOv55XglXzoDC3H2ciulqAIqlVGX8qTn8zwrlRaV4ls2zSyTGZ2o3_Lm7H1egGNlYwCpLDJFmDCsh9SAIy_fu55wpV7nXU1kF67zeEa5g3SDoxxU2V/s4032/20230618_183242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30jW01orY5jt3j7Vq16oCfPg1lEv8vwWXdfylrK40h3nX4mHPpieUpEJG-nnfxKpwncSPYXdOv55XglXzoDC3H2ciulqAIqlVGX8qTn8zwrlRaV4ls2zSyTGZ2o3_Lm7H1egGNlYwCpLDJFmDCsh9SAIy_fu55wpV7nXU1kF67zeEa5g3SDoxxU2V/w300-h400/20230618_183242.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me Shore Fishing on Grand Mesa<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>My family never owned a boat. Rarely boated. Knew no friends with boats. My dad usually shore fished. In fact after he died, his fishing buddy mentioned that there was a package of recently shore-caught fish from a lake on Grand Mesa in dad’s freezer. At the lawyer’s office, where my sister and I went to hear the will read, we were inspired by a Japanese fish print hanging on the wall and were excited about having dad’s trout ink-printed on elegant paper and then water colored as a memorial to his love of fishing. Back home I yanked open the freezer door, pulled out the package of trout, and laid it in its wrapper on the counter. But—so like my dad, thorough as always—he had cleaned the trout and cut off their heads before freezing them. Printed, their image would be too macabre to grace a dining room wall, so my sister and I decided to forego the effort.</p><p>Back on the waters of the Strait of Georgia, I don’t recall how many hours our little crew of the disabled, the young, and the woman fished, but it wasn’t long before we caught the first salmon. With a large net the kid lifted it into the boat and we were all elated. The second salmon snared a hook shortly afterwards. </p><p>The three of us hadn’t planned this trip. The guys had. They had reserved the ferry crossings, the overnight accommodations, and the boats with their accompanying fishing equipment. There had been no prior discussion about who would ride in what boat. Not to my knowledge. The next salmon my dad, the kid, and I caught evened the tally–one each.</p><p>In the turning of our boat, we sometimes caught sight of the guys, the serious fishermen, off some distance from us, sitting solidly in their little rocking boat, too far away to ask about the salmon they were catching.</p><p>Our catch box filled nicely, salmon being so much larger than trout. The top fishes would look up at us with their round and lidless eyes, gracing us with puzzled stares and gaping mouths. Their silent protests were slightly unnerving, but not enough to dampen our delight. As the salmon piled up, our grins widened. </p><p>We docked a few minutes before the guys. I jumped out and wrapped the ropes around the cleats. As carefully as he had entered the boat, my dad shut off the motor and climbed out to the safety of the dock. The guys approached, averting their eyes, busy as they gathered their gear. Finally one of them, reading our faces, queried, “Salmon?”</p><p>In back of me I heard a familiar little whistle and the snap of fingers before my dad said, “Caught a load! Eight!” His cheer and excitement floated in the breeze across the dock and infected the guys who smiled at his joy. </p><p>“And you, guys?” my dad said.</p><p>After a pause of sideways glances, one of them said, “Ummm, none. Yeah, none.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BUsOBjgyrqgkyb5Hdzn-h1LG3NUICUe6ml_YLf3nIhbTCLiXeo7isKK2od0umG4hTRPD5Lnt_30YDEMX1au951BsTHZ511ycwyhrBPFGm6axE_WTjW1A-gOeFfnHcOH76g1tJX6er1KML16F5iEcXYFSBZqhU1U9CgjgHbHVYzsVeHJBhSXhU5c7/s4032/20230618_183140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BUsOBjgyrqgkyb5Hdzn-h1LG3NUICUe6ml_YLf3nIhbTCLiXeo7isKK2od0umG4hTRPD5Lnt_30YDEMX1au951BsTHZ511ycwyhrBPFGm6axE_WTjW1A-gOeFfnHcOH76g1tJX6er1KML16F5iEcXYFSBZqhU1U9CgjgHbHVYzsVeHJBhSXhU5c7/w300-h400/20230618_183140.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p>Graciously, the men helped us unload our catch and laid it out by the fishing hut for photos. The fishery would process the salmon and can it in jam-sized jars to be retrieved the next morning. Later, when my dad and I boarded a train in Pendleton heading to where my dad now lived, Grand Junction, Colorado, his suitcase was filled with t-shirt-buffered jars, each pasted with a label we had designed for him. The illustration on the label was a neatly drawn salmon and was printed with “Caught by Ed Templeton.” Actually, the labels should have read, “Caught by One Blind Man, One Boy, and One Woman Privy to the Secrets of Fish.”</p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-26824962540876414892023-03-24T18:09:00.003-07:002023-03-24T18:09:55.300-07:00The Connection Between Homelessness, Graffiti, and Mental Illness—Observations on the Street<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPhgSLXOZVdLePmEER8JLLSInNoTLj3hUVRkYsq-uC7_UWY6MP8ZfW-KyanaD2RkKJOCX9ZF1nBXhNQ1yqorJhRTQJNOMHqwZDt1b9KpQtOzfMENVbgMitDVRe4OBPOshAKvJ-iDv1FrJRJyNpGN0ULyC4UyS-Kr6fP2rYwh_oc426VieE4ieW-Ki/s3024/20230313_090748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPhgSLXOZVdLePmEER8JLLSInNoTLj3hUVRkYsq-uC7_UWY6MP8ZfW-KyanaD2RkKJOCX9ZF1nBXhNQ1yqorJhRTQJNOMHqwZDt1b9KpQtOzfMENVbgMitDVRe4OBPOshAKvJ-iDv1FrJRJyNpGN0ULyC4UyS-Kr6fP2rYwh_oc426VieE4ieW-Ki/w400-h400/20230313_090748.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>On a cold evening in Seattle within sight of the iconic Space Needle I passed a couple bedding down for the night under the eaves of an entry way. The man cheerfully called out about my cute dog, casually engaging in conversation as if he were calling to me from his front porch. Later that same evening, I passed the couple again. They sat in their sleeping bags with their backs against a brick wall watching a movie on a laptop and eating popcorn. The man waved in recognition. The woman smiled. </p><p>Residential architects wax melodic about the separation between public and private areas. A typical description might introduce you to the foyer from where the drama of a double height living room beckons through an archway. The kitchen might be enclosed or at least partially blocked from view, straddling it’s sometimes private, sometimes public status. The laundry room is always private as are the bathrooms and bedrooms. Exuding another level of intimacy, the primary suite is sometimes further isolated from the other bedrooms. </p><p>For the homeless what is private has become public.</p><p>Each evening as I took my pup for his last walk, I observed some of the residents of the streets locating their night’s ‘primary suite.’ I happened to catch sight of a gentleman as he hopped a gate to bed down behind tall bushes in the relative privacy of a school’s play yard. Other night lodgers settled in doorways, their only privacy a stocking cap pulled low over their eyes or the edge of their sleeping bag pulled high over their chins. Evidence of ‘cooking’ came in the form of fast-food wrappers and cans left in their wake. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazZrdqNJb93CCAtz67XeWOLZiPssNrOudZyO08xGCkWxqow2_2wpQCoOvO0TSRexNMRmAWXNkoJk6vh3W85NwyWKtvJWJ9D0iqnhOfKY3hOD1ytaGLdGWfMKcRpNDWtcvkYOa1qELQhW__4ejjrLN251hgCe4NRlwT3R_nSbk1qEAzK1VAB42v4kq/s4032/20230321_102950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazZrdqNJb93CCAtz67XeWOLZiPssNrOudZyO08xGCkWxqow2_2wpQCoOvO0TSRexNMRmAWXNkoJk6vh3W85NwyWKtvJWJ9D0iqnhOfKY3hOD1ytaGLdGWfMKcRpNDWtcvkYOa1qELQhW__4ejjrLN251hgCe4NRlwT3R_nSbk1qEAzK1VAB42v4kq/w400-h300/20230321_102950.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>On the same trip, I took this photo of the base of an abandoned tower on the waterfront of Bellingham. The smudged over graffiti and writing on the railing made me consider how what once was reserved for the privacy of studios or homes has also taken to the public sphere in the last many years. Like the homeless, the many talented graffiti artists have had to take their work to the public landscapes—to free surfaces of walls, train cars, bridges, and fences. It seems to me that the two phenomena are related, grounded in the increasing inequities of income.</p><p>In Bellingham late one afternoon, the ruckus of a young man yelling and singing called my attention to him. As he sang, gyrating with his arms akimbo, he took off his jacket and then his shirt and changed into another garment. Here was yet another illustration of private behavior conducted in public. Worse, it illustrated the tragedy of society’s intentional neglect of those with mental illness. Yes, President Reagan signed legislation that made it more difficult to place people in institutions involuntarily; the law caused mental institutions to close. But it was the failure to then adequately fund less restrictive homes that has created the situation we see today. At one time there was a mandate for schools to place children in “the least restrictive environment.” The terminology sadly fits the state of homelessness. Least restrictive. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwSis43MIu5xXSszNnIRyQQgT0_igE9xfE-AwAb81vK-tiwtzSxZ7UOaiI0D9-IM2-4bR1eJaeh60Mj7BK99HPGocySrS7cNwwb-2UCsOlasO76Z0_oDw4PwN1sq136SPZF7A4E2Bi2NQmFOJlGT_lSxHC-3mbZ8I5WbIeuKosTLVhS54c4wV_Iwj/s3024/20230321_095733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwSis43MIu5xXSszNnIRyQQgT0_igE9xfE-AwAb81vK-tiwtzSxZ7UOaiI0D9-IM2-4bR1eJaeh60Mj7BK99HPGocySrS7cNwwb-2UCsOlasO76Z0_oDw4PwN1sq136SPZF7A4E2Bi2NQmFOJlGT_lSxHC-3mbZ8I5WbIeuKosTLVhS54c4wV_Iwj/w400-h400/20230321_095733.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhD2Hp_ao32cx8N94JZWny9nS4sOTuAtLTs_kSJ_DszXTRiBNhqcTG_eUZYIE2wz0IrsEuZIR6AuNxY-lm5x6lCcOVlqI5B7UmuETgjgr-lqsRKQe2mrzNVP9lzMZG78erdd6rO8qiNTHlzNPEXDZjbATUuwYkk2ceE-xEZWQ7xLD32Qcd5d3kirfx/s4032/20230321_100410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhD2Hp_ao32cx8N94JZWny9nS4sOTuAtLTs_kSJ_DszXTRiBNhqcTG_eUZYIE2wz0IrsEuZIR6AuNxY-lm5x6lCcOVlqI5B7UmuETgjgr-lqsRKQe2mrzNVP9lzMZG78erdd6rO8qiNTHlzNPEXDZjbATUuwYkk2ceE-xEZWQ7xLD32Qcd5d3kirfx/w300-h400/20230321_100410.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On my last day on the east side of the state, I walked a park with pup before getting into the car for the return trip. It had rained the night before but temperatures had been rising. As I paused to take the above photos of a budding pussy willow and rain drenched cherry blossom, yet another homeless man passed behind me. He was the fourth that I had seen in the park, including two encamped under a bridge fronted by bushes. As lovely as this park was, still it is not adequate housing. </div><p>When will we loosen our purse strings (public and private) and grant everyone the privacy of an abode or artists a work space? When? </p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-60562737994107516482023-01-20T12:26:00.000-08:002023-01-20T12:26:27.629-08:00Without Obligations—A Widow's Walk on the Town<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSRbtNISEKTT4PAPkWLPDeMDh4r0zn8-A3rhoHJBYO3IkMUXCcn7HGbc0BYHKSuYSYumZ-W56EscKeJp9LkRcTjiTiEj_RcgL-3CEDSKd_1_1kNnbHKJaAJQu1vfoQlaOg-pm7WepPFIPM2e4u4QoMut8mmjzTfipok5SMqmCkJPtY4A9Z8sWf1cL/s3777/20221124_183018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3777" data-original-width="2833" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaSRbtNISEKTT4PAPkWLPDeMDh4r0zn8-A3rhoHJBYO3IkMUXCcn7HGbc0BYHKSuYSYumZ-W56EscKeJp9LkRcTjiTiEj_RcgL-3CEDSKd_1_1kNnbHKJaAJQu1vfoQlaOg-pm7WepPFIPM2e4u4QoMut8mmjzTfipok5SMqmCkJPtY4A9Z8sWf1cL/w300-h400/20221124_183018.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">An unaccompanied adult, widowed and unbound from obligations on a holiday’s eve, can walk a town alone on a frigid night and raise no suspicions, no concerns as to what she is about while she captures the loom of old buildings against the velvet fogged skies, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFIOBZD1WGrmivowlpQlrSmLmOMF90R5vl67UNMTPFOwPnoQ--4xmjUyf2njSjb57kAVD6fv4OiAUkkPrhwTay5fn1ib9zbDJQ8t9aetQ34G5xV6_1luc_nctpofpHJpHH2Ol_IlLwvS7WsQVHP4IrowmgP1nNIwow_V13q8MzpVx56pKzpZpqkPd/s3024/20221124_173407.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFIOBZD1WGrmivowlpQlrSmLmOMF90R5vl67UNMTPFOwPnoQ--4xmjUyf2njSjb57kAVD6fv4OiAUkkPrhwTay5fn1ib9zbDJQ8t9aetQ34G5xV6_1luc_nctpofpHJpHH2Ol_IlLwvS7WsQVHP4IrowmgP1nNIwow_V13q8MzpVx56pKzpZpqkPd/w400-h400/20221124_173407.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">the solicitations of streetlight shadows, "cross hither,"</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgco5TiuSHT99XqzgQxw91T5DJOsKhoEzdHxUI5-uWKcurhOQR-IZ_Z0KRByT-iFZmy29qzfXbvGIu16w8yrkMtmlg4D_dFI8zKm1wz-p6F-5drQ__eaH_HfEWeKWh4tGlQeyb1VBuK3xwo1RJgHZWNXr6dpWHCIFAKkSRilnyatpljk4gjkJhRnwhq/s3024/20221124_171825.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgco5TiuSHT99XqzgQxw91T5DJOsKhoEzdHxUI5-uWKcurhOQR-IZ_Z0KRByT-iFZmy29qzfXbvGIu16w8yrkMtmlg4D_dFI8zKm1wz-p6F-5drQ__eaH_HfEWeKWh4tGlQeyb1VBuK3xwo1RJgHZWNXr6dpWHCIFAKkSRilnyatpljk4gjkJhRnwhq/w400-h400/20221124_171825.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and lights fuzzed soft, jeweled by the freezing air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only one car is parked in the five blocks of downtown. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only one couple strolls ahead of me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNT6rWXEOsXwwNJtSZCgV7qxio3nyFAXB1DBxRdj7y0TiAsQpXsIxL08-zmLz5-_Oa7Le9C4_SHqbaS8zI0c9U4RrmwxKa0xiVUJiWOaiHfCxvUzeRLSv-BnScNkovoViEczSphgrx_Tz-21bNkh_XCoYe7U3bTp467qAdEVrVa9E2sChGY2QvB5l/s4032/20221124_173122.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNT6rWXEOsXwwNJtSZCgV7qxio3nyFAXB1DBxRdj7y0TiAsQpXsIxL08-zmLz5-_Oa7Le9C4_SHqbaS8zI0c9U4RrmwxKa0xiVUJiWOaiHfCxvUzeRLSv-BnScNkovoViEczSphgrx_Tz-21bNkh_XCoYe7U3bTp467qAdEVrVa9E2sChGY2QvB5l/w400-h300/20221124_173122.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only one man casts a shadow at a crosswalk.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OM5NZWJcoG4LYflomfzLlBOs3kc6XCjshfKZjShOr2_TlerOm7kgaiQJqr0n5QYG7UEzNsS_P2h4zAMxe0GH-ysr_WZv95DcbzjcNO177ftQmEaIGMGoaz2zNlgnJrwoT3RBIsKEvh5D0GYTljuTBhHHvFm_Ac6mSW0pEEWe_haoG2o5nF3urPV8/s3024/20221124_173710.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-OM5NZWJcoG4LYflomfzLlBOs3kc6XCjshfKZjShOr2_TlerOm7kgaiQJqr0n5QYG7UEzNsS_P2h4zAMxe0GH-ysr_WZv95DcbzjcNO177ftQmEaIGMGoaz2zNlgnJrwoT3RBIsKEvh5D0GYTljuTBhHHvFm_Ac6mSW0pEEWe_haoG2o5nF3urPV8/w400-h400/20221124_173710.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only a few cars pass as if erratically-tossed footballs post game.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Everyone else must be at a celebration, eating leftovers and discussing... more football. I’ve come from a holiday dinner hosted at my cabin from which everyone has scattered homeward across the state or to another celebration. I’m left to walk alone with only my delighted breath, its cloud of crystals in the cold air accompanying me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Widowhood—or any expansive time alone—allows for the practice in the art of consulting with oneself over impulsive endeavors. The gathering of options (the shoulds and the shoulds not), the inner dialogue (hmmm...), and the final decision takes less time than it does to turn off a car and step into the cold night air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzglAx7eA6yo3EeljGzNndnQdUUEfsDrrWIFtj3fF6s2CU1_CASoXW6l3XNZkdgdJ52vztB0Js1xxyzCsAuCYw5OK29pCKyA8GodDt-8J9sBxwcTQDz0QOgM6mAyP3eCbYis0dVlvTFl9y-nn2WK8PQDHpM4Um4GWbbujkDwGL7PasZRg3hYPI7RqQ/s4032/20221124_172758.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzglAx7eA6yo3EeljGzNndnQdUUEfsDrrWIFtj3fF6s2CU1_CASoXW6l3XNZkdgdJ52vztB0Js1xxyzCsAuCYw5OK29pCKyA8GodDt-8J9sBxwcTQDz0QOgM6mAyP3eCbYis0dVlvTFl9y-nn2WK8PQDHpM4Um4GWbbujkDwGL7PasZRg3hYPI7RqQ/w300-h400/20221124_172758.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Had I tried to encourage someone to leave the warmth of the heated car seats while I took a few photos of the old Liberty Theatre, now delightfully devoid of the usual cars parked across its front, they might have acquiesed or chosen to stay in the car.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoX4TShFIcMRtGql7KIbYAdNsezThX5T0fPpfmo11fGT4RK_EOcUcUpTOsit1Y9bYK1Ueu_RJ9iu69LtSvy-hqddcDB5-W8oZreotx6wsxTALMRfIk6WQF2UgnBM8vY5UaqUs0yVoPhnYgWU0mi7-8hSUH3MTTupJiqrF76o6ctYN94D8-S6EOUUk/s3024/20221124_172230.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkoX4TShFIcMRtGql7KIbYAdNsezThX5T0fPpfmo11fGT4RK_EOcUcUpTOsit1Y9bYK1Ueu_RJ9iu69LtSvy-hqddcDB5-W8oZreotx6wsxTALMRfIk6WQF2UgnBM8vY5UaqUs0yVoPhnYgWU0mi7-8hSUH3MTTupJiqrF76o6ctYN94D8-S6EOUUk/w400-h400/20221124_172230.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Without obligations, I wandered back and forth across the empty streets enjoying the city's holiday light displays as if they were meant for an audience of one, a widow on a walk.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PXP8AKJf1cyTRU8NjG98CHOK9Db5i2PnMkd0Mfb1-peUHrmUURqxSLG_Y-StzC0X-vWILN-WQWvlhIFD7KRRVbMD0uJ2ezbfjZqhlRdUGsVG89FKoYl3I5rLKdrRNJqu9WTpZHAMJO87S1Nc1hdxBMoY0T4gS1DOD0ZUs_LX7ap7KLhY_iL2Jaw2/s3024/20221124_174115.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3PXP8AKJf1cyTRU8NjG98CHOK9Db5i2PnMkd0Mfb1-peUHrmUURqxSLG_Y-StzC0X-vWILN-WQWvlhIFD7KRRVbMD0uJ2ezbfjZqhlRdUGsVG89FKoYl3I5rLKdrRNJqu9WTpZHAMJO87S1Nc1hdxBMoY0T4gS1DOD0ZUs_LX7ap7KLhY_iL2Jaw2/w400-h400/20221124_174115.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The farther I walked, the colder my fingers, the colder my toes, the more pleased I became with my choice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYSx-wbmBn7PxR2JZj_iaO7xZC0BEqlT56L02dmp9Zostf_ZSIPxOyXh0pLThdmRdRus4i7rvs88L_aDDn1ZMhCDcAiGYJfIzsGoCN23fYocqUVMUOFQRUcpgDBzadYOeMMVkH4zgMKVqVo42bzX0u9FS1MRCIYaopdusJ2v0J6ZuF5kQ7EslE8tb/s3024/20221124_174205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYSx-wbmBn7PxR2JZj_iaO7xZC0BEqlT56L02dmp9Zostf_ZSIPxOyXh0pLThdmRdRus4i7rvs88L_aDDn1ZMhCDcAiGYJfIzsGoCN23fYocqUVMUOFQRUcpgDBzadYOeMMVkH4zgMKVqVo42bzX0u9FS1MRCIYaopdusJ2v0J6ZuF5kQ7EslE8tb/w200-h200/20221124_174205.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdvf71KqKqm_1wjiDr9GxcdU_qtw4FWm97LW_DivfY324u-71dkAD9mEtwhsVFTth-auBir4P3PPD1UZrKUKuVndDIs_Wa6Ld2Sw_7DughHNyFYrIofXXYQBXE2PbO5dtItbwOwlrsujqQxmYa50MSnR1i2EveaNfkLtE7C1qsJBIiTaFB8p6tIab/s3024/20221124_174222.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdvf71KqKqm_1wjiDr9GxcdU_qtw4FWm97LW_DivfY324u-71dkAD9mEtwhsVFTth-auBir4P3PPD1UZrKUKuVndDIs_Wa6Ld2Sw_7DughHNyFYrIofXXYQBXE2PbO5dtItbwOwlrsujqQxmYa50MSnR1i2EveaNfkLtE7C1qsJBIiTaFB8p6tIab/w200-h200/20221124_174222.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Rare it is to have a town to oneself. At night the closing of an old established store, it's facade brilliantly lit and yet soon to be extinguished, felt more grevious than in the daylight.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The circumstances of this walk: a winter holiday (sans tourists in a tourist town), a nippy forecast, the lack of momentarily any company, and a practiced consultation with a party of one all made this evening unforgettable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunEGu5jo6XOTYM0hhtSwUr1lj8kqjfTQZdLBsBfzdp6TAvd19d7M3eseuCCG1mlK1lb5p7YE-NrNZgQ4ET5MSnmhlxYxNRPXWGgUHo5hjW36xONZJ5-yJUcxha-yB8C6voTsqFLWzKv_Yzpi8fcKVt5jCC9hiVdavrlpAAezfJOAgfQrkV1zLat3s/s3024/20221124_173920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunEGu5jo6XOTYM0hhtSwUr1lj8kqjfTQZdLBsBfzdp6TAvd19d7M3eseuCCG1mlK1lb5p7YE-NrNZgQ4ET5MSnmhlxYxNRPXWGgUHo5hjW36xONZJ5-yJUcxha-yB8C6voTsqFLWzKv_Yzpi8fcKVt5jCC9hiVdavrlpAAezfJOAgfQrkV1zLat3s/w400-h400/20221124_173920.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Night, Foggy Town</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-61226431792157129912022-10-30T11:34:00.000-07:002022-10-30T11:34:02.196-07:00Dummies, Mannequins, and Lay Figures<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRwxSXEUDuW7IFbzofYQp_bcdsukuuxGSHazaCHwHGZ-ylz0ytoX9XaLixn0K01o1BQkWncCCZRVv9WBiRAXQPi1VNdxguUvC5MQA66LM4_6l2IgLE7rWDyk9OMRemp12fYHzO0E8_GgRFhvyDoF1GDV7Wo4CQP5dNN8nnGzlj9N-K3YNAyaz9ULg/s2999/IMG_20221024_094020_443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2999" data-original-width="2999" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRwxSXEUDuW7IFbzofYQp_bcdsukuuxGSHazaCHwHGZ-ylz0ytoX9XaLixn0K01o1BQkWncCCZRVv9WBiRAXQPi1VNdxguUvC5MQA66LM4_6l2IgLE7rWDyk9OMRemp12fYHzO0E8_GgRFhvyDoF1GDV7Wo4CQP5dNN8nnGzlj9N-K3YNAyaz9ULg/w400-h400/IMG_20221024_094020_443.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Credit: Kathy McConnell</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>Dummies I spied while out on a walk. Dummies—white-skinned, stiff-limbed, and disarmingly beautiful where they lay displayed on silver racks behind the plate glass windows of a former car dealership. <i>Dummies</i> has such a derogatory connotation nowadays, but its etymological origin, according to the On-line Etymology Dictionary, is in the word 'dher,' whose meaning is the lovely vision of "dust, vapor, and smoke." From the lips of mutes and from those who spoke in gibbish, their breath and nonsense—like vapor—left no meaningful trace. From 'dher' to dummy, from vapor to vile.<br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> The history of words and their changing meanings detail inequities and slights and more optimistically have begun to reveal the evolution of humanity towards a more tolerant, sympathetic, and equitable world. Today dummies of the human sort and also mutes would more appropriately be called 'differently abled.'</span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span> Consider the other words for human-like models: lay figures (in art) and mannequins (in the fashion world). Both words are grounded in eras when males held almost all the positions of agency, power, and employment. In Belgium in the Middle Ages only male pages were allowed to model clothes, even female clothing. These young men were known as ledmen (limb + man). Ledman became leeman and then layman and now lay figures. The layman was in use beginning in the 18th century to mean an artist's fabricated model. These models were ordinarily rendered in leather or wood and passed from one generation of male teachers to their apprentices. (Note male to male only.)</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><span> Since painting a portrait was a tedious affair that required a patron to sit for long hours, artists would have their subjects sit only while they painted their heads. Later, their clothes could be draped on the fabricated layman's body (headless for ease of changing clothes) and painted at the artist's pleasure. Today the word used for an artist's model is 'lay figure,' a term which allows a model to be male or female, reflecting how women are now included into the artistic profession both as models and artists.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><span> Fashion's fiberglass and plastic mannequins (a word which still incorporates 'man' in its makeup) have themselves evolved. The bone-white mannequins in the car dealership window are old. Maybe not too old, but old enough to have been sold only in one skin color. And with women's feet molded into a shape formed to wear only high heels, a crippling fashion designed to make women into sexual objects and helpless on the run.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXbRb12lNlXDF0OjLkUoGR0BInLcP5rxnlhS7vGoh4Y6VOYVLQ5lEytFYGXlKvJqVHFrm4L9QXALYyiK6EI912Aug7GD7MOWgIBaztPcA9quNXQsuxxWweGxh8wHI-PwyS3LU5TfRANpTFlxZslUgs60mO0ksXEMInS6QZN5pCr1QNCsjU1yCgOGM/s3024/20221022_114846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXbRb12lNlXDF0OjLkUoGR0BInLcP5rxnlhS7vGoh4Y6VOYVLQ5lEytFYGXlKvJqVHFrm4L9QXALYyiK6EI912Aug7GD7MOWgIBaztPcA9quNXQsuxxWweGxh8wHI-PwyS3LU5TfRANpTFlxZslUgs60mO0ksXEMInS6QZN5pCr1QNCsjU1yCgOGM/w400-h400/20221022_114846.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Credit: Kathy McConnell</span></div></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>The female mannequins were offered in only one body shape.<br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEMj5OC0mtd1cEkRM1xAOlCW1vyr3w4dDIqYjz7LtNxtA_iR8pwWkjrJCyQOlOTphb1QwzKCkVJEUVoMhnlPtQqWj0VZvIFIYn_KWLWjUPWny2n22Mp0zd_dQ4YTTR47QBVLhrFVW6k8sz9dlfmmgq3bZY7Lcxm3vE1XcupSul3C_VNQ3Ema-2x6k/s1080/IMG_20221013_173003_327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNEMj5OC0mtd1cEkRM1xAOlCW1vyr3w4dDIqYjz7LtNxtA_iR8pwWkjrJCyQOlOTphb1QwzKCkVJEUVoMhnlPtQqWj0VZvIFIYn_KWLWjUPWny2n22Mp0zd_dQ4YTTR47QBVLhrFVW6k8sz9dlfmmgq3bZY7Lcxm3vE1XcupSul3C_VNQ3Ema-2x6k/s320/IMG_20221013_173003_327.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo Credit: Kathy McConnell</span></div><span> </span>That one.<div><span> But no longer is there one body type in female or male mannequins. Mannequins now come in all sizes and shapes. Large hips and breasts. Flat-chested. Muscular or rope thin. Short, tall, and everything in between.</span></div><div><span> Skin Colors? Browns and blacks began appearing not many years ago. One company now makes all its mannequins in a neutral tone of gray, while another offers over three hundred realistic skin colors. All of this is a sign, a good one recognizing that humans are made up of only one race, the human race—equal in capacity regardless of gender or color. Maybe one day we might even come to call mannequins, humaquins.</span><br /><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-71263385904235533852022-09-27T18:23:00.034-07:002022-10-12T11:48:17.899-07:00Bears and Poop<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzhnzwToputZtxasVXW9q96zkQRc3P2zmYZbguFOy1aMy01SilOSbsGf4BgEPuVWw7kV_xbUbWX2u8cC35ZljdqLtltiMyKLv60zpf4bHvc0Y2vVtSufl_RAfKZ2aP6iUBmS3UgibqpgDjczj9PXuoamt4LvcHMTJGIkE2WP3HR-bpkGBtxwhjTjH/s4032/20220815_095811.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzhnzwToputZtxasVXW9q96zkQRc3P2zmYZbguFOy1aMy01SilOSbsGf4BgEPuVWw7kV_xbUbWX2u8cC35ZljdqLtltiMyKLv60zpf4bHvc0Y2vVtSufl_RAfKZ2aP6iUBmS3UgibqpgDjczj9PXuoamt4LvcHMTJGIkE2WP3HR-bpkGBtxwhjTjH/w195-h400/20220815_095811.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span> Poop # 1</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span>"The school could fail," said one of the founding parents of The Kids' Place childcare center, but that was before the Ziplock bag of bear poop showed up in the sharing box early September of our first year—eliciting an uproarious delight of giggles and touching off an argument between the sharer and another knowledgeable child about whether the poop was pooped by a brown bear or a black bear, a detail that warranted a month-long study of bears, culminating with that founding parent saying, "I don't think we need to buy all those brightly-colored plastic toys to attract parents; if you can make curriculum from poop, I think the school will survive."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The bears in my neighborhood—same neighborhood as that of the infamous Ziplock bag of poop—have created some of the most gorgeous scat this summer. The photo above of poop (pressed flat by a tire in the middle of the road) looks like the bear had raided a bowl of Trix cereal. I was confused until I heard a bear has been raiding birdfeeders, even carrying the feeders themselves off into the woods. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Poop is a taboo topic among American adults. Entire books—illustrated ones at that—display rooms where we poop without ever mentioning the word poop or its euphemistic name “number two.” </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On a recent four-mile walk up the canyon, I passed two piles of bear poop, each unique. (Does even a bear find his poop aesthetically pleasing?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYyxGBNIHD3Svys9unl0FPaVQ0gpDt--P-AD94t2PXbeYAoZSdsSOkV-UNwZbTEUzeyCqKGEvSpMs371mcKrbhN1vpiw8w9qQb3INrcGkSvIzAEmFN140gsYbpsnQBWPEEv6F6K5ZgYXd6NIXokjhmXmHGbZz-HV_bCm-crCXAV-9BmDjQIOw0SME/s4032/20220919_115032.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYyxGBNIHD3Svys9unl0FPaVQ0gpDt--P-AD94t2PXbeYAoZSdsSOkV-UNwZbTEUzeyCqKGEvSpMs371mcKrbhN1vpiw8w9qQb3INrcGkSvIzAEmFN140gsYbpsnQBWPEEv6F6K5ZgYXd6NIXokjhmXmHGbZz-HV_bCm-crCXAV-9BmDjQIOw0SME/s320/20220919_115032.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Poop # 2</div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_bmWoARW6WyO7PJgjBTxUKTBsLyFpsZeg1IPrJH67rrulj58kKLyenok_4wZZ5XD2lW-BZZW5bZsEYi_sOdSP2-8MRc5RBH3ogNtIoIC9wq-iZ518HUyVc43_uHpOhp63MDDwiP6omS6UmS0_Q7Q9r6RTcY47WIG_HZXqvmr6gOaSN_5upnCQ9rp/s4032/20220919_120950.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_bmWoARW6WyO7PJgjBTxUKTBsLyFpsZeg1IPrJH67rrulj58kKLyenok_4wZZ5XD2lW-BZZW5bZsEYi_sOdSP2-8MRc5RBH3ogNtIoIC9wq-iZ518HUyVc43_uHpOhp63MDDwiP6omS6UmS0_Q7Q9r6RTcY47WIG_HZXqvmr6gOaSN_5upnCQ9rp/w240-h320/20220919_120950.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Poop # 3</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I marveled at how mammals manufacture poop. How in the world our digestive systems can withdraw only what they need and eliminate the rest is a marvel. I thought about how “wild-grown” poop has its uses. Besides offloading extra useless weight for the animal, another benefit is that the poop becomes a part of the food chain for dung beetles and other insects. On closer inspection of last of the bear poop piles shown above, I saw a spider and ants wandering about like they were explorers on an outcropping of rock. (Can you spot the spider?)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5gsfU_Fn1DNUS_6wy0bW2Q89xqd59apah_UukCGgqPnPksEFw_6SyxempfSVzMrunEMpRBD2rdq5Ia3LKIAESJgUoQzO2h4OKmlFx4xwmRVVtD5r0oIMT6sFxrihnKrilD7q9TBUZIE7XSIXst2ceu_tpzuuGzFljwAkulyhWihKKmgEMxuCP9qX/s4032/20220919_121009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5gsfU_Fn1DNUS_6wy0bW2Q89xqd59apah_UukCGgqPnPksEFw_6SyxempfSVzMrunEMpRBD2rdq5Ia3LKIAESJgUoQzO2h4OKmlFx4xwmRVVtD5r0oIMT6sFxrihnKrilD7q9TBUZIE7XSIXst2ceu_tpzuuGzFljwAkulyhWihKKmgEMxuCP9qX/s320/20220919_121009.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As of today, I have seen more piles of bear poop (three) than bears (one) this summer. I like that the bear poop piles significantly increase my bear “sightings." I think I will continue the tradition of tallying bear poop along with bear sightings. If the bears don’t appreciate their poop’s beauty, I will. And of course, I'll continue admiring the bears—black or brown.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFbxvyb8hQY9IvXDfS86HnQcZvFRiyygpdmL15xlat207YpILkOs2a1aSUQ36ImFsfhXT8B0E2_sRS_xDqdmwF4zvIHmpQUnv9XKNgl_pFdUarKiQSdYEd8OE1P-H8sB_r9dJXT3mXyjL0V8_TzNfVQJior-IT8skbC9punHRRFOtvz-yySRVkJkt/s3264/IMG_3908.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFbxvyb8hQY9IvXDfS86HnQcZvFRiyygpdmL15xlat207YpILkOs2a1aSUQ36ImFsfhXT8B0E2_sRS_xDqdmwF4zvIHmpQUnv9XKNgl_pFdUarKiQSdYEd8OE1P-H8sB_r9dJXT3mXyjL0V8_TzNfVQJior-IT8skbC9punHRRFOtvz-yySRVkJkt/s320/IMG_3908.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A bear who visited a few years ago, eying me from a neighbor's cherry tree.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> </div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-67195496352129306062022-08-18T16:41:00.000-07:002022-08-18T16:41:22.689-07:00 Who Walks Small Towns in America?<p><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUa6yKuTMD2DsZtUIyXKmEfRe7uK4BluGjWVO6Wuwo3WGiGnyx8B3Aqgydzq0E02M_B9q7lAt1e8-73FqXKReW-3GCTNd_nU6ZUFN-923iIOA73zF3K-I74UzpPy9KsVHcSStEI-e2xgbokHfaqjez7RohNwOma9eoA259j_XXlmCZkyTXfCAJu8D/s1080/IMG_20220803_071743_017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUa6yKuTMD2DsZtUIyXKmEfRe7uK4BluGjWVO6Wuwo3WGiGnyx8B3Aqgydzq0E02M_B9q7lAt1e8-73FqXKReW-3GCTNd_nU6ZUFN-923iIOA73zF3K-I74UzpPy9KsVHcSStEI-e2xgbokHfaqjez7RohNwOma9eoA259j_XXlmCZkyTXfCAJu8D/w400-h400/IMG_20220803_071743_017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Wander the streets at night in almost any small town in America and a nostalgia for an earlier time can set in. In the dark the predominance of black and white reminds one of photos from the last century. It was a time when car dealerships like this one above, formerly Teague Motors in Walla Walla, Washington were located on or just off Main streets. Expansive glass windows invited lunchtime ogling by businessmen or allowed farmers on their way to the implement dealer to consider a new car for the wifey. </p><p><span> </span>Cafes offering biscuit and gravy breakfasts sat jowl and cheek with lawyer and insurance offices, or stores selling furniture, hardware, and groceries. At least one solid-looking bank building sat on one corner while gas stations with benches, where old men gathered, occupied nearby intersections. The city or county edifices stood their ground often in a prominent block to themselves, while theatres and bars provided nightlife. In the center of it all there might have been a small park with a grandstand. A funeral home added a respectable and somber presence. </p><p><span> </span>In Walla Walla where I live now, there were a handful of hotels—some offering rooms for the well-heeled and others like the one over the former McFeeley’s Tavern not so much. Look above on the right side of the photo, you can see the elegant Whitman Hotel reflected in reverse in the glass. Resurrected from a significant decline, it now caters mostly to the weekend wine-tasting crowd visiting from Seattle, Portland and other big cities.</p><p><span> </span>As a child, I remember the glorious feeling of entering the five-and-dime store on the main street in Mooresville, North Carolina. The fountain served grilled cheese sandwiches, ice cream sodas, and banana splits. I recall wandering its toy aisles looking for a cheap toy that I could afford with my little stash of coins. Back out on the street I felt important walking at the side of adults as they stopped here and there to do their business. Everything within an easy stroll. We might have walked home or taken a taxi. On Saturdays all the stores in Mooresville closed by noon. It wasn’t an inconvenience, but a consideration for employees.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p><span> </span>My nostalgia has limits. </p><p><span> </span>In Mooresville in the 1950s and early 60s, I can’t recall seeing any people of color out shopping or even walking down the sidewalks on their way anywhere. In a town where Blacks were a significant portion of the population, they were denied the use of the “public” library or burial in the town cemeteries long after the Civil War and well into the next century. They were also denied the simple pleasures granted white children—easy, welcome, and safe access to downtown day or night. </p><p><span> </span>Out west the towns hid “undesirables” under streets and in second story bordellos. Walla Walla had its share of underground passageways built to keep the Chinese population invisible or to provide hidden access to houses of prostitution. One such passage—now filled-in—led from the basement of the former Pastime Cafe across the street to the then upstairs bordello. </p><p><span> </span>Walla Walla was late in banning prostitution. Even in the 1980s one could wander former establishments with their dreary small rooms furnished with iron bedframes or walk down a hall and peer into community bathrooms. Now those establishments have been reconfigured into offices or boutique hotels. </p><p><span> </span>My town has changed. Few small American towns have had the good fortune of reinventing themselves like Walla Walla has. When I came here forty years ago, I could find a place to park on any block downtown, even on a Saturday morning. There were no shade trees or fancy light poles and benches. It was a drear place with empty storefronts. As apple orchards and pea fields shifted to vineyards and small family wineries became world-renowned, the town changed. In the photo below the gleam of a grill in that back corner of the car dealership is a Jaguar, and there is a collectable Willie’s Jeep to the right. No longer a dealership for the middle-class, it will be one for the better-heeled wealthy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnpr4PgXdRTQbL8y5xJFjmLGPHuE5L6KqrwfOjKCZrEh1-ZssMxj-mWmsuRi9z1rivLHTYiM50t8phiYDzadk9vTvgkc1Zyt5mdtH8wyvD_spGqpsCfHcuFESj-U9y3Izv_133Itzy68vXnwxtuVQ8T5uFKJx0_8ISAOQJEiBUet3jI7Y4o6UjRya/s3024/20220802_231617%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnpr4PgXdRTQbL8y5xJFjmLGPHuE5L6KqrwfOjKCZrEh1-ZssMxj-mWmsuRi9z1rivLHTYiM50t8phiYDzadk9vTvgkc1Zyt5mdtH8wyvD_spGqpsCfHcuFESj-U9y3Izv_133Itzy68vXnwxtuVQ8T5uFKJx0_8ISAOQJEiBUet3jI7Y4o6UjRya/w400-h400/20220802_231617%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span> </span>As the crescent moon rose over Whitman Hotel earlier this month, much as changed in my small town. But not enough, not yet. Although people of color have had some success since the passing of the Civil Rights Bill, as a country we still struggle recognizing that all our citizens and all immigrants are members of the same race, the human race. I might be comfortable wandering downtown anytime I want, but the real pleasure will be when anyone of any skin color feels the same. Day or night. </div><br /><br /><p></p><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-19196464670831273262022-06-18T15:09:00.000-07:002022-06-18T15:09:36.225-07:00Seeing Photo Opts in a Macro World<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxGZVxyEi5ryhnqR4IGsXj_ynuF9h-pyKWJAA8liY7RQDwNiNT9LnUH-sQcO65W2PUL2M3StgkgF-L0WcN-g8wp00IulN0AarApy19vNdcyQMxsa99zw8-MqtO3PXJLCWE-jE-FMx6QjXd0eNMTvwDaRgurwXyAgSRCXO_7qoCjuDjTqIUHFVK8DH/s4032/20220418_095653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxGZVxyEi5ryhnqR4IGsXj_ynuF9h-pyKWJAA8liY7RQDwNiNT9LnUH-sQcO65W2PUL2M3StgkgF-L0WcN-g8wp00IulN0AarApy19vNdcyQMxsa99zw8-MqtO3PXJLCWE-jE-FMx6QjXd0eNMTvwDaRgurwXyAgSRCXO_7qoCjuDjTqIUHFVK8DH/w195-h400/20220418_095653.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Orange Peel Fungus, Aleuria aurantia</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table>I landed in Mexico City during college with two years of high school Spanish. I could ask where to find a library or what your name might be, but seemed unable to listen fast enough to understand the responses. I remember trying to adjust my ears. Turn up the listening speed to muy rapido. The sensation has recently been repeated with my eyes. I bought a 100 mm macro lense to attach to my cell phone and have found myself struggling to see on a different plane of existence.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnm9PAR4wtEawlJ-WTitclGBxRIk29uScxgY5a_0uHtfMJtk_pDHkmRctvmME6odp8X00qvxEDRc3ndwYAKbTEyikHd45mB-yDiC2hPlnig0Wt_SlMohQha9B6ESPhIT6vbCGOzZojDRwGH2a42vxacG-9n7P1Kwl6OOg7viPV5CvnNIYQiOlZX3bQ/s4032/20220611_103610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnm9PAR4wtEawlJ-WTitclGBxRIk29uScxgY5a_0uHtfMJtk_pDHkmRctvmME6odp8X00qvxEDRc3ndwYAKbTEyikHd45mB-yDiC2hPlnig0Wt_SlMohQha9B6ESPhIT6vbCGOzZojDRwGH2a42vxacG-9n7P1Kwl6OOg7viPV5CvnNIYQiOlZX3bQ/w400-h195/20220611_103610.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span><div style="text-align: center;"> Great black wasp</div></span><p>As I try to focus the rectangular field of my phone screen, I struggle with a plethora of unexpected minutia. Bug eyes of a great black wasp, the subtle colors of a tiny mushroom, or the roughness of a snail’s skin. I find myself trying to see faster.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4k9ms96s2K0xFTM9wbD3G6aDuE9r4R6vkoR_3ZrChNsNt37C_-g_hroF1hVGRW5yuTqEr3W0aNzriFjI9gvj0xqZQAQS4_YhJNxToDOXJ1s5cKAlXZeDdILikOCmoTb3XCddM2_VMS3vjPNLAHTwrZSHkH2Y35R9IUA_oamLzTLi4pJ9OZdIvfBgm/s2322/20220514_191350%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2322" data-original-width="1929" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4k9ms96s2K0xFTM9wbD3G6aDuE9r4R6vkoR_3ZrChNsNt37C_-g_hroF1hVGRW5yuTqEr3W0aNzriFjI9gvj0xqZQAQS4_YhJNxToDOXJ1s5cKAlXZeDdILikOCmoTb3XCddM2_VMS3vjPNLAHTwrZSHkH2Y35R9IUA_oamLzTLi4pJ9OZdIvfBgm/w333-h400/20220514_191350%202.jpg" width="333" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ia6-LCKDNacbAjvOFrbTqR5BJ5R2V8zVuiXGqKNH3Yn5ZNw_19_WgZq0U0QVDhQy0eGx11jTMd2BLTwtckDfRDzNj8YXH7aApJuDrL6DEnu_4jaIlFlJGs3NNGLm1bbi_MuKUoza8GrByRVhkyOKzD8BTbg8Y-so3nLhiSRZQ24TFZIxjXSHvd0U/s4032/20220612_075159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9ia6-LCKDNacbAjvOFrbTqR5BJ5R2V8zVuiXGqKNH3Yn5ZNw_19_WgZq0U0QVDhQy0eGx11jTMd2BLTwtckDfRDzNj8YXH7aApJuDrL6DEnu_4jaIlFlJGs3NNGLm1bbi_MuKUoza8GrByRVhkyOKzD8BTbg8Y-so3nLhiSRZQ24TFZIxjXSHvd0U/w195-h400/20220612_075159.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I am coming to appreciate the blur of the backgrounds for their potential for beauty.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxxl0-Dm12QE47biT1Zr1ZTZbLOsOtpAsUOmSkIlrLZh7N49l55Jt1tBK28F2mSdSwGlgAZbmy20kpLlOGNqiY2FPHQOcZQwhqfG4L4FprNRZBkpPxsk5CvFZ4guYupvdnzJN5PN2ojLi3a7IftLgy-YvRZ754w0FmPyDH00KDym6utg5j9CULmoN/s2060/20220611_124337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="2060" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxxl0-Dm12QE47biT1Zr1ZTZbLOsOtpAsUOmSkIlrLZh7N49l55Jt1tBK28F2mSdSwGlgAZbmy20kpLlOGNqiY2FPHQOcZQwhqfG4L4FprNRZBkpPxsk5CvFZ4guYupvdnzJN5PN2ojLi3a7IftLgy-YvRZ754w0FmPyDH00KDym6utg5j9CULmoN/w400-h210/20220611_124337.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Slice of a downed river alder trunk with a background of wood chips and lichen.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Both newer iPhones and androids have built-in macro lenses, but none equal the ability of a 100 mm attached lenses. When I stopped to take a photo of a buttercup with drops of rain, I looked through the macro lenses and discovered a caterpillar creeping along the edge of a petal.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbx_-cJFbApUjVRYppHd-RT9ar6bzJ_RFeLzdmAkMtwhpSm0CFeV3UFwXS_Y8HeXW3VS-arOZek-SaCGzweGmEmb7xA9-9K4lFr7XNep0bq6B8KaqquDpGiF_vX3p7pFlKJiXM3YK2Ay9YZNfLTeCJM1OaK8EshOboHb-c2pKThplBywjVp6_OLI3/s3226/20220611_124747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1568" data-original-width="3226" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbx_-cJFbApUjVRYppHd-RT9ar6bzJ_RFeLzdmAkMtwhpSm0CFeV3UFwXS_Y8HeXW3VS-arOZek-SaCGzweGmEmb7xA9-9K4lFr7XNep0bq6B8KaqquDpGiF_vX3p7pFlKJiXM3YK2Ay9YZNfLTeCJM1OaK8EshOboHb-c2pKThplBywjVp6_OLI3/w400-h195/20220611_124747.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div>Startled by the bounty found in a square inch (or an equivalent square 6.452 centimeters), composition seems almost secondary. The hardest task is holding still and catching objects motionless between light wind currents. Only later, does the background or the composition seem important. This is where I find myself trying to “see” faster. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking at the mushroom again. This is a comparison of its size with my fingernail.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWF3qSH_aoWOMbnIRuIwvY7oCLa8cAj319KJJPqOmJlZJasJ2UINUolomXEum2ncSVTQsYUf-4k-WEaBG2_Zp0yLH1fgewoGvjdSWtZgDw4JFt7HLSMsBvZCLIU6zqrxbcqyD3PQ_2doojcAukcWQIHwyB9MD20ypcKhhGp5iaoa_BTGBEpL-k8TU/s4032/20220514_145157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWF3qSH_aoWOMbnIRuIwvY7oCLa8cAj319KJJPqOmJlZJasJ2UINUolomXEum2ncSVTQsYUf-4k-WEaBG2_Zp0yLH1fgewoGvjdSWtZgDw4JFt7HLSMsBvZCLIU6zqrxbcqyD3PQ_2doojcAukcWQIHwyB9MD20ypcKhhGp5iaoa_BTGBEpL-k8TU/w195-h400/20220514_145157.jpg" width="195" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKNtfnfPrVsiEAZPzNlwNdIEBo88RuSjLK0cNd96-Vi5OnhPmbNYpuuuOfCYIuvHzvEofLVkRy4BM7Ymm3av_eXUAcd_w4QFbnvpYa-qXrdCDcHEyFZssKjcWv2SNfQjlv7GmnYJ0mg8zzXyWuuQaZCydgTvAZnwcqzfjzplGVdmMhVnMP0O8qvzq/s2322/20220514_191350%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2322" data-original-width="1929" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOKNtfnfPrVsiEAZPzNlwNdIEBo88RuSjLK0cNd96-Vi5OnhPmbNYpuuuOfCYIuvHzvEofLVkRy4BM7Ymm3av_eXUAcd_w4QFbnvpYa-qXrdCDcHEyFZssKjcWv2SNfQjlv7GmnYJ0mg8zzXyWuuQaZCydgTvAZnwcqzfjzplGVdmMhVnMP0O8qvzq/s320/20220514_191350%202.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once I switched the focus of my phone lens, I took a number of shots before I became aware of the soft curve of the blurred mound of moss to the right of the stem and centered it in my lens for a better composition.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Although the macro lenses feels heavy in my pocket, I don’t head out anywhere without it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Even in built-environments, I find macro worlds.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtIMyhAuPTr8ZoWnGCgWgI864ExxgqlqACOHnG-CQPLCojIGEQFwtyMazN6NHGSQiCf93Pdy_Jj0VZNUNsQDlLU5mdJ5PqY4SiTH9aWV9KdlH4QU6w1P5FvCWTURNIzuoDhVou0U80mf50ExqJ2H-PE2buRiGFnUYyXYwlhbnJ7yT6yrUq8qaggBM/s4032/20220609_130106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKtIMyhAuPTr8ZoWnGCgWgI864ExxgqlqACOHnG-CQPLCojIGEQFwtyMazN6NHGSQiCf93Pdy_Jj0VZNUNsQDlLU5mdJ5PqY4SiTH9aWV9KdlH4QU6w1P5FvCWTURNIzuoDhVou0U80mf50ExqJ2H-PE2buRiGFnUYyXYwlhbnJ7yT6yrUq8qaggBM/w195-h400/20220609_130106.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The screw on a cigarette butt can with the remnants of a tiny leaf folded across the cut are beautiful.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIjK2vgzAkLDRO6PPZip6vJlPyD59xtBnkkUlzhjNW8g5wH7i-pJhi2H1nvIqkDFTXjL0EWAWpR8EwjtnnpCfrMT0w4uT4u7PT-ob5aXz43XlvJYSY6xyty1kidAGRjgj83uVVePwZ7iwVPTf5RwPM9tXDQDmFKJN8BXlwfcsAoQ6lGoIL-ss-l9_/s4032/20220530_101304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIjK2vgzAkLDRO6PPZip6vJlPyD59xtBnkkUlzhjNW8g5wH7i-pJhi2H1nvIqkDFTXjL0EWAWpR8EwjtnnpCfrMT0w4uT4u7PT-ob5aXz43XlvJYSY6xyty1kidAGRjgj83uVVePwZ7iwVPTf5RwPM9tXDQDmFKJN8BXlwfcsAoQ6lGoIL-ss-l9_/w400-h195/20220530_101304.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>I am coming to realize that the world is more populated than I envisioned. And fungi and bugs and roots—even those in a vase in the sun— exist; although most days, I don’t see them as I swish through the world at my human pace. The macro lenses is making me walk slower to examine the world and speed up my sight to see its beauty.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ePF2ambw-feZ67m23dl3JlpjfWQ2ubyWykrLHEZVyaQooDNhsmN0Lu_-hiy1OOOAdGMCQ-91pnQgKPn0M8FRE_pgJGKxKUUnBB-AZkBVz3xOmC7fMVkF2l3HmVkP6XyTo6dj3I6t4WCKKJNdsugc4fDtU9nUxgJr06VAwgcyTdHpz-djd-pLp18X/s867/20220505_195654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="866" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ePF2ambw-feZ67m23dl3JlpjfWQ2ubyWykrLHEZVyaQooDNhsmN0Lu_-hiy1OOOAdGMCQ-91pnQgKPn0M8FRE_pgJGKxKUUnBB-AZkBVz3xOmC7fMVkF2l3HmVkP6XyTo6dj3I6t4WCKKJNdsugc4fDtU9nUxgJr06VAwgcyTdHpz-djd-pLp18X/w400-h400/20220505_195654.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div> <br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-77825689062613972912022-05-01T20:03:00.000-07:002022-05-01T20:03:21.934-07:00Malheur Country: Birding, Historical Structures, and Views<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLuOzd_v7bSs-DtIqh1ZQd8HbUPO-Uef4RRGTcx3o7eA1pYd82G7G4hfPpjmtgv948WM0Xt6r39qGNxoWCs2pMCaWB77WHtFocGxlYO-0EQNeFktC_be5nUJiFQt5By_FLvHFr5ygUpLetW1TVVzPvM0tjA6RIqGyVRcbiuKcCLEmJmFdl3amwrWhT/s640/IMG_20220430_075844_373.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLuOzd_v7bSs-DtIqh1ZQd8HbUPO-Uef4RRGTcx3o7eA1pYd82G7G4hfPpjmtgv948WM0Xt6r39qGNxoWCs2pMCaWB77WHtFocGxlYO-0EQNeFktC_be5nUJiFQt5By_FLvHFr5ygUpLetW1TVVzPvM0tjA6RIqGyVRcbiuKcCLEmJmFdl3amwrWhT/w400-h300/IMG_20220430_075844_373.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>"Wear boots. Knee high. It can be muddy around the ponds." Such was the advice of Steve, a gracious ranch-owner in the Malheur area of Harney County in Eastern Oregon. Steve had invited my friend Nancy and me to visit and bird on his property. (Yes, <i>bird</i> is a verb.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8-bPDJtjBKV80F_IRPadw5bCZ2NX3T3i_-JXyXTVtffhW24vDEwqy5RIigxXltaZV4k4TANFXaMXzfQSZI4VNgksuvJf4qm4nHbbhe4enqZ9-8rKiENJxSgxMD2o-Z13d9nMVzn0qJa-aQ4okXe2sH-5BAwZs0FN4pP15yJt1r_MYv0v0N_GyAcX/s1080/IMG_20220430_075844_469.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8-bPDJtjBKV80F_IRPadw5bCZ2NX3T3i_-JXyXTVtffhW24vDEwqy5RIigxXltaZV4k4TANFXaMXzfQSZI4VNgksuvJf4qm4nHbbhe4enqZ9-8rKiENJxSgxMD2o-Z13d9nMVzn0qJa-aQ4okXe2sH-5BAwZs0FN4pP15yJt1r_MYv0v0N_GyAcX/w400-h300/IMG_20220430_075844_469.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The ponds on his property were host to several hundred American coots and various species of ducks. The birds moved from pond to pond as Nancy and I circled the dikes walking on dry alkali-coated roads. There was also some mud, but Eastern Oregon is experiencing a severe drought. </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1AFO-77kliK5G1PjwQqjDcd9RHwFMrpYhtNCyXYrL8AeKgHTKWCPQroAUdQalhMuXHi-ta64b5BG9IY_U3zyqv7c4DnyXWJa63AM8bS-ZtFSTZdMs398AbJ-bvnfUQY1g4CrdFkxPia7onvwrPMXCapGMvre-_Ch886MyGwMkowjHq5KVRwV4PP5/s4032/20220420_132808.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1AFO-77kliK5G1PjwQqjDcd9RHwFMrpYhtNCyXYrL8AeKgHTKWCPQroAUdQalhMuXHi-ta64b5BG9IY_U3zyqv7c4DnyXWJa63AM8bS-ZtFSTZdMs398AbJ-bvnfUQY1g4CrdFkxPia7onvwrPMXCapGMvre-_Ch886MyGwMkowjHq5KVRwV4PP5/w195-h400/20220420_132808.jpg" width="195" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Over the five days of traveling from Walla Walla, Washington, through John Day to Burns, Oregon, and then to our lodging in the town of Hines next to Burns, and back, Nancy and I counted eighty-two species of birds. This is the season of spring bird migration and we were not disappointed. We saw thousands of snow geese and dozens of sandhill cranes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkrBbjuI00AQEccWRDddumJpx9506Imi4bBxYWo1wg60AOcry_uHdTCNqqLC7oFH8dhTojIZD0GzQh3vssYw0lXV_m-hzk5L-lySfdqoYl2rRS1Labmtlam5lnQmQSNK_c7MKbSxFNzD_UD_PB6qpZkJLXG1zSm4JWNjYG2Sbb3DuQdkukvRuQm7j/s4032/20220421_092400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkrBbjuI00AQEccWRDddumJpx9506Imi4bBxYWo1wg60AOcry_uHdTCNqqLC7oFH8dhTojIZD0GzQh3vssYw0lXV_m-hzk5L-lySfdqoYl2rRS1Labmtlam5lnQmQSNK_c7MKbSxFNzD_UD_PB6qpZkJLXG1zSm4JWNjYG2Sbb3DuQdkukvRuQm7j/w400-h195/20220421_092400.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you see the two sandhill cranes?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Many birds were in surprising numbers: white-crowned sparrows, yellow-headed blackbirds (my favorite), black-necked stilts, and cinnamon teals. Some of our rarer birds were a Virginia Rail, a pied-billed grebe, an eared grebe, a common loon, and a fleeting glance at a burrowing owl.<p></p><p>In old homesteads in stands of cottonwoods, we saw great horned owls and even one nesting in the cliffs on Steve's ranch.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMD5mMr6luDrVUVsTbbRLfZwIJSqpsEVMvIqQ_84i-xtYNgz06O6ojdBwMRvdAFeKWa4Kqq9VXwieOZenZL0zOfYrsS8iCyII7_6uzHiNZH3ayKI91zQ0FPcvRjG0J5r9ASvD2LQ47_NyJnjBF7C5MxB9AfbOgx6c0XypHkFXimItEWBrzvtW9FHe1/s4032/20220420_142141.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMD5mMr6luDrVUVsTbbRLfZwIJSqpsEVMvIqQ_84i-xtYNgz06O6ojdBwMRvdAFeKWa4Kqq9VXwieOZenZL0zOfYrsS8iCyII7_6uzHiNZH3ayKI91zQ0FPcvRjG0J5r9ASvD2LQ47_NyJnjBF7C5MxB9AfbOgx6c0XypHkFXimItEWBrzvtW9FHe1/w195-h400/20220420_142141.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Our best sighting of great horned owls was in the Peter French historic round barn. To digress from birds a moment, this area became a ranching magnet in the latter part of the 1800s led by a man named Peter French. Peter built this round barn for winter use.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLXc6mvhZhkZ2dQb687pGsEFim_7mm2-ZleMO3FdNClSsB5aOwdftDJ-iYBANZMG845XTIrxlHIVhqdqPixw2HRGmJjn9XMa9oXwf0DhJYJ0xStbRx4IrGMdQtKiSO4A6fwE46zem9IA3FlQKYIrnASLMC5TvB4wVSqpO7gKWRrY2zTHkvjKkKrVS/s4032/20220418_163812.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLXc6mvhZhkZ2dQb687pGsEFim_7mm2-ZleMO3FdNClSsB5aOwdftDJ-iYBANZMG845XTIrxlHIVhqdqPixw2HRGmJjn9XMa9oXwf0DhJYJ0xStbRx4IrGMdQtKiSO4A6fwE46zem9IA3FlQKYIrnASLMC5TvB4wVSqpO7gKWRrY2zTHkvjKkKrVS/w640-h312/20220418_163812.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>The barn is one-hundred-feet across with an interior wall of stone, sixty-feet across, punctuated by windows. Inside the interior wall foals were born, while in the outside circle wild horses were trained to pull wagons.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4XykbZxTWJAjZ-c1CZMOomtYR6lM0QYVMj1cxJLAqPfsHbdWpbWdtaZy1o-tO8kKVSfiAV5EuMTqeiD5A0YtAD-Mrca77ldrMHubJZ_7jocy29VVW1vP0FZ9iLasGjSSbOC_oIqexDKNGxC1uintny8YeBjxxOQ1p4VjK7AqF_vix9KYpuBB84B9/s1142/IMG_20220418_192627_708.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1142" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4XykbZxTWJAjZ-c1CZMOomtYR6lM0QYVMj1cxJLAqPfsHbdWpbWdtaZy1o-tO8kKVSfiAV5EuMTqeiD5A0YtAD-Mrca77ldrMHubJZ_7jocy29VVW1vP0FZ9iLasGjSSbOC_oIqexDKNGxC1uintny8YeBjxxOQ1p4VjK7AqF_vix9KYpuBB84B9/w379-h400/IMG_20220418_192627_708.jpg" width="379" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2pSNAwRyv-TyQVTNOzdw7q3Ns3_XV3zAFAvE0tm_tgJkrfoExjeJd7DKQ5XbXJSOKxFLLKaceGDbT_331l4YNjmok_NipXXLWlPtLZ81uAuYWEILJHsAUKI4DIqRoyynMqUG72DvVvetlvrSuvXPs_sqOU-c8gYBtVPFDSkI3QUHKhrwHOwdKcm_/s4032/20220418_163340.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2pSNAwRyv-TyQVTNOzdw7q3Ns3_XV3zAFAvE0tm_tgJkrfoExjeJd7DKQ5XbXJSOKxFLLKaceGDbT_331l4YNjmok_NipXXLWlPtLZ81uAuYWEILJHsAUKI4DIqRoyynMqUG72DvVvetlvrSuvXPs_sqOU-c8gYBtVPFDSkI3QUHKhrwHOwdKcm_/w400-h195/20220418_163340.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpmsLPhcY8xUIKhEOXHdsDzR4CEISm0m1-l7rpc5KvuKJjih3jMXhGvt61NWCDVtrwTaZnhGpinh0p1TFUaYoo6sIRqEUtMyq_ZFxDR8CMD-aaEAwo49uzc7LOHrDrZVMfpFbZpNhQtmrquVPCNcHEjFb0z-9qVIrbZc_dvd__mSXLJdFMrTI1X0S/s4032/20220418_163250.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpmsLPhcY8xUIKhEOXHdsDzR4CEISm0m1-l7rpc5KvuKJjih3jMXhGvt61NWCDVtrwTaZnhGpinh0p1TFUaYoo6sIRqEUtMyq_ZFxDR8CMD-aaEAwo49uzc7LOHrDrZVMfpFbZpNhQtmrquVPCNcHEjFb0z-9qVIrbZc_dvd__mSXLJdFMrTI1X0S/w400-h195/20220418_163250.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>A pair of nesting great horned owls had taken up residence in the peak's beams. You can see one owl on the lookout in the upper left and the ears of a second in the huge nest in the lower right.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ18ZBARTEn8GgRSVorMR55BjQztSIYp-TkF2H6upr6fC9u1FxnF_SHh7S18PEOUF9C406Vsp5sOMxdIyken1VqV-4eOc59LKbgJVgS_Wv9SxCx8Jmn7ttZ2GBkYYwDaRHX4DL0Rb9C4cUhLIhTdMd1NQ0PF1zz6jaJRLmT4GiPEe9Ch4hmz2e6uG2/s1142/IMG_20220418_192627_719.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1142" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ18ZBARTEn8GgRSVorMR55BjQztSIYp-TkF2H6upr6fC9u1FxnF_SHh7S18PEOUF9C406Vsp5sOMxdIyken1VqV-4eOc59LKbgJVgS_Wv9SxCx8Jmn7ttZ2GBkYYwDaRHX4DL0Rb9C4cUhLIhTdMd1NQ0PF1zz6jaJRLmT4GiPEe9Ch4hmz2e6uG2/w379-h400/IMG_20220418_192627_719.jpg" width="379" /></a></div><p>Wild horses are still gathered in the area. BLM has corrals where horses and burros are fed and eventually sold. It was difficult not to come home with a horse or a burro. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdOu720NpEVilTLnnlNs5jDa9QQ_Y2rwLvsDry-pDTFk9cVrTgyVqjovzot_iyoD3qHcGKvrtWJ6JfQl05JxCKQs1NOc22KpP4EBhXGdaeKOJz4z9PWuPber-Moc9p2s0mqK4ed7GvCEMO9VYdmO2PoEVgVKtVmFxf0X8I6D-UkVNgs6HWvWl8ice/s4032/20220420_095324.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdOu720NpEVilTLnnlNs5jDa9QQ_Y2rwLvsDry-pDTFk9cVrTgyVqjovzot_iyoD3qHcGKvrtWJ6JfQl05JxCKQs1NOc22KpP4EBhXGdaeKOJz4z9PWuPber-Moc9p2s0mqK4ed7GvCEMO9VYdmO2PoEVgVKtVmFxf0X8I6D-UkVNgs6HWvWl8ice/s320/20220420_095324.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fyTW8Vpfwid15uGyNTEOiaijLlQeeTh5oI91xRspJtboWCMLA4Yjg2pmIDk0qLXJ1TErtUs2qjSVpGM4ev8mjPKA2SJp09J_DkG1mZ7NCR-ZVhjQnVWCbQ08Wr_oAtkfGFN4jWqtfvJSLDjvuKc_-CgerQfi9HsOD2cQcfOOKx_qZYlH4oNNtGzt/s1238/20220420_163755.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1238" data-original-width="1238" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-fyTW8Vpfwid15uGyNTEOiaijLlQeeTh5oI91xRspJtboWCMLA4Yjg2pmIDk0qLXJ1TErtUs2qjSVpGM4ev8mjPKA2SJp09J_DkG1mZ7NCR-ZVhjQnVWCbQ08Wr_oAtkfGFN4jWqtfvJSLDjvuKc_-CgerQfi9HsOD2cQcfOOKx_qZYlH4oNNtGzt/s320/20220420_163755.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYttLevJdrG5-2ral6w1S87eCJB1b2ukA99-UEMZoBbMbpIkQN6_gjQgje-PCkt5Be1_wVyZXKDfW8XsagV0YDL2TgCTkJzrLJlJJp_ASEf8mmBQEtbHNPd_5U0u9IHe_Sbj60jjMNVWMO8M9bhZdggy2JilDeekce0-CUPRpQoPvy8S3r87ZyLJ_/s4032/20220420_093932.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYttLevJdrG5-2ral6w1S87eCJB1b2ukA99-UEMZoBbMbpIkQN6_gjQgje-PCkt5Be1_wVyZXKDfW8XsagV0YDL2TgCTkJzrLJlJJp_ASEf8mmBQEtbHNPd_5U0u9IHe_Sbj60jjMNVWMO8M9bhZdggy2JilDeekce0-CUPRpQoPvy8S3r87ZyLJ_/s320/20220420_093932.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>It is impossible to wander Harney County and not notice evidence of old ranches and homesteads, many still running, but some abandoned. Stands of cottonwoods marked where houses once stood.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVfYkTbeqyy9JCypxpz27DzhFMWJu0ZpqvMYc7K31xABQ_K9flrw0UgC2NxIc16n4n6A3gR3bDA6ubxtnx67cLs9HlfR2hA0muoVHrKPJrpeuj-bvDu0m_JcCwhZDypmiwLm07uEpOpofwonnhHRV63wNFNbZdg_yRG2LsZgtzBagwZeZhtjPOL0C/s4032/20220419_135713.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVfYkTbeqyy9JCypxpz27DzhFMWJu0ZpqvMYc7K31xABQ_K9flrw0UgC2NxIc16n4n6A3gR3bDA6ubxtnx67cLs9HlfR2hA0muoVHrKPJrpeuj-bvDu0m_JcCwhZDypmiwLm07uEpOpofwonnhHRV63wNFNbZdg_yRG2LsZgtzBagwZeZhtjPOL0C/w640-h312/20220419_135713.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">An orange basketball hoop attached to a tree was evidence of more recent occupation at this homestead.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_6g4RvMAvlBn-R9UfefIB1xOnV1o2LjE8hTx-p3_r-Vb6Id54mpqU2qp8Inj3kkNbkVTYh74Rl4wwMCx97mSI1SzShODnCJRF0RJAd7pAX62pPlDMfdk_wfxvVm8dqDqgJpfUtDr_RMVqK00-tHZkadZ7k8xkIZnacw_dLm4aR2NWZtcYHDWSq8X/s4032/20220419_141918.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_6g4RvMAvlBn-R9UfefIB1xOnV1o2LjE8hTx-p3_r-Vb6Id54mpqU2qp8Inj3kkNbkVTYh74Rl4wwMCx97mSI1SzShODnCJRF0RJAd7pAX62pPlDMfdk_wfxvVm8dqDqgJpfUtDr_RMVqK00-tHZkadZ7k8xkIZnacw_dLm4aR2NWZtcYHDWSq8X/w195-h400/20220419_141918.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Fences, some of woven sticks, mark old corrals.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHm3fZa6rVJhmoYevQtv--HIDt6vPTVdTNBNaMhfLH5QY8BW1_IxDUuwG_s-ju2rgT8MHUdVL2zbVomBQ5B6Db5AKU5cqW9MwnQv0qJC4KOBM-3rrinY3mGrDpbZNjhjRJxa_3RO3NjEuQVpldNw8WGiMVtKV7vS13kZby9YRV3b3N2xfXirDrSGR/s4032/20220419_140056.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHm3fZa6rVJhmoYevQtv--HIDt6vPTVdTNBNaMhfLH5QY8BW1_IxDUuwG_s-ju2rgT8MHUdVL2zbVomBQ5B6Db5AKU5cqW9MwnQv0qJC4KOBM-3rrinY3mGrDpbZNjhjRJxa_3RO3NjEuQVpldNw8WGiMVtKV7vS13kZby9YRV3b3N2xfXirDrSGR/w400-h195/20220419_140056.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There is beauty everywhere—sites of hardwork and tenacity.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm86DLRYVDcqIvjk7zO9BTW76tvYjNb5-68Rld16R9XCVaRGcOjJXfemaWKShQmqwc-I4IQyYzeWfBkT5LvTHFT3nn_7765mXY7V_VN8QF__KMp--VniNm4c4w0Px5j819QtWK1tnQsFNCwz0ZIjb8swCMhgU1xGlQtRjKaBoxcfUnxZIcyloJVfZj/s1080/IMG_20220430_075844_464.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm86DLRYVDcqIvjk7zO9BTW76tvYjNb5-68Rld16R9XCVaRGcOjJXfemaWKShQmqwc-I4IQyYzeWfBkT5LvTHFT3nn_7765mXY7V_VN8QF__KMp--VniNm4c4w0Px5j819QtWK1tnQsFNCwz0ZIjb8swCMhgU1xGlQtRjKaBoxcfUnxZIcyloJVfZj/w400-h300/IMG_20220430_075844_464.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OhoVudGnK7zwcH0OfNT95z22Z7w0_PMsDqG62KNasmDhM3DF3WBLfjr-D4LL90INKoKkOJRH-72xFrnuCsPJFcJxONVyTetoYqQhvJDETi3L4bLPGYgRRwlnG4dCFAT1hfBuSWnyWJOckXjaTTLk0w_FF5RDcS_Ji5vWCU66jEAk6HP33KSIMh6M/s4032/20220420_145507.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OhoVudGnK7zwcH0OfNT95z22Z7w0_PMsDqG62KNasmDhM3DF3WBLfjr-D4LL90INKoKkOJRH-72xFrnuCsPJFcJxONVyTetoYqQhvJDETi3L4bLPGYgRRwlnG4dCFAT1hfBuSWnyWJOckXjaTTLk0w_FF5RDcS_Ji5vWCU66jEAk6HP33KSIMh6M/w195-h400/20220420_145507.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><p>Hines, where we stayed in what I thing was one of the 128 mail-order houses which were constructed for mill workers back in the 1920s, has its monument to ambition. Besides the carefully planned community of houses that still has an inviting neighborhood feeling, the mill owner commissioned an elegant hotel. Unfortunately, the timing was poor coming up on the Depression, so the concrete hotel named The Ponderosa never opened its doors. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpv8Hfnc4WexTuteJGgRmSiR5WOtioogyIysHGdl37nL1udLmCO4GnFNU-hpLg91sjZ-5woJD98OYHjasSbV69TOwUpNXxF68SYEljGT9IJjyv1KvxP0HdJTQmW6IMsbBH8x7b13AzRfw-ywu64kzYhBN2WZXTwSnWXVY9W1-XCCGYm35H0B2c3y3Q/s4032/20220419_193353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpv8Hfnc4WexTuteJGgRmSiR5WOtioogyIysHGdl37nL1udLmCO4GnFNU-hpLg91sjZ-5woJD98OYHjasSbV69TOwUpNXxF68SYEljGT9IJjyv1KvxP0HdJTQmW6IMsbBH8x7b13AzRfw-ywu64kzYhBN2WZXTwSnWXVY9W1-XCCGYm35H0B2c3y3Q/w400-h195/20220419_193353.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ponderosa</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Our mill house lodging had been rennovated and was absolutely lovely. Tourism is the new mill work.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHS-2qZCTh5-jAQZ8QIvbYMy72r1RZftn59S7waLFcG6KNd53y8fM6qle6vWMvuvMUjzDobImGViq_ul4OLUjcJBh-oHop_Q8SGFFQB7cnEnz4Ml-fMt3VkA4m53bKR1b6qS_sk1jLkFf0zjQvJuYW7xv1EQz0_Fv0nOuB5bGZZdbrWuXLeyOtybM/s4032/20220419_181924.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHS-2qZCTh5-jAQZ8QIvbYMy72r1RZftn59S7waLFcG6KNd53y8fM6qle6vWMvuvMUjzDobImGViq_ul4OLUjcJBh-oHop_Q8SGFFQB7cnEnz4Ml-fMt3VkA4m53bKR1b6qS_sk1jLkFf0zjQvJuYW7xv1EQz0_Fv0nOuB5bGZZdbrWuXLeyOtybM/s320/20220419_181924.jpg" width="156" /></a></div><p>The drought is tough on ranchers. Everywhere we went, locals mentioned their concerns of drought, of low wages, or lack of help. At the Frenchglen Hotel in Frenchglen south of Burns, the restaurant was quiet. Nancy and I were the only lunch customers. The hotel is owned by the National Park Service and will be open for an operating bid this next year. The current operator has been there for decades and is retiring. Finding help has been a recent problem. Fortunately the Frenchglen Mercantile two doors down is expanding into a former many-windowed porchlike room. An energetic local woman is making it into upscale coffee shop with couches, a woodstove, and local art for sale. The hotel's eight rooms are nearly fully reserved from now into next fall. Might any of you be interested in relocating and becoming a hotelier? The position comes with a room of your own!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETlIBZ9Ui1PTKXlkAjqdRokmb0ZrSF40CaXFesh2kNGygr5K3HufpsxgFue9C7WN1q6ZLXLPOjcb8qSZtzM5V5toKDStXnz2W2__yh3na_NuZGMADOA5LZheHCX-SK7SM8DzStqoHrrQwPYIDWDqQaLUjYxar-muer9YeMPQlRQEWnhLQ6tJ0uRXG/s4032/20220419_122010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETlIBZ9Ui1PTKXlkAjqdRokmb0ZrSF40CaXFesh2kNGygr5K3HufpsxgFue9C7WN1q6ZLXLPOjcb8qSZtzM5V5toKDStXnz2W2__yh3na_NuZGMADOA5LZheHCX-SK7SM8DzStqoHrrQwPYIDWDqQaLUjYxar-muer9YeMPQlRQEWnhLQ6tJ0uRXG/w195-h400/20220419_122010.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You could even be a cook! The Frenchglen Hotel has a kitchen for serving meals for the hotel guests.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSz5zDYcplpDwkoQcSW00SdRVzpIoBHilBjTJru7L6MpqFdEWF7AYMcC9Sv4s4S6B1pDKZ7Ri9ZhqJblRwdcTn48FtuqfZJWcpiz3En5qzxOFsA2paD4aL6M7oK9o3ZuMCoVjaB5P_8yUmm_0y2493lrezCs3yl9TotwaF8bA7qgZK3MRA2olVoa_T/s4032/20220419_125802.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSz5zDYcplpDwkoQcSW00SdRVzpIoBHilBjTJru7L6MpqFdEWF7AYMcC9Sv4s4S6B1pDKZ7Ri9ZhqJblRwdcTn48FtuqfZJWcpiz3En5qzxOFsA2paD4aL6M7oK9o3ZuMCoVjaB5P_8yUmm_0y2493lrezCs3yl9TotwaF8bA7qgZK3MRA2olVoa_T/w195-h400/20220419_125802.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Mercantile had a good selection of attractive items. This is Nancy, my best birding partner. We both bought something pleasing at the Mercantile.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQVe2pcWSTeqqEDXhtkAbKhNqiNmZxQiKMuB9ZElciU5TO8aYhKv4GRHs7OtbuyqLqIEZgHDcPrIWI7ZVmW35F6ekr9MfzRtIxQUTeryFhwoWFwMJTi328rGiB-LXr-D8iHxtIbzKd8GhkdTF9LFn6XYGOB2U_cXHVj3P41gRiotpOzEXjpiW1S6a/s4032/20220419_131621.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQVe2pcWSTeqqEDXhtkAbKhNqiNmZxQiKMuB9ZElciU5TO8aYhKv4GRHs7OtbuyqLqIEZgHDcPrIWI7ZVmW35F6ekr9MfzRtIxQUTeryFhwoWFwMJTi328rGiB-LXr-D8iHxtIbzKd8GhkdTF9LFn6XYGOB2U_cXHVj3P41gRiotpOzEXjpiW1S6a/w195-h400/20220419_131621.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><p>I certainly felt sorely tempted to stay in Malheur country. What I found appealing was the immense solitude and the long views. The beauty is at every turn from the panoramic to the macro. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX5-9WGsz_wjE0t0KryrVRnwwasGLFXSxGEdGxbZqQ9IWDv945e1Nyre9kcZU-zxhZF80oLdGJ6Jir4Ml_AE4NSPQ4vhF1FtSWR4jKywSbKJAR9RoxViyqVswHgHvRKx8LhNxQKtefLZ6s9hNv_eOJhM6bSXN7jRFsz3bqbOPRmF_KiGRRHpsYTJ8/s4032/20220419_140117.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX5-9WGsz_wjE0t0KryrVRnwwasGLFXSxGEdGxbZqQ9IWDv945e1Nyre9kcZU-zxhZF80oLdGJ6Jir4Ml_AE4NSPQ4vhF1FtSWR4jKywSbKJAR9RoxViyqVswHgHvRKx8LhNxQKtefLZ6s9hNv_eOJhM6bSXN7jRFsz3bqbOPRmF_KiGRRHpsYTJ8/w312-h640/20220419_140117.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJjvmiDZSnTDO_gQBvThOKdZopKheAxe_wsbi5-Pdk1bJCSAP5vgbvfx0WYAIZ5wY2nVHHsRI-lz8iWOQr19NW0TprhUriF9fTNOy0n4uSUmu9aGD8haiPvTz8hRuugG8AwiYIVRSM-8LOy4MelreGaK3CFIp9M7D8u_jlIOBvINZcNY-lk-BOLnf/s2450/IMG_20220419_181042_279.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2450" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJjvmiDZSnTDO_gQBvThOKdZopKheAxe_wsbi5-Pdk1bJCSAP5vgbvfx0WYAIZ5wY2nVHHsRI-lz8iWOQr19NW0TprhUriF9fTNOy0n4uSUmu9aGD8haiPvTz8hRuugG8AwiYIVRSM-8LOy4MelreGaK3CFIp9M7D8u_jlIOBvINZcNY-lk-BOLnf/w320-h400/IMG_20220419_181042_279.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And of course the wildlife is intriguing. </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprqkydI6EMi1fTTyUXVDNROCKR3DDYpFU9jI5UsWgr6YWbNQWcwy98rNlveTpiVEpVZWGxSYKVXr1gz-7HwBKFjwqXjpzNiVstnrFgGQ_Dxoj4z6gsxyvSYJoCZ4S8i8D0HEfUJEWio_JwkI6VJ9UMz8E6tyCHLbTkrvbbFpA5sQeteaqmZbv2mnt/s640/IMG_8586.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprqkydI6EMi1fTTyUXVDNROCKR3DDYpFU9jI5UsWgr6YWbNQWcwy98rNlveTpiVEpVZWGxSYKVXr1gz-7HwBKFjwqXjpzNiVstnrFgGQ_Dxoj4z6gsxyvSYJoCZ4S8i8D0HEfUJEWio_JwkI6VJ9UMz8E6tyCHLbTkrvbbFpA5sQeteaqmZbv2mnt/w300-h400/IMG_8586.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Not sure what this species is called. Steve, have you selected a name yet?</div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-32376946979117352852022-03-08T12:25:00.000-08:002022-03-08T12:25:09.114-08:00Reflections of a Ukrainian Sky, Musings on War<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpCMndikIBnI3k0CFjcs2hK0avgX4T7NyIJqKCrS_dXGAbEgvi-aqaTLnjdCT9QeGthqbHmJjgBRNNWx60UyfwbV1AGgpOu3m5n8MaU0lawnhcRPnXqGxrB-95JiP8XWEnN79wC7zJMyiwt7sWHgYl9pGdpT9RtG__l9KbnWMPhCKhDPvoxp3TV0lx=s2937" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="2937" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpCMndikIBnI3k0CFjcs2hK0avgX4T7NyIJqKCrS_dXGAbEgvi-aqaTLnjdCT9QeGthqbHmJjgBRNNWx60UyfwbV1AGgpOu3m5n8MaU0lawnhcRPnXqGxrB-95JiP8XWEnN79wC7zJMyiwt7sWHgYl9pGdpT9RtG__l9KbnWMPhCKhDPvoxp3TV0lx=w400-h268" width="400" /></a></div><br />As the earth rotated four times, Ukrainians saw the same sky seen reflected here in the windows of a Walla Walla building before those citizens looked up towards its early morning light and heard blasts and the whine of incoming bombs. Backing away from the glass of their windows, reluctant to turn away from the sight of their beloved buildings and neighborhoods, the Ukrainian citizens moved to their home’s windowless rooms or down to basements and designated subway stations—where they learned to make Molotov cocktails.<p></p><p>I wonder sometimes what it would be like if we could see in the sky a reflection of what has happened in the lands over which it earlier passed. Or if at least, the sky’s atmosphere would carry in its breathe the holler, the whimper, the shimmer, and the dust of such tragic events as the miscalculations of men instigating wars. The sounds from elsewhere raining down on those of us here might just detour us from thinking we too can covet what is not ours.</p><p>The building in the photo above was constructed in the mid-1930s, post WWI and prior to WWII. Mostly it has been an unremarkable building, a car dealership on the back of Main Street. As it is being renovated for some new endeavor, it is looking good. Its western-facing plate glass windows clean and gleaming in the day’s “cloudy with sun” forecast. It hasn’t and likely won’t be blown apart. All of us have turned into and pulled up that asphalt drive to park in the back lot and visit the candy store, toy store, frame shop or the latest restaurant where Merchant’s used to be. The storefronts and restaurants flip occupants, but none violently like those in the Ukrainian cities which will change by necessity as they are overtaken or bombed by Russian aggression. </p><p>There is much debate as to whether the relatively peaceful last few decades is an aberration or if the human race is moving towards a greater peace. I wonder if when we look down at our cell phone's news with the phone’s screen reflecting the sky above, the visions will contain the echoes and scenes sufficiently awful to convince us to be done with the necessity for those occasional internet searches for Molotov cocktail recipes.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-90969174833980961842022-01-19T16:07:00.000-08:002022-01-19T16:07:19.017-08:00My Word for 2022: Juxtaposition<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-i71ovrFPC6TO75osJItI_2fnZJfTimbyP8M87pYpxprkbzRUFGQj64nd1qtDOi0rbqeMVRqejBPFxskdZsdaXmxhh80Ml_evT33ooyBx3oEb0ac0g8p078JBIfDQVu-GROZW-NIrp00//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-i71ovrFPC6TO75osJItI_2fnZJfTimbyP8M87pYpxprkbzRUFGQj64nd1qtDOi0rbqeMVRqejBPFxskdZsdaXmxhh80Ml_evT33ooyBx3oEb0ac0g8p078JBIfDQVu-GROZW-NIrp00/w195-h400/20220104_134842.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Whoever placed the roof drain directly over the electrical boxes or placed the electrical boxes under a roof drain probably never heard of ironic juxtaposition nor expected a woman leaving her dentist appointment some decades later to be delighted with the humor and beauty of the iced version of their handiwork. The date of this color-infused photograph is January 4th, 2022. Perfect timing for me to choose a word for this year. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I am responding to a challenge from The New York Times to select one word. My word for the year. As they point out, when you make a New Year’s Resolution, you are expected to try and complete it. A single word doesn’t have to have the same obligation. If I chose the word <i>diet</i> or <i>heal</i>, I might feel obligated, but there are so many words that lack any compunction to be doing anything. And yet be useful in all seasons. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My inclination was to choose a word whose sound I liked. Amenable. Serendipitous. Intricate. Silly. Any of these would do, but with the alley view of a potential disaster in mind, I settled on juxtaposition. The Oxford English Dictionary describes juxtapose in this way: Place (two or more things) side by side or close to one another; place (one thing) beside another.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Although I could be compelled all year long to place things side by side (word by word, cocoa by cookies, pens by paper), the word juxtaposition implies that the placing has already been done. My only obligation will be to notice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatkIAHkIiBKRu1FqonnBCM-c_-woZOmQDeAw033iFBhJCtomEz610mWW8y5abkrsp6PPucI4rQ3eeQEqV9LE3dc3WtaIMu2oaTuCxSuwRSEd-3nIjW9jKL4p8aButNjf79-3EXLxWTFc//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatkIAHkIiBKRu1FqonnBCM-c_-woZOmQDeAw033iFBhJCtomEz610mWW8y5abkrsp6PPucI4rQ3eeQEqV9LE3dc3WtaIMu2oaTuCxSuwRSEd-3nIjW9jKL4p8aButNjf79-3EXLxWTFc/w400-h195/20220109_114303.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My wry sense of humor encourages me to consider all juxtaposition as ironic. "Ironic juxtaposition is the fancy term for what happens when two disparate things are placed side by side, each commenting on the other.” according to Roy Peter Clark in <i>Writing Tools</i>. I don’t intend to limit myself. After all, I am supposed to have only one word. However so far most of the things I have noticed in January are of an ironic nature. Like the cake and pastry containers above seemingly advertised with a Beer/Wine sign. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNk9_lxeihXPxRBnCT7NI6PDCv9KsW8I4CRnjrzOHH0e4Evc_ln_ZyNia-EwvYbt-nXR0-I23zYHW8pQKCwwbn1V1PCyfJ13mYOBmcI3tY41Ws7N61X56d0piKI7Ogk3NdX7ZH79w-CU//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNk9_lxeihXPxRBnCT7NI6PDCv9KsW8I4CRnjrzOHH0e4Evc_ln_ZyNia-EwvYbt-nXR0-I23zYHW8pQKCwwbn1V1PCyfJ13mYOBmcI3tY41Ws7N61X56d0piKI7Ogk3NdX7ZH79w-CU/w400-h195/20220101_152410.jpg" title="Parisian hats?" width="400" /></a></div><br />And here are snow-layered heaters looking like elegant Parisian women modeling their hats out in front of the French restaurante Brasserie Four. Snow on heating elements. Score one for winter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Natures placement holds so many possiblilites. Here is Eeyore on the run—ice laid on rocks. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGRv-7eIR9eajYj3b8fmLO-tb8SNypDJSC7Y5cQMjQ35BUp2PZLMkjD7rrb3p4_jrDy4iMmhmBIdvOWRrMs_uxKzdkwlant-ONRPFzfuy6DX283dikyYXJivDR5dGjuymPwIHklTB3xQ//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGRv-7eIR9eajYj3b8fmLO-tb8SNypDJSC7Y5cQMjQ35BUp2PZLMkjD7rrb3p4_jrDy4iMmhmBIdvOWRrMs_uxKzdkwlant-ONRPFzfuy6DX283dikyYXJivDR5dGjuymPwIHklTB3xQ/w400-h195/20220115_163047.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I’m set. I'm on the lookout for placements both intentional and serendipitous. Word placed by word, thought by thought, the footfall of one human by the footfall of another. The juxtaposition of things in time and the circumstantial placement of nature in all her ways.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-G6RfyVJxJeBramB2fl2Qzvi-o9msfB09Z5D5r19sQX1Qc0ynMDjxVU322AX-tWwlw5H88QWV5ImjZSldCj-sjok8_PKxLAewsaGeJSqZZEcrT977xQHoYnLeh0eWWcjZSWI6-4A89I//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-G6RfyVJxJeBramB2fl2Qzvi-o9msfB09Z5D5r19sQX1Qc0ynMDjxVU322AX-tWwlw5H88QWV5ImjZSldCj-sjok8_PKxLAewsaGeJSqZZEcrT977xQHoYnLeh0eWWcjZSWI6-4A89I/w400-h195/20220109_150339.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><ul class="a-unordered-list a-nostyle a-vertical a-spacing-none detail-bullet-list" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 1px 18px; padding: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; list-style: none; margin: 0px 0px 5.5px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></li></ul><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-76227596519179960822021-12-31T20:41:00.000-08:002021-12-31T20:41:27.903-08:00Walking Alleys in the Time of Covid-19—Bizarre? Or Normal? <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgppackg5FOCx34v5GORgmotFdcZd-PJxS_T_PKmtrq7Wxxc7-oFdBrJNSZcEmnPl5n8SRjmFSgvA_XNDzsoqFIIdzD5Av3AVPsp5mt1ourdlExj_xfm2zbVEOi4gSsxWLStaGyDQokIH89VOtAdxsWISbXZUu6F_jKgGOemJPoC5E_ZvGhdpEdUOHY=s2160" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="2160" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgppackg5FOCx34v5GORgmotFdcZd-PJxS_T_PKmtrq7Wxxc7-oFdBrJNSZcEmnPl5n8SRjmFSgvA_XNDzsoqFIIdzD5Av3AVPsp5mt1ourdlExj_xfm2zbVEOi4gSsxWLStaGyDQokIH89VOtAdxsWISbXZUu6F_jKgGOemJPoC5E_ZvGhdpEdUOHY=w400-h195" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The Covid-19 pandemic—like every pandemic that has plagued humanity—has turned normality akilter, brought grief where none existed, and challenged man’s capacity to be generous in adversity. What on ordinary days might seem bizarre, becomes normal: quarantining in a parent’s basement with meals left at the door like it is a prison cell, the storing of bodies jumbled in refrigerator trucks with each corpse’s existence reduced to the accuracy of its identity tag, and some men proud to wear football helmets, gun holsters, and jock straps can’t find their own courage when it comes to pulling a scrap of cloth over their mouth and nose. Mothers, unlike my own who died in the polio pandemic when I was a one-year-old (only two years before the polio vaccine was available), stand on street corners with their children in tow, all mask less, waving anti-vaxxer signs, seemingly oblivious or pretending to be oblivious to the hazard of their ill-formed campaign—politically driven and opposing the very science their child is supposedly learning in school. Yes, the bizarre normal.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The photo above of buildings in Walla Walla, Washington, certainly has an eerie feeling. The pavement appears to be clouds and the words in the water’s reflection should be reading backwards. Bizarre, yes. That I have recently taken a break from walking my familiar wooded canyon (where I wandered mostly alone these past two years) and instead spent hours walking the alleys of my hometown, peering into gutters is both bizarre and normal. Bizarre, because who walks alleys? And normal because I have become accustomed to looking for the beautiful or unusual—slow-walking through a pandemic and welcoming what comes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipyYkLjKNrlONSboPFrwKgv6_9NUoJLnvJkeT-KjiLVMyTEKXA3PfTddrIonGcpV-8j1xCTyySVMeoppDK3ubJQE3jYhZJWgJyH-4WFiJ7GIb4ksP4XpkXDAAK1NlqCZo7K9FP8cFxkApko_KdUJSXtbKcvvUQOuY9bjYw0uOt_DrN2jjT79S2beC5=s2450" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2450" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipyYkLjKNrlONSboPFrwKgv6_9NUoJLnvJkeT-KjiLVMyTEKXA3PfTddrIonGcpV-8j1xCTyySVMeoppDK3ubJQE3jYhZJWgJyH-4WFiJ7GIb4ksP4XpkXDAAK1NlqCZo7K9FP8cFxkApko_KdUJSXtbKcvvUQOuY9bjYw0uOt_DrN2jjT79S2beC5=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On Christmas Eve day, the drive-thru lane in the alley behind Baker Boyer Bank saw a crisp business, so I dodged cars while stopping to admire the blue sky reflected in the runoff from a nearby building. I loved the authority of the white line, its certainty solid in an uncertain time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiN6_kc4CMO7mVdfFwquCOeDL5h1ne0YLHaxDAo9qDPcsB8bGilPmHmmn5Ssm_2aBYGvB-BqAsbydEEOw2kPNwbatSXNuXP0AD9FifjF-G9RsZkNa59wr49UXf3UMD82ylyCH3gWeqOKIUI3RKIr5leoSBhxdqkxtDAcX_x3zhHQgPs3oZlx-a-F12=s2386" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2386" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiiN6_kc4CMO7mVdfFwquCOeDL5h1ne0YLHaxDAo9qDPcsB8bGilPmHmmn5Ssm_2aBYGvB-BqAsbydEEOw2kPNwbatSXNuXP0AD9FifjF-G9RsZkNa59wr49UXf3UMD82ylyCH3gWeqOKIUI3RKIr5leoSBhxdqkxtDAcX_x3zhHQgPs3oZlx-a-F12=w329-h400" width="329" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Examine this photo. Although it could be construed as a painting, it isn’t. Pebbles embedded in an alley’s pavement read through the water of the puddle as paint blotches. The ordinarily unnoticed electrical conduits attached to the back of a building act as an artistic element, guiding the viewers eyes up and back down. I’ve passed by this spot hundreds of times and never slowed to see the beauty at my feet. This is the bounty of pandemic time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One of my ninth great grandfathers immigrated in 1635 to Massachusetts from a village in England called Boxted. When one of the many plagues swept through the village’s borders and threatened to kill everyone, those who were not yet contagious moved a short distance and hastily built a new town they called Boxted Cross. Think on this. What if this had been the solution for Covid-19? Would Walla Walla have come to be known as Old Walla Walla, and the new “town” Walla Walla Crossed?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I appreciate that many of our old Walla Walla buildings have survived earlier catastrophes or waves of use and disuse, of people moving about for whatever reason. I enjoyed isolating these building’s beauty in a world of pooled water or windowpanes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2lS6m6k5Ik7MRCgYBvPoTT2LTl8zJxt6QZIml7ZWbabHZTjub-tJcEK2EUEjGn13zFBpypNQ5hUMq2bLJcUsBCOxZbytbpsYZaAIyg7CJF79QzCn3gQw-z5MhJvP7JTJSXvsKfMyAUNBmp3ZYl64jtba3HQIWB4JEzhcClSeUy1V23GBURKmchkIt=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2lS6m6k5Ik7MRCgYBvPoTT2LTl8zJxt6QZIml7ZWbabHZTjub-tJcEK2EUEjGn13zFBpypNQ5hUMq2bLJcUsBCOxZbytbpsYZaAIyg7CJF79QzCn3gQw-z5MhJvP7JTJSXvsKfMyAUNBmp3ZYl64jtba3HQIWB4JEzhcClSeUy1V23GBURKmchkIt=w400-h195" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihAtl1Ts6ncaxl24dPAlMQ4JEKkg06DA2DENUV2M50h1gIEGUp8xDuocGdCWh6Owd38wE6T-dDc48XsGVzWgyX1-RTe7I7fusk8M21CJ190yUDrdavbZE-_tJv7F0FWiVM9aEotnm93CrlwtPL-JSlMeXtuCcNKqYOPb3vRTae5gpuKPhAScTlM6G7=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihAtl1Ts6ncaxl24dPAlMQ4JEKkg06DA2DENUV2M50h1gIEGUp8xDuocGdCWh6Owd38wE6T-dDc48XsGVzWgyX1-RTe7I7fusk8M21CJ190yUDrdavbZE-_tJv7F0FWiVM9aEotnm93CrlwtPL-JSlMeXtuCcNKqYOPb3vRTae5gpuKPhAScTlM6G7=w400-h195" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLtmYWdDWF02-gdxTGY9prCAke6gt-Jl9uLVWx0WS1pZJPEByhYuoxts4HHgiSjAtnWgd0CpjWXkSv3YtEeyWaB7LvUe_zWktfFuzvJaeud6uVZIydTmY_SWxJMwmxfBnvw6Fl8Im5EWsvYq87H7zYmbyxjGJDpneId_OoOFy7vrN-JVcczRGWRs2p=s3027" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1487" data-original-width="3027" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLtmYWdDWF02-gdxTGY9prCAke6gt-Jl9uLVWx0WS1pZJPEByhYuoxts4HHgiSjAtnWgd0CpjWXkSv3YtEeyWaB7LvUe_zWktfFuzvJaeud6uVZIydTmY_SWxJMwmxfBnvw6Fl8Im5EWsvYq87H7zYmbyxjGJDpneId_OoOFy7vrN-JVcczRGWRs2p=w400-h196" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div>I haven’t shied entirely away from popping into stores. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhc193xlf3zR15l90QQxRbxvG2N8bxLptAmF_l2xIy10LvUuTTScA4ks8nss_9f543JgKk6kWU03TVpXy4QKoAX6HhtZBPcmUlI9REYPdEDrtvRHUCQy4tHH0muel3HNL3IqkoUIwDmTTpcV29NyV7-xvo0PvEJfdZn1HvddUhIrPhOwbpPV-AbRmaX=s3770" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1833" data-original-width="3770" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhc193xlf3zR15l90QQxRbxvG2N8bxLptAmF_l2xIy10LvUuTTScA4ks8nss_9f543JgKk6kWU03TVpXy4QKoAX6HhtZBPcmUlI9REYPdEDrtvRHUCQy4tHH0muel3HNL3IqkoUIwDmTTpcV29NyV7-xvo0PvEJfdZn1HvddUhIrPhOwbpPV-AbRmaX=w400-h195" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Or walking down Main Street past its iconic clock.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaBmL_dseIovG5xWuC7_kHJ5ani5bBInlV5y0vsyJhGcMtz3b7EjhSWWAjSkxehGQpXoCxyX140vUURvpeAiAqQCENoqRgSdIX90yTJchVHL4Uamb5vMQrluMnF3s53lUNxKnw8b8AU1q98CmMgk_ATGEUlB6U-mV4OHK1npO51eZ-7j8bHLWenXNU=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaBmL_dseIovG5xWuC7_kHJ5ani5bBInlV5y0vsyJhGcMtz3b7EjhSWWAjSkxehGQpXoCxyX140vUURvpeAiAqQCENoqRgSdIX90yTJchVHL4Uamb5vMQrluMnF3s53lUNxKnw8b8AU1q98CmMgk_ATGEUlB6U-mV4OHK1npO51eZ-7j8bHLWenXNU=w195-h400" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On this last day of 2021, I can grieve for those whose lives were upended by this pandemic and I can hope this next year brings both a greater sensibility for and appreciation of our medical capabilities, along with a more generous consideration for the well-being of others. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let’s all be looking for new tracks, normal ones like the railroad tracks in front of Safeway on a snowy day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioUNa9PKuTFVQVcWwwC1rqw6oMtYsSH1Z5ip_H6PSR1Zr29hIPLdiY5achb274p5uQhL7FrqGfdUuU63N6xuR9LJ5rybdYRei_WwrO5ZdzP-0kO_FsbAnoY2rS3_cIULqYSF2cvDlqUA4qY22kftKX41VPefSeF-ZcNm0O_NslSOyZPLH2PnhaW2CI=s1080" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1080" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioUNa9PKuTFVQVcWwwC1rqw6oMtYsSH1Z5ip_H6PSR1Zr29hIPLdiY5achb274p5uQhL7FrqGfdUuU63N6xuR9LJ5rybdYRei_WwrO5ZdzP-0kO_FsbAnoY2rS3_cIULqYSF2cvDlqUA4qY22kftKX41VPefSeF-ZcNm0O_NslSOyZPLH2PnhaW2CI=w400-h209" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let’s gather warmth like from the colors of alley walls and from the kindness of strangers, their eyes twinkling from above their masks. Let’s find our way back to normal.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5F15oZh7yCWlLlAejRbVXhMSf1PylbJ9PPyxkGUx8p-gHZQiFaOZzsGvG1WccTfjbMdVm1hPMhQK4oKIEZnEpZuxj6XwUqC2rJeSdIlZt14rWtk9xJTjcCEMgauBqXvNIiQ0Q-OrOSzIWs1eddfTjrWAFfvmUMxn4ZBpVvpPUyGsSEmETpXzsaBx-=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5F15oZh7yCWlLlAejRbVXhMSf1PylbJ9PPyxkGUx8p-gHZQiFaOZzsGvG1WccTfjbMdVm1hPMhQK4oKIEZnEpZuxj6XwUqC2rJeSdIlZt14rWtk9xJTjcCEMgauBqXvNIiQ0Q-OrOSzIWs1eddfTjrWAFfvmUMxn4ZBpVvpPUyGsSEmETpXzsaBx-=w400-h195" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div> </div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-43599347821634899152021-10-24T16:24:00.000-07:002021-10-24T16:24:53.546-07:00Images of a Coastal Trip Stored for Winter Browsing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e9l4L2mqINOdpu3wtu_6ryPNf9r_decQhw2AfOyS3y1p_q3tf3IrjzRi9F5uylYD000mlMH7DsODvYekksqp-UhRBJItt0F4FZU76Yg3glyE3P0Nr7GJdA5NpPUnqh0rmzoOvcrCoUI/s2543/20210914_123553.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-e9l4L2mqINOdpu3wtu_6ryPNf9r_decQhw2AfOyS3y1p_q3tf3IrjzRi9F5uylYD000mlMH7DsODvYekksqp-UhRBJItt0F4FZU76Yg3glyE3P0Nr7GJdA5NpPUnqh0rmzoOvcrCoUI/w195-h400/20210914_123553.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><p>When there is snow on the ground this winter and its dark in the canyon by 5 o'clock, sometimes I'll picture the coast as I saw it in late summer. I'll remember the the smooth glide of the seals under their brillantly-colored toys in the tank at the Newport Aquarium or the silly-looking seaside telescope surveying Nelscott Beach.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdQhpssCZAfaKl6a9Wj7Gs3KCSt3Nbd_0W7R77OIN0TRBjR1Wumb8NwaHfEPlreIJF_5YQauiSk6WHHQ1dmPQnYtCIuB2ScykwIen_to4i_nEjfg0n8nNhzv_JMWD7JpgAGgUaPjsoSE/s2048/20210914_193747.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1476" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdQhpssCZAfaKl6a9Wj7Gs3KCSt3Nbd_0W7R77OIN0TRBjR1Wumb8NwaHfEPlreIJF_5YQauiSk6WHHQ1dmPQnYtCIuB2ScykwIen_to4i_nEjfg0n8nNhzv_JMWD7JpgAGgUaPjsoSE/w289-h400/20210914_193747.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br /><p>I'll remember the feel of the cool sand on my bare feet on the evening walk on Nelscott Beach or the hip pain of trudging through the thick white sand on the Oregon Dunes—each step sinking deep while the dune grass shadows beckoned us onward encouragingly. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAmAxQRWIxBjwzBvlMlZjRybdvDPdzbZvthK_kA6Q5heWj_LyFapD0STSRDfvqYbn7GqUKyPo3Mdp6abSPeOeXvtYaRlDRr_rREBEAr9SmlTG03eWdDzTpn7vUleEQzAdtpyxTrfhB7M/s2543/20210913_120613.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAmAxQRWIxBjwzBvlMlZjRybdvDPdzbZvthK_kA6Q5heWj_LyFapD0STSRDfvqYbn7GqUKyPo3Mdp6abSPeOeXvtYaRlDRr_rREBEAr9SmlTG03eWdDzTpn7vUleEQzAdtpyxTrfhB7M/s320/20210913_120613.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>At Agate Beach I had to stand on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of Yaquina Lighthouse over the sand dunes that were level with my head as I walked down to the water. The lighthouse appeared like a white pencil tip stuck on the hills over the top of a dune. Can you find it?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbG8kp8joBG7EV7QO7yEKAZHIzbSCCDukHLhp59M-q784C0U3hdDKhlGTnaqwLRBkgmwYZRH1EKlvNs3Am79c5oi4HYeNbyr2qYu-ZQ-HriGWSE_jersryxEl6NBmfOl8sHST6hsXiMwg/s2543/20210914_143304.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbG8kp8joBG7EV7QO7yEKAZHIzbSCCDukHLhp59M-q784C0U3hdDKhlGTnaqwLRBkgmwYZRH1EKlvNs3Am79c5oi4HYeNbyr2qYu-ZQ-HriGWSE_jersryxEl6NBmfOl8sHST6hsXiMwg/w312-h640/20210914_143304.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><br />A lighthouse is a beacon for tourists like me. During an earlier winter, the memory of the red and white lenses at the Umpqua Lighthouse warmed my thoughts. This summer I got to climb up into the lighthouse's cap of lenses and was bathed in a pinkish light. It was glorious!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oMTueFyQxOeeXGuSMa1ylOgigjc5QSy3oUJKCfBc6PaCGrPtKLKv-hq1AJ9wDmC1ok_tq2U2Sj8N4Tx0Eaz-HibPyjowdq_rZf9QRvmspqvCw6Y_luj2QoA7D1jvsHN2U7OWdaeK7_A/s2543/20210913_100052.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5oMTueFyQxOeeXGuSMa1ylOgigjc5QSy3oUJKCfBc6PaCGrPtKLKv-hq1AJ9wDmC1ok_tq2U2Sj8N4Tx0Eaz-HibPyjowdq_rZf9QRvmspqvCw6Y_luj2QoA7D1jvsHN2U7OWdaeK7_A/w195-h400/20210913_100052.jpg" width="195" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yXkOyuXDKBqDhdTApyTtmHsCKZ6mYz4KSA_yIz2r01EYDXcl55KNYFtbtB0YCRjOLXwnal7jLYvP9pFezCNiBYGc0kiVIyMu2T05f435W6PG9wynCtOUYBZ1L_zA-SVk1viQJo0Vmmg/s2543/20210913_100139.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yXkOyuXDKBqDhdTApyTtmHsCKZ6mYz4KSA_yIz2r01EYDXcl55KNYFtbtB0YCRjOLXwnal7jLYvP9pFezCNiBYGc0kiVIyMu2T05f435W6PG9wynCtOUYBZ1L_zA-SVk1viQJo0Vmmg/w195-h400/20210913_100139.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPb5Gd73OoiMwe4-Y804hB7IHa1MOiA7XjoqfAyMWdJoV-lg88xUcgTze9aNy7McAfqGX_5-KHS3m-n6rcKQa316eqo06Hr9bvP8mFa_tIGoA9v4MMd2hJxhrXO2BthkkeWzHOE0OAL7E/s2543/20210913_094202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPb5Gd73OoiMwe4-Y804hB7IHa1MOiA7XjoqfAyMWdJoV-lg88xUcgTze9aNy7McAfqGX_5-KHS3m-n6rcKQa316eqo06Hr9bvP8mFa_tIGoA9v4MMd2hJxhrXO2BthkkeWzHOE0OAL7E/w312-h640/20210913_094202.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Who isn't moved by the perpendicular lines of a lighthouse?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>My sister and I visited the old Coast Guard Station house next to the Umpqua Lighthouse. We wandered it's rooms, and read tales of heroism. What vision will stay in my mind from visiting it, might you ask? I think it will be the light and brush of leaves against a window—in the women's bathroom. Not a particularly historic spot, but stunning nevertheless.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJ3bZ-x3g04JFWwu3bJCDgFeK4o16y2_bdFmoKp4ByLLO3Y6_PkXQxoQlYIgAeT1_KrYCX7PuPTuUrD2WB4WmFmuVs5PQeatxo3Ge2jHvsMWuOvW67qSDO9vtiasXcAG9JOMJK53eAAk/s2543/20210913_152621.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJ3bZ-x3g04JFWwu3bJCDgFeK4o16y2_bdFmoKp4ByLLO3Y6_PkXQxoQlYIgAeT1_KrYCX7PuPTuUrD2WB4WmFmuVs5PQeatxo3Ge2jHvsMWuOvW67qSDO9vtiasXcAG9JOMJK53eAAk/w195-h400/20210913_152621.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><br />During this winter's gloom-filled evenings, I'll also recall the colors of sea-nurtured life in a tidepool below Yaquina Lighthouse. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIZFH3CwpPD08C4nFLN9L9t-HaNcmJxSo2GYDt1E5BK4RdOfeJjkJVXULlYxp_OetbESR21AO2pl_0jvygIeRvbeGwloeeLl5HtI5T-3w5f3caSZUlukuJnX4vZx2fRT8fECy9ppVHdc/s2543/20210914_113058.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIZFH3CwpPD08C4nFLN9L9t-HaNcmJxSo2GYDt1E5BK4RdOfeJjkJVXULlYxp_OetbESR21AO2pl_0jvygIeRvbeGwloeeLl5HtI5T-3w5f3caSZUlukuJnX4vZx2fRT8fECy9ppVHdc/w640-h312/20210914_113058.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;">And I'll remember the brillance of jellyfish—those washed ashore on beaches and those blue ones, perpetually floating in the water of a tank at the nearby Newport Aquarium. The jellyfish tossed on the sand by incoming waves can't survive outside the water. They act as prisms until their water-filled bodies drain and their skins' dissolve or are reclaimed by the sea.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KEQAX6SknVq-PJWlNFogguLo8h0cBbF2glIe8DD_oDSiAUzHoObQPacq-EwPvKMs73eBgK5B8g2pdkysGvgYE9Y0YrGeVn9teD54j5CMiY64LR_S8btmRt4OvlFlTUsxLFoPldZTGxM/s1080/IMG_20210916_122705_846.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KEQAX6SknVq-PJWlNFogguLo8h0cBbF2glIe8DD_oDSiAUzHoObQPacq-EwPvKMs73eBgK5B8g2pdkysGvgYE9Y0YrGeVn9teD54j5CMiY64LR_S8btmRt4OvlFlTUsxLFoPldZTGxM/w400-h400/IMG_20210916_122705_846.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_dmZLNQc3qvfoXYNyVKj27XHUpYY0Z4GOxtS_qzsID1FnRwxETrIjynwQvgyLurvjZe64L2WyRYDDI3s_7j80BRJXsf4eQYsep6U5a0IYEF5nMz2uu0FDiMaxo4TW225L41oqiYou_M/s922/IMG_20210914_172713_911.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="922" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_dmZLNQc3qvfoXYNyVKj27XHUpYY0Z4GOxtS_qzsID1FnRwxETrIjynwQvgyLurvjZe64L2WyRYDDI3s_7j80BRJXsf4eQYsep6U5a0IYEF5nMz2uu0FDiMaxo4TW225L41oqiYou_M/w400-h400/IMG_20210914_172713_911.jpg" width="400" /></a></p></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NYyKfOXQzLM0TVGBL1mBccPFtFtGHbyIroJ1-zVNww8oo0EPhhhM4d8J0cyjGbuAs2FQbLeD9y33V3aRW889NYAwXpkdhXXhIsZL6XT0TcvxBl4_lUrgaB3DoSKpDDys9jKvLqiU3OI/s1080/IMG_20210916_122705_835.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9NYyKfOXQzLM0TVGBL1mBccPFtFtGHbyIroJ1-zVNww8oo0EPhhhM4d8J0cyjGbuAs2FQbLeD9y33V3aRW889NYAwXpkdhXXhIsZL6XT0TcvxBl4_lUrgaB3DoSKpDDys9jKvLqiU3OI/w400-h400/IMG_20210916_122705_835.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p>If those images are not enough, there is always sunset at Haystack Rock at Cannon Beach. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mGxV5TRf9Xg3xZxeVGYWmbkDMGFNBAc_XgLbu6UwhItKsX0y8OEH2EOYhBA5vKcZ6cR2frS8lxK34hqsQDPTAUHFsGRuRo3X4tWG6yFwCywR3yKFBQsz1hb1c7Mi3PpRlU7xfZa8Jbw/s3011/20210915_191234.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3011" data-original-width="1044" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mGxV5TRf9Xg3xZxeVGYWmbkDMGFNBAc_XgLbu6UwhItKsX0y8OEH2EOYhBA5vKcZ6cR2frS8lxK34hqsQDPTAUHFsGRuRo3X4tWG6yFwCywR3yKFBQsz1hb1c7Mi3PpRlU7xfZa8Jbw/w139-h400/20210915_191234.jpg" width="139" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Maybe I should think about reserving a room on the beach in the January or February. It might not all be the color of winter fog gray and certainly not snow white.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbe7GiW87pAg9f93nKr2rCQ0qcNaDTJQt8zI8SoG0BzovwTXoSdLmEiYx60vswsaUBB9t1eo5G3pUpfnH9vIAVp0BWfVwhw7TJb3CQu4_kX7_0YgixggpqVIUS9XbdT6bsamMULPzg9vY/s1080/IMG_20210915_202509_526.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbe7GiW87pAg9f93nKr2rCQ0qcNaDTJQt8zI8SoG0BzovwTXoSdLmEiYx60vswsaUBB9t1eo5G3pUpfnH9vIAVp0BWfVwhw7TJb3CQu4_kX7_0YgixggpqVIUS9XbdT6bsamMULPzg9vY/s320/IMG_20210915_202509_526.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-60223939678335548712021-10-13T19:55:00.001-07:002021-10-13T19:55:31.415-07:00Can I Convince You to Vacation in the Midwest?<p>Look under a mushroom and you might find Iowa.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwyoemmb38X3wCRpL9bpl3mUr481rzrwIHIqLKj5Oly4DHeTGgoRAK36vDMA6D2Ic7TJBRoVXc8wTLWfFpmK9D-LW9ceEMtPCOiVsuczIxWXqN_SRjZYv8BRjKZpxcq2-5D5Jub8p4Xo/s2543/20210828_102727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwyoemmb38X3wCRpL9bpl3mUr481rzrwIHIqLKj5Oly4DHeTGgoRAK36vDMA6D2Ic7TJBRoVXc8wTLWfFpmK9D-LW9ceEMtPCOiVsuczIxWXqN_SRjZYv8BRjKZpxcq2-5D5Jub8p4Xo/w400-h195/20210828_102727.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This summer between jaunts to Mt. Rainier and the Oregon Coast, I sidetracked east and looped through six of the Midwestern states: North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, South Dakota, and Nebraska. My intentions for the trip included visiting friends, tracing my ancestral lineages, and placing flowers on the headstone of my recently-discovered great-uncle, a Minneapolis 1900s saloonkeeper whose inheritance had put my sister and me through college.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The pins on a map hanging in Iowa’s Gothic House Museum indicate that Midwesterners vacation in the Midwest, while Westerners—like me, not so much.</div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EawrlcZt9BbXNRog4qoMgrBL2uoocRMxwLigi3ESb5VhFijsCNM3FiM1LQwk7Tu0YEVjlhijaFQrkyA3HayQs0NFlR_sRJiCJqDV8yGJFawp138UblO1l7EoQ3uUZQZN0v-1yJheyvE/s2543/20210828_145704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EawrlcZt9BbXNRog4qoMgrBL2uoocRMxwLigi3ESb5VhFijsCNM3FiM1LQwk7Tu0YEVjlhijaFQrkyA3HayQs0NFlR_sRJiCJqDV8yGJFawp138UblO1l7EoQ3uUZQZN0v-1yJheyvE/w400-h195/20210828_145704.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I was leery of traveling into the Midwest partly because of the reputation of the stern-faced Midwesterners, pitchforks at ready. Maskless and unvaccinated in the middle of an epidemic.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEvVK_R-1ArsPHki0FVikxf9ulLlhdID37crYoUObsTyatGDIrsd1QJtBgb-FxlrHBUZ62hROc-pHoCp3-_khP51I21OOB1-M5Msv23SQ2-uasMQKx0BW_1Y9ctO1RjVlRUtDarYUlb8/s2048/20210828_211444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1133" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEvVK_R-1ArsPHki0FVikxf9ulLlhdID37crYoUObsTyatGDIrsd1QJtBgb-FxlrHBUZ62hROc-pHoCp3-_khP51I21OOB1-M5Msv23SQ2-uasMQKx0BW_1Y9ctO1RjVlRUtDarYUlb8/s320/20210828_211444.jpg" width="177" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, it is hard to keep a stern face when there is so much to find to delight. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I’ll start my story in the southwest corner of North Dakota at Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I hadn’t heard of this park until this summer. A young Seattle couple camping in Mt. Rainier raved to me that this was their favorite park.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LVApT8F-6GPobZbxiXJk-mmMh9mIRcki2-5xhRlhoruHX6MMsxkuxtqx-I9q5WmyYMI9f_35xYItA-fPXQXPaGUPLPAzOKahdDSg3O2BXa6b4ybQRx8JXdNs10J7uOdz0FrKtwnrq4g/s3715/20210823_164118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="3715" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LVApT8F-6GPobZbxiXJk-mmMh9mIRcki2-5xhRlhoruHX6MMsxkuxtqx-I9q5WmyYMI9f_35xYItA-fPXQXPaGUPLPAzOKahdDSg3O2BXa6b4ybQRx8JXdNs10J7uOdz0FrKtwnrq4g/w640-h146/20210823_164118.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidquu0JS8xsFHe-wMuAdOGZYjBpS-OXJfw5CSifQQWt9w5vunq-RxtcsNBFSAwmyEDPqvu-9tVz2Oz37vYB0YhFhvtsJuTpeha6Dpdk2Mn6QSfb4P0eEEZcIWiqp6zjMjllNuHs272RGY/s2543/20210823_180750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidquu0JS8xsFHe-wMuAdOGZYjBpS-OXJfw5CSifQQWt9w5vunq-RxtcsNBFSAwmyEDPqvu-9tVz2Oz37vYB0YhFhvtsJuTpeha6Dpdk2Mn6QSfb4P0eEEZcIWiqp6zjMjllNuHs272RGY/w400-h196/20210823_180750.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The terrain was startling and the roaming wild horses unexpected. In one evening, I was pleased to locate two bison of the three hundred “managed” Park herd—first bison I had seen since the one on a bar sign in Montana. The best photo of a bison that I took was the one hanging off the bar. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaNDOgewW1RhTBiaUrkKYyNnxuhNxYwwYSNIZ-y6w_lq1hZhHnSVwu0-mQblv5CNytt19NA_x7RCteE_niup9fjmzm7aE7QY5MYXK_wBiR7NS4au9ko89MxFrFwOwk6yN-1Tj9bLgHEA/s2543/20210823_123407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaNDOgewW1RhTBiaUrkKYyNnxuhNxYwwYSNIZ-y6w_lq1hZhHnSVwu0-mQblv5CNytt19NA_x7RCteE_niup9fjmzm7aE7QY5MYXK_wBiR7NS4au9ko89MxFrFwOwk6yN-1Tj9bLgHEA/w400-h195/20210823_123407.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Isn’t it sad that white men decimated the herds of bison—sustenance for the Native population—and in exchange gifted them alcoholism and ironically bison on neon bar signs?)</div></blockquote><p>I crossed North Dakota stopping only at rest stops and convenience stores, partly due to the state's high Covid-19 rates. I spoke with a nurse offering free Covid shots at a highway rest stop. She had given four shots in four hours. She shrugged behind her mask. Other than the National Park rangers at the Theodore Roosevelt National Park, she and one other woman were the only ones I saw wearing masks all day. My tally seemed to be an informal statistic that confirmed why North Dakota had a high rate of epidemic-related hospitalizations and deaths this summer. And why I kept moving. Maybe by the time you might visit, things will have changed. I would have loved to go slower and admire the county.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div></div></blockquote><p>My favorite billboard on the entire trip was in Fargo, North Dakota. It was a chiropractor’s advertisement with a smiling gray-haired cowboy, who leaned forward on his horse and made eye contact as I drove by. It made me wish I had a horse. The ad read “Let Us Put You Back in the Saddle.” </p><p>The billboards throughout my travels portrayed a big part of Midwestern culture: an aging farm population and an enduring Christian presence. The well-meaning Pro-life billboards started showing up in North Dakota and continued being in evidence on highways the entire journey. Unfortunately, the only babies shown on every billboard—six Midwest state’s worth—were white babies. The signs contradicted the recent protests that systematic racism doesn’t exist in America. The impression was reinforced when one billboard had a blue lives matter flag on one half and on the other half a photo of another fetus worth saving—a white one again. I had expected to cross evidence of racism in the Midwest and it was one of the reasons that visiting there made me anticipate feeling uncomfortable. I just hadn't expected it to be so blatant.</p><p>As I drove into eastern Minnesota, hardwoods began appearing. Common hackberry, oak, elm, and maples circled farmhouses and silos or edged small lakes. I was delighted as the beautiful woods grew thicker. I spent a night on one of the lakes with new friends, Anita and John, who had an old cabin with a Finnish wood-fired sauna nestled against the lake’s bank. My hosts were lovely and their dog laidback and welcoming. When I arrived late afternoon the smell of freshly made grape jelly lingered. As an introduction to Minnesota, I was charmed. We even canoed a short distance in the morning before the dog jumped in the water and began following us, threatening to tip us over. We switched to the sauna.</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEMpVwMZw9YztK82owNcJBfa3dGGpAP7tJtq7Er_g4y7UCtnq60KOCpsRqGRrnIDzIRqWwMVseKWioHWwJD_nPnV4cDdjU_nPsSIn_SrY2QHDwcjkco8wpUXd6GLluxLTkZd-tM7OwCE/s2543/20210824_200450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEMpVwMZw9YztK82owNcJBfa3dGGpAP7tJtq7Er_g4y7UCtnq60KOCpsRqGRrnIDzIRqWwMVseKWioHWwJD_nPnV4cDdjU_nPsSIn_SrY2QHDwcjkco8wpUXd6GLluxLTkZd-tM7OwCE/w400-h195/20210824_200450.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p>Mid-morning I headed to the Twin-Cities area, where I loved the backyard concert in St. Paul and the Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes served at the Swedish Institute in Minneapolis. I was glad to go by (even in a heavy downpour) and see the heartfelt tribute to an ordinary man who had died before his time.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYt0WiFq9lHYbP94bWuamjwh2DEcOWWlwq_DlqIzA7m-d33KFx98crg0DqYL9RG5_SaBJju4I2Htc566XpnshfKGyZTUTAhBBvkOdhQFefL4KaUptTRT-CAj-UHl-h8hv-WWqyeyWHMnw/s2543/20210826_141535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYt0WiFq9lHYbP94bWuamjwh2DEcOWWlwq_DlqIzA7m-d33KFx98crg0DqYL9RG5_SaBJju4I2Htc566XpnshfKGyZTUTAhBBvkOdhQFefL4KaUptTRT-CAj-UHl-h8hv-WWqyeyWHMnw/w195-h400/20210826_141535.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Floyd<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>All of the bigger cities I visited—Minneapolis, St. Paul, and later Sioux Falls—were surprisingly hip with their plethora of coffee shops and unique restaurants, but the small towns held their weight too. Fairfield, Iowa, had a cider house and an especially good bakery. A nearby town had an exceptional Italian restaurant on its little village square. And of course there was a hamburger joint staffed with a teenager at the counter with her braces glinting off the fluorescent lights. I could see the braces because no one wore masks. Not the cooks, not the customers. Everyone, men in their muddy boots and families, exuded a joyful midday jive. The fries were good.</div><div><br /></div><div>I came away with a cluster of impressions of the Midwest. A cluster, by the way, is the name for a group of mushrooms. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In Iowa my good friend Art took me on trails that meandered over gentle slopes and alongside the wide and slow rivers. Wildflowers were abundant and the fun of hunting mushrooms turned up more than a dozen varieties in one walk. Treasure hunting for adults. The landscape was beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvM6_ijLxVFFjNvo6CmRpSaCZWh0iWihI-RqNJ3iE6M623l5ydMKzOj9YsgrIXsHeGt1enPQjpXvZUpO3f6uYu9N8FJrZfpD3fIGmr78M2pNjg4h6MaW5tFShAObRi4W1A1r3VWD37S0/s2543/20210829_103438-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvM6_ijLxVFFjNvo6CmRpSaCZWh0iWihI-RqNJ3iE6M623l5ydMKzOj9YsgrIXsHeGt1enPQjpXvZUpO3f6uYu9N8FJrZfpD3fIGmr78M2pNjg4h6MaW5tFShAObRi4W1A1r3VWD37S0/s320/20210829_103438-1.jpg" width="156" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLI5M_G9wt7iTRyeg3_IV3jIApgR6KfJ-G46SpimYq9LQkBdiHi2f_pILua-QZE3PGJKoggmjBCRNihzyp1oQ0LfEgFvljdwuK7XGJWcbSkzRm_tdqh7Tr6BSONELv7e6LpqUhKggZXA/s2543/20210828_105223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaLI5M_G9wt7iTRyeg3_IV3jIApgR6KfJ-G46SpimYq9LQkBdiHi2f_pILua-QZE3PGJKoggmjBCRNihzyp1oQ0LfEgFvljdwuK7XGJWcbSkzRm_tdqh7Tr6BSONELv7e6LpqUhKggZXA/s320/20210828_105223.jpg" width="156" /></a> <br /><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JvuLBoRVRXSFe9DJPsBiUKwjNaT6n8HVdpwXo-rmy3jYVdrcWrRsWEm4-3unW-BIuahNaBozlKr2iF_u2lqEsvtD-9ek5whebILuFQ5WqE3OOtRAvtfpRpQat9SnsC1l8rlAApYPJwM/s2543/20210828_101032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JvuLBoRVRXSFe9DJPsBiUKwjNaT6n8HVdpwXo-rmy3jYVdrcWrRsWEm4-3unW-BIuahNaBozlKr2iF_u2lqEsvtD-9ek5whebILuFQ5WqE3OOtRAvtfpRpQat9SnsC1l8rlAApYPJwM/w400-h195/20210828_101032.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ocSyphn7XVhrLuu8KSEIZDtnbThw6e2zgN6LN2rSEs_AfR4kGTWJwQbLGh1_C7USDS2JkE7BO-ZqNpzbLL3eQra8_5bt4FSc35x3dgfEJx0CbA-v9Ipm_uWyNyQ65Hx_VpmsFe3oWJM/s2543/20210829_100627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4ocSyphn7XVhrLuu8KSEIZDtnbThw6e2zgN6LN2rSEs_AfR4kGTWJwQbLGh1_C7USDS2JkE7BO-ZqNpzbLL3eQra8_5bt4FSc35x3dgfEJx0CbA-v9Ipm_uWyNyQ65Hx_VpmsFe3oWJM/s320/20210829_100627.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div>The Midwestern people whom I encountered on my travels—like the mushrooms—were of many persuasions. In Sioux Falls a car maintenance salesman took the time to talk with me after my car was serviced and the women in the Genealogy Research Department of the same city helped me by rifling through old books in search of my family. In St. Paul Adele, Tom, and Flora made me feel welcome by sharing books, laughter, and their dog, Opel. </div><div><br /></div><div>In a small towns it was the same. In Iowa a volunteer at a barn bash happily described to Art and me the uses of various pieces of antique farm equipment and how they had made farming easier and more efficient. A farmer wearing a red baseball cap enthused about his half-a-million dollar combine after we had climbed up into its high seats and admired the view. And at the same event, another farmer explained an exhibit showing how using newer farming techniques increased water retention in soil. Although he didn't mention the why farmers were having to change their methods of farming (plow into our conversation the words <i>climate change</i>), he seemed to understand that his generation of farmers needed to rely on science. </div><div> </div><div>I had a lovely discussion with the woman at The Gothic House Museum about making pies and with the grave digger at the the cemetery in Missouri City, Iowa, who took time to help me find my ancestor Evan's gravestones. I liked all of the people with whom I spoke, even if we might not have agreed. Consider the older guy who made me coffee at the Hub in Burwell, Nebraska. He told me he wasn’t concerned about not having any boys to carry on his family name because the second-coming was going to take him up before long. He, like all the rest, asked about my travels and sent me on my way smiling. </div><div><br /></div><div>Am I going to vacation in the Midwest again? </div><div><br /></div><div> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJP4e3D-1NIHD_NOGoHrSHyHQ6gHhqK2hFlXCvqGshPFOzN49UOIdeZ1klJ0bfYX0xoCb_Q58TlhuZrjS_OZ-fS_582Dx1XdoCbq9W425-3p3KR0i56tgFgDSwKUe9nblsHa-PEeQ3Ac/s2543/20210824_125721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJP4e3D-1NIHD_NOGoHrSHyHQ6gHhqK2hFlXCvqGshPFOzN49UOIdeZ1klJ0bfYX0xoCb_Q58TlhuZrjS_OZ-fS_582Dx1XdoCbq9W425-3p3KR0i56tgFgDSwKUe9nblsHa-PEeQ3Ac/w400-h195/20210824_125721.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Before I ventured east, I wasn't looking forward to the flag-waving political bluster that seems to have replaced science and good sense with a rigid independence and a stubborn pride. It seems to have especially infected farming and ranching communities in America. Their livelyhoods are essential to our country's wellbeing, so the trend seems particularly unfortunate. Hay bales wrapped in American flags laying in fields along highways in North Dakota were the first indication of the bluster. I wondered what kind of reception I would find wearing my yoga tights and mask, looking like a foreigner.</div><div><br /></div><div>Patches of flags, sometimes thick as weeds, waved in front yards in many of the Midwestern small towns. American flags flapped from the eaves of businesses on town squares, making covert statements about loyalty. A campaign poster in a beauty shop's window read: “Jesus in 2020, Our Only Hope.” And in contradiction of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," there were yard signs stating “F_ _ _ whatever candidate you didn’t like.” If I just focused on the political messages, and there were many, I would have missed the goodness of the people and the beauty of their land.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div>So, yes, I plan to return to the Midwest. Bet mushrooms on it. So you should consider it too. Go and leave your own prints in the Midwest like a night-prowling raccoon left his in the soil on a riverbank on the Des Moines River. Take your mask (you’ll look like a raccoon) and get your shots beforehand. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxRjfyBg6ASkYD_M553UEY-BMvb0iyUu-Ydex9x1kzlcpFV1HxfdzF5LXy4ofpSfilAaUregxZaOWfd-1rgT2b2q2OawW8WlsdEVJ9oZaQ2OIrdJMj6tcMgQKlojitd72hewEf-McLKI/s2048/20210829_163622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="2048" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZxRjfyBg6ASkYD_M553UEY-BMvb0iyUu-Ydex9x1kzlcpFV1HxfdzF5LXy4ofpSfilAaUregxZaOWfd-1rgT2b2q2OawW8WlsdEVJ9oZaQ2OIrdJMj6tcMgQKlojitd72hewEf-McLKI/w400-h256/20210829_163622.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-80055436328381224922021-08-19T18:19:00.003-07:002021-08-19T18:19:24.410-07:00On the Edge of Awe<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl8pDpclTyDNhdADAbiVOITKnGztxRmxrsmxtUleQK-hi5Vorq1_w7XXmrgrLiNZ9wnSMs5xtQ8bVUwYVzEUJrYO3MyKRd2KYctgWhGj-JL-w7O_6U5E2S_xcvGzz5kkOVlfuhm-CSuA/s2543/20210727_211043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGl8pDpclTyDNhdADAbiVOITKnGztxRmxrsmxtUleQK-hi5Vorq1_w7XXmrgrLiNZ9wnSMs5xtQ8bVUwYVzEUJrYO3MyKRd2KYctgWhGj-JL-w7O_6U5E2S_xcvGzz5kkOVlfuhm-CSuA/w312-h640/20210727_211043.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My friend Sue sat at the foot of two giants, awestruck in Ohanapecosh, a native name that means “standing at the edge of place.” The two trees are on an island in the Ohanapecosh River at the foot of Mt. Rainier. Outside Mt. Rainier National Park, the world seems to be standing at the edge of another place—one that is too hot, too racially divided, too contentious. A few days in the National Park in the shade under a canopy of trees and a person could acquire an optimism that humanity will step back from the edges of our catastrophes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGVeZhNYErD7ZUiognMibMk6tZFhMQLcAAKP1QUL0PJwyj4I5W27In84fRT8UJ_7YcH2MoCQRqViRbBwAbBF7WF-HZfs5GVVwrbmKUKmoQhA76AKYHumg82AMC5YD8CTfQUVf6uFZCKk/s2543/20210726_112709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGVeZhNYErD7ZUiognMibMk6tZFhMQLcAAKP1QUL0PJwyj4I5W27In84fRT8UJ_7YcH2MoCQRqViRbBwAbBF7WF-HZfs5GVVwrbmKUKmoQhA76AKYHumg82AMC5YD8CTfQUVf6uFZCKk/w195-h400/20210726_112709.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cross a swinging bridge built for one or maybe two people and one enters the Ohanapecosh Grove of the Patriarchs. The limits of the bridge require the give and take of those wishing to cross. The courtesy was extended with laughter and grace again and again. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Walking on the trails of the National Park, Sue and I passed people from every continent—a diversity of races, ages, and languages. There were people from India, Japan, China, the Middle East and Europe. We spoke to women of African descent—elderly and young—at a time when being outside in nature and Black in America can be hazardous. We spoke to a dad pushing his disabled son in a wheelchair. He was the one who called our attention to the few orange lilies.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqesbOgKyIXkAGthRkoaCTSH6B3NJkNXt9k9bE4dWbIGEXdKbESOvcn1Hkb3PDXo4tjQyD8EVXN4r3T-R40emXVHDByAu8YqD8kfzd4xFHa_sL45C8XdA3lbnRcLdEKRjx7PL2eOBknk/s2543/20210727_160304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXqesbOgKyIXkAGthRkoaCTSH6B3NJkNXt9k9bE4dWbIGEXdKbESOvcn1Hkb3PDXo4tjQyD8EVXN4r3T-R40emXVHDByAu8YqD8kfzd4xFHa_sL45C8XdA3lbnRcLdEKRjx7PL2eOBknk/w195-h400/20210727_160304.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Lilies were everywhere. A ranching family with a patriarch, who loved photography, stood with us by a hillside of white lilies. His kids and wife extolled the virtues of raising kids outside on the farm, instilling in them a love of nature and yet regretting not being able to pass the farm along to the next generation. It was an easy exchange away from the western conflicts between ranchers and farmers and us city folks. We talked, appreciating our collective joy of lilies, of camera lenses, and of family and of work. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was as though we stood on the edge of possibilities, on the edge of what humanity could be and do.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy01h5xDMdGjjphzfLJTkDMGm513T_3sIU7pvFpD6Qlx3qrp14sH5jHL9WwzOFqS-FZzhklD9tdIDRorzPUyMZ6_vtknAan_c0C9Dq0jBgu76IYT629JlfcBHP7iK53OEmZQ0E1FaGa1A/s2048/20210727_153815-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="2048" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy01h5xDMdGjjphzfLJTkDMGm513T_3sIU7pvFpD6Qlx3qrp14sH5jHL9WwzOFqS-FZzhklD9tdIDRorzPUyMZ6_vtknAan_c0C9Dq0jBgu76IYT629JlfcBHP7iK53OEmZQ0E1FaGa1A/w640-h356/20210727_153815-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><span style="text-align: left;"> The flowers were astonishing this year. The lilies alone were lovely at every stage of their blooming. </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMFrfQQ6fSwEYwN4EzVYLkcK0uKMlTEJGbDH9oxCzGxHD103NSwQBd0PJnt8jAMdCeQO7KcjfyJMbVK2ulT9UDFRYvImnnAhd3VTp6ZfP_gSyvGpcYTWbLcVHnoh0EUQq1f4H17GZ7lA/s2543/20210727_162243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4OMvCdjNeAD80wHjD0dWOMHlrcdgKv5ABLo17rMioIdBOm2RhZbDZVd_JE9aakdiLK-0jSuSkx7b9H139qEh0n9gUhtx33s3Gm3AgFlcL6GzbRFPw9bWQ8xfzZf4Ji8z965iNn-olD0/s2543/20210727_152750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx4OMvCdjNeAD80wHjD0dWOMHlrcdgKv5ABLo17rMioIdBOm2RhZbDZVd_JE9aakdiLK-0jSuSkx7b9H139qEh0n9gUhtx33s3Gm3AgFlcL6GzbRFPw9bWQ8xfzZf4Ji8z965iNn-olD0/w195-h400/20210727_152750.jpg" width="195" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUMFrfQQ6fSwEYwN4EzVYLkcK0uKMlTEJGbDH9oxCzGxHD103NSwQBd0PJnt8jAMdCeQO7KcjfyJMbVK2ulT9UDFRYvImnnAhd3VTp6ZfP_gSyvGpcYTWbLcVHnoh0EUQq1f4H17GZ7lA/w196-h400/20210727_162243.jpg" width="196" /><br /><br /><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">The white globe before its opening, the dancing of the full petals in the breezes, and the lilies’ fading stage, a lovely, muted pink. Humanity’s many colors, like those of flowers should be a source of delight. Would that the world would appreciate skin tones like the colors of petals. Nowhere on the park trails did I hear anyone deriding the pink of the heather or the purple of the asters. Everyone commented on their beauty. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3_00zFVn7HisJWDIquzWr5FEZJY5C_G-gAtxfe8NV_HnGoqJtCK8WElWOU2G6y8vrEkXmv3BWDHCoBuuJ2WLncjuf3Ps0-40EMg3xr4FzwwFMM-5kJrVKqBkdjFNez2Exsd4jIwTggg/s2543/20210727_110411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3_00zFVn7HisJWDIquzWr5FEZJY5C_G-gAtxfe8NV_HnGoqJtCK8WElWOU2G6y8vrEkXmv3BWDHCoBuuJ2WLncjuf3Ps0-40EMg3xr4FzwwFMM-5kJrVKqBkdjFNez2Exsd4jIwTggg/w312-h640/20210727_110411.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNguhWLu9e5b-IHIIVU10lt6U26LTzS62Lk1Ot_FdKnybY9KV8sU9bptUBqjuDzN6XF9rlJs8ij6745Kt8jyAAf5rKZVJ0k9Y0M8PwzrxF1KYBpbBScfeHJ1bAKo5JjR2_kPVxYNzxBM/s2543/20210728_122227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNguhWLu9e5b-IHIIVU10lt6U26LTzS62Lk1Ot_FdKnybY9KV8sU9bptUBqjuDzN6XF9rlJs8ij6745Kt8jyAAf5rKZVJ0k9Y0M8PwzrxF1KYBpbBScfeHJ1bAKo5JjR2_kPVxYNzxBM/w312-h640/20210728_122227.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There was an impressive generosity in shared information among the assembled park guests: the names of flowers, of a glacier, or a waterfall, a trail. The distance to a point ahead, the directions to a campsite, the sharing of guidebooks and binoculars. The name of a marmot. When people consult respectfully, they gather information. In the park people shared information freely. This willingness to listen or share facts is so often missing in the other place, the place on the edge of catastrophes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJtk417wqoa3jh7ImokwILODFJT6WhBj4DfQ_dkllvWLGOEHhRwTeF-Djr5kJ2l-EJh9zleKntETSc_vVAQ4p-W46SIohIjUtC1dortN4JNpMutkteuau7sFUZhtekLaU029uO9H6n0Q/s2543/20210726_104223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJtk417wqoa3jh7ImokwILODFJT6WhBj4DfQ_dkllvWLGOEHhRwTeF-Djr5kJ2l-EJh9zleKntETSc_vVAQ4p-W46SIohIjUtC1dortN4JNpMutkteuau7sFUZhtekLaU029uO9H6n0Q/w312-h640/20210726_104223.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When Sue sat on the ground to admire the two Patriarch trees, a man sitting on a bench in back of her called out that he and his son would share the bench with her—she didn’t need to sit on the ground he said. Laughing, Sue explained that she just wanted the lowest perspective possible, better with which to take a photo. When she got up she joined the father and his son as they sat eating on the bench. Alex and Locke were from Maryland, traveling west to explore Mt. Rainier, the Olympic Peninsula, and the Redwoods. Sue, an oceanographer, began explaining the beach formations on the Olympic Peninsula when Locke, the son, spoke up that he was hoping to become a geologist. As we talked it was apparent he already had an impressive knowledge of the field. We must have talked for almost a half an hour before parting ways. With Sue’s background in science and mine in education, we were both delighted to meet an up-and-coming scientist and an involved dad. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the edge of this place, the enthusiasm of a young man was like a shaft of light filtering from the outside world. If humanity is to face the crisis on the horizon, the next generation needs articulate, thoughtful, and well-schooled leaders—science based, informed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By the time Sue and I arrived at Paradise Lodge further up the road, we both had expressed our regret that we had not gotten contact information from the dad and his son. Later that afternoon we arrived back at our campground, but before Sue and I turned into our campsite loop we stopped at the message board to remove a note we had posted earlier for a friend passing through. To our confusion and then surprise, a second note had been attached to ours. The note read, “For Sue and Kathy — If you met a father and son from Maryland, this is for you. We enjoyed talking with you! If you wanted to send any more geological cool advice, we are at E18. Also email…, Alex and Locke.” </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCMiGFVOqBiyGhFArsh9pBnsjwmwwGaVnPLlByhOW0uB2dI-EVvU7HlZ75YcbywpXjoZEcfI_x1MoqCFjDE-Nk5aYIMzbS-F5GUNJh7D_Z0FwCpGGF6sSxpMexvMb8hD5mf5xXal6Fag/s2543/20210725_142218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwCMiGFVOqBiyGhFArsh9pBnsjwmwwGaVnPLlByhOW0uB2dI-EVvU7HlZ75YcbywpXjoZEcfI_x1MoqCFjDE-Nk5aYIMzbS-F5GUNJh7D_Z0FwCpGGF6sSxpMexvMb8hD5mf5xXal6Fag/w400-h195/20210725_142218.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sue and I will surely return for another camping trip to Mt. Rainier: to the litter-free trails, the clear river waters, to the respectful quiet of the park's crowded campground, and to the potential for making friends in a place on the edge of civility and hope.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Until next time Mt. Rainier.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLN0dHbfRR6k0x2qBP2TtaZPVeiZJtJn5PQuRASpKK0Qo7GvJsiBlx1XDEju09Fr0WCxlizPkSEerJupHPlwbBph1NUlXmMToGiAgsIUlNkJedEUkXjFf3ObY9ne_XdmcGusn_80KFUog/s3644/20210728_230550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3644" data-original-width="863" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLN0dHbfRR6k0x2qBP2TtaZPVeiZJtJn5PQuRASpKK0Qo7GvJsiBlx1XDEju09Fr0WCxlizPkSEerJupHPlwbBph1NUlXmMToGiAgsIUlNkJedEUkXjFf3ObY9ne_XdmcGusn_80KFUog/w152-h640/20210728_230550.jpg" width="152" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(To follow future posts, sign up with your email.)</div></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-44505961393875793992021-07-16T09:56:00.000-07:002021-07-16T09:56:40.250-07:00Awe<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqpQlSPBYAZFfktUIMsiUt3dp3UHnQtQUmt2aYUG3I9gahE_0s2G9nZZo5XuUNgzHZ8SMEM-EBio-pa_29NT2OsZxolcNYM4IANRxO5rRMtcTcaLT4bRcM_p4UynNMGMp-X3n30KR9Luc/s2543/20210627_185841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqpQlSPBYAZFfktUIMsiUt3dp3UHnQtQUmt2aYUG3I9gahE_0s2G9nZZo5XuUNgzHZ8SMEM-EBio-pa_29NT2OsZxolcNYM4IANRxO5rRMtcTcaLT4bRcM_p4UynNMGMp-X3n30KR9Luc/w400-h195/20210627_185841.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">Awe is a funny word. </span>It stems from the Old English word ege, meaning “terror and dread.” The hot-looking manhold cover marked WATER which I pass on my evening walks earns my awe of the dreaded kind. No water, no rain, has touched it metal surface in many, many weeks. A mile up the road the arrow on the Umatilla Forest Fire sign is locked in place pointing to EXTREAME<i>. </i>The air has had a scent of smoke over the past few days. The light has a reddish tinge. We are not yet at mid-summer's day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6IvYCk7zwycXQJ1Izta1CYyPqu36VwGnh_GAAGmxMPvjSd7GuJTBCMw0cjA23uK8XUa7qodelSEQKzO5n0w22JjhyzCagSOBbOtmCS_8mLqrkK-DzV254pwxbjSroe8iba0u6XAoyAo/s2543/20210713_173858.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz6IvYCk7zwycXQJ1Izta1CYyPqu36VwGnh_GAAGmxMPvjSd7GuJTBCMw0cjA23uK8XUa7qodelSEQKzO5n0w22JjhyzCagSOBbOtmCS_8mLqrkK-DzV254pwxbjSroe8iba0u6XAoyAo/w400-h195/20210713_173858.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Warding off dread, I am coating my cabin and outbuildings with a fire retardant. An effort that gives me only a slight feeling of assurance. Avoiding the sun, I work on whichever side is in the shade. Sometimes I take a break by hiking further up the canyon along a stream or join a friend at the river's edge as he fishes in the river. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE76TVWr-GSUKNWzDHWddvj4QIItybwm0R2Rd_dhSCLqeFxT7kbfK7_1TLZ-ljzsRZd9SoLvs9LZp4Rquojm6-wUBPULtqop8BarVha31-9hG8LAPcQemAetsriFYXcUwR_2Fsr4LSOOM/s2615/20210624_214337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2615" data-original-width="1202" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE76TVWr-GSUKNWzDHWddvj4QIItybwm0R2Rd_dhSCLqeFxT7kbfK7_1TLZ-ljzsRZd9SoLvs9LZp4Rquojm6-wUBPULtqop8BarVha31-9hG8LAPcQemAetsriFYXcUwR_2Fsr4LSOOM/w184-h400/20210624_214337.jpg" width="184" /></a></div><p>My friend reminds me not to let my shadow fall on the water and scare the fish into their own version of shock and awe. What do fish make of their own shadows? My friend and I came across a dozen small trout swimming in a sunlit pool in a mountain stream. There appeared to be twice the number of fish until I realized I was also counting their shadows. The beauty of the pool, the movement of the fish and their shadows, and the delight in finding trout gave me a brush with awe, the reverant kind. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoo-az82lRTgmSo7cfNZp1PPNrIf845KEAUyNUC6wcnSn_AwedR065tpFLIT5U6LVdKHa9g-ZWXLYgWt0sXCmgi0PxeC1zZ3ulnYZHHAVDHR6aRt7Tx1VUnDodWDzQAno3f3ciSpqxys/s2543/20210708_120130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCoo-az82lRTgmSo7cfNZp1PPNrIf845KEAUyNUC6wcnSn_AwedR065tpFLIT5U6LVdKHa9g-ZWXLYgWt0sXCmgi0PxeC1zZ3ulnYZHHAVDHR6aRt7Tx1VUnDodWDzQAno3f3ciSpqxys/w400-h195/20210708_120130.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Can you find the fish?</span><p>In <i>Microadventures: Local Discoveries for Great Escapes,</i> the author Alastair Humphreys suggests, “I can guarantee that within a mile of where you live, there will be something that you’ve never seen or noticed before.” Studies show these small moments of surprise, of awe, contribute to good health. I have many of these moments in the canyon.</p><p>This spring I found a Pacific Tree Frog, caught him, and then let him go in the boggy area across from my cabin. I have been wishing for the evening sound of croaking frogs. Maybe this little guy will start the tradition.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE5Iu0zEr7woZTXhGUG44wquc743R7mC_mGycckJObX6zdBTee-_3dNSx5IE3AtVgETs1EcvBOw96Hcj2X4oYGmQicQj84A7ce8NfkGPa0LsTAoLeVwuF_E-Yb2xBqOm3Kv4O1uqpUoM/s2543/20210530_102437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrE5Iu0zEr7woZTXhGUG44wquc743R7mC_mGycckJObX6zdBTee-_3dNSx5IE3AtVgETs1EcvBOw96Hcj2X4oYGmQicQj84A7ce8NfkGPa0LsTAoLeVwuF_E-Yb2xBqOm3Kv4O1uqpUoM/w400-h195/20210530_102437.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Bees delight me with their varying markings. Each one providing a moment of awe. Within a mile I found this moth mullien blossom visited by a bee with its knees laden with pollen. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc5fHFs3v54kmQ-J5EECougQIYemmRsXYTgN9HMosRGvtLNUbQ3-PdMB3qScLdKVU8fyrwZy0QRDGsTtUIqtuue60aIoPsYlk0nFwUQaLC2X0Y-HMrtfQtHPAHosZIEEPxrB-yHk7BlU/s1763/20210630_071300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1763" data-original-width="1567" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc5fHFs3v54kmQ-J5EECougQIYemmRsXYTgN9HMosRGvtLNUbQ3-PdMB3qScLdKVU8fyrwZy0QRDGsTtUIqtuue60aIoPsYlk0nFwUQaLC2X0Y-HMrtfQtHPAHosZIEEPxrB-yHk7BlU/w355-h400/20210630_071300.jpg" width="355" /></a></div><p>Further up the canyon it is the water that holds the awe. Maybe it is the scarcity of water this summer—I can’t hear the river from my cabin this summer—that makes me appreciate any trail with deep enough water that its rivulets still make music. Listen.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyMer5uJ3V01VJx_8cUktFgN0MHnvX5p0kB_9XtzuxMPdXIQyfXqO2QFNXOQ-GSI130283FuD7dK9MtqHnfKQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><p></p><p>This summer, if I am to have "Microadventures" of the less dreaded type, I have to ignore the dry tips of pine needles, the yellowed sunburnt leaves, and the lid in the road proclaiming water where none is evident.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8FLok0Dcja6A6itJV10q-sk4H60QJo2PCYdQYh47FwLkqzeRhffJF5gT15R_lRtghFO5oGWh-Qs8O_5T-wWzQuAlo1s7NkyPtaanCA7aC-kic2IPXlSYb_RgiLFjG3TZC7Eat7RGDek/s1114/20210707_142639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1114" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8FLok0Dcja6A6itJV10q-sk4H60QJo2PCYdQYh47FwLkqzeRhffJF5gT15R_lRtghFO5oGWh-Qs8O_5T-wWzQuAlo1s7NkyPtaanCA7aC-kic2IPXlSYb_RgiLFjG3TZC7Eat7RGDek/w400-h353/20210707_142639.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Instead, find pleasure in the leap of a single drop of water.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZ3uG7AMtVo8VEqVCkDD1iXmyqRCsYJ1NmzU_EzqcOvfzlZRqaFSLooWIR_RJ106YrlF0T0gOV2dH1RsutdckbiFsr7G8TgWNGYC7OYPkWNmv2UKYbtbsdJq9x6j1V4uph-Bq6PiG73o/s2048/IMG_20210703_124334_583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZ3uG7AMtVo8VEqVCkDD1iXmyqRCsYJ1NmzU_EzqcOvfzlZRqaFSLooWIR_RJ106YrlF0T0gOV2dH1RsutdckbiFsr7G8TgWNGYC7OYPkWNmv2UKYbtbsdJq9x6j1V4uph-Bq6PiG73o/w320-h400/IMG_20210703_124334_583.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Or an eight-inch high waterfall slipping over red volcanic rock and making a froth of bubbles, each one tinged blue and green reflecting the sky and the trees. A lovely sight.</p><p>May your summer be filled with awe of the less dreaded kind. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-69512108909295464412021-03-09T10:01:00.000-08:002021-03-09T10:01:35.059-08:00Black Tails and White Ties<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PYGilyimDtS7_yFhCzMic3ETVtL7-HFSCeOpobxXi9pDNkWTFwHmuUJ95cBCbilNNENKnas9e7RAx5fdwqgQfE7Cb2Hd0t2tyjvUbvXdr0PVtzoZuOrTlztkLKSSuL9dG9QZLCeWpiM/s2048/IMG_20210220_201525_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PYGilyimDtS7_yFhCzMic3ETVtL7-HFSCeOpobxXi9pDNkWTFwHmuUJ95cBCbilNNENKnas9e7RAx5fdwqgQfE7Cb2Hd0t2tyjvUbvXdr0PVtzoZuOrTlztkLKSSuL9dG9QZLCeWpiM/w320-h400/IMG_20210220_201525_550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The city of Portland dressed in black tails and white ties for our date on the town. The grand staircase: the rooftops of shops, old hotels and newer skyscrapers, stepped up to a moon. The playlist beat to the rhythm of streetlights, the spotlights headlights. Murals provided a façade of other guests, slightly blurred as if in a room swirling with cigarette smoke. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In front of me on the inside window ledge sat two cardboard boxes containing the evening’s dinner. The menu included three meatballs in the left-hand box and a spicy kale and a roasted cauliflower entre in the righthand one. The spread was catered by a friendly neighborhood grocery store named Whole Foods. </div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My front row seat was in a room painted ceiling and all in midnight blue with gold highlights, its dimness lit romantically by table lamps wearing elegant Victorian shades. The accommodation multitasked with a sink in one corner, an antique—some might just call old—wooden chair that I had pulled up to the window, and a queen-sized bed on which lay two thick bathrobes, the better to visit the bathrooms down the hall. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Snow on Snoqualmie Pass made me detour south through Portland, Oregon. Taking advantage of the circumstance, I booked a night at the Crystal Palace Hotel, a block from Powell’s bookstore. Although I had promised myself twelve hours at Powell’s, their hours had been shortened due to Covid, so I stayed until their new closing time at six o’clock and did “the night on the town” from my room, practicing downtown living. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When I occasionally think it would be fun to live in a city in a classic older hotel or apartment, I do so from a position of privilege.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe8VfYkhvH6GXLycqb0Cismtq42VwynUAKI1BCVi_q7jOfQUQDaD6ke-ymX4umj7a9JpLitJM_-kC5D0jiO8N-vWeKQ_UNOCosyBL5S8vB1OEVBH2vJiQtur4XQE7OYPFkFa-EoKJjRQ/s2544/20210220_191934-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2544" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqe8VfYkhvH6GXLycqb0Cismtq42VwynUAKI1BCVi_q7jOfQUQDaD6ke-ymX4umj7a9JpLitJM_-kC5D0jiO8N-vWeKQ_UNOCosyBL5S8vB1OEVBH2vJiQtur4XQE7OYPFkFa-EoKJjRQ/w400-h194/20210220_191934-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div>A fuller view from my window, without the romance of being dressed in black and white, put another hotel up for consideration. The Georgiana advertises “reasonable rates.” It’s amenities included street level shopping at a sex shop, Peterson’s Grocery with most of its windows boarded over, and two bars and a nightclub A guest review noted that you were required to sign a waiver stating you were aware of the amenities, particularly the nightclub and bars. After signing, you would not get a refund no matter the complaint.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Yb-Eu_OmLWFxoOYZfBhVt9W-xyvGfvyu0BagtaSbh2LAJZfzaOJMfGXUbSTxwxsEEeSapsnHpB0xCHDEDphKihOZ_3-5nBEb4NHncbw9TdIFPegPBrUCNYnWNsyankVkE9CHtFC8AOc/s2544/20210220_185535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2544" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Yb-Eu_OmLWFxoOYZfBhVt9W-xyvGfvyu0BagtaSbh2LAJZfzaOJMfGXUbSTxwxsEEeSapsnHpB0xCHDEDphKihOZ_3-5nBEb4NHncbw9TdIFPegPBrUCNYnWNsyankVkE9CHtFC8AOc/w400-h194/20210220_185535.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><p>Sex shop aside, it was the blue window that eventually placed some perspective on living in a downtown hotel. I noticed an occasional burst of light coming from the upper corner window. A young man wearing a yellow ski hat sat on a twin bed smoking a bong. The hat, I suppose, serving as a nightcap in the cool room. The bong’s intermittent white flashes illuminated his stark surroundings. The euphoria or the stupor that followed his inhales must have helped irradicate the young man’s sense of failure. A hotel with “reasonable rates” has connotations. None good. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tk7ppOT0iHgU93nTGgnMspJ4GZsotX0LJz3eX1etvXPmvP4u_VWji94knu_dcYsUcLhWxrlkQpH5IhP6LiGyYQm3UFeclvxMl-x9SooyQ9puCYEycuFzrTNSREUybBSYXpEWERppq7M/s2543/20210221_091106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tk7ppOT0iHgU93nTGgnMspJ4GZsotX0LJz3eX1etvXPmvP4u_VWji94knu_dcYsUcLhWxrlkQpH5IhP6LiGyYQm3UFeclvxMl-x9SooyQ9puCYEycuFzrTNSREUybBSYXpEWERppq7M/w195-h400/20210221_091106.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In the morning, I pulled aside the curtains to let in the eastern light and checked the view again. When your refrigerator is winter and the shelves are the window ledges, I am sure that you worry about spring’s arrival and even maybe global warming. And so you take another toke on your bong. Summer’s arrival worse. Living on upper floors of an old hotel, the window has to be open to get cooler air, but the opening invites the company of street noise: engines, garbage trucks, sirens, and the shouts or mutterings of drunks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Other than the brief noise of the joviality of other guests arriving on my floor, my night had been blissfully quiet, buffered by carpeting, insulated walls, and the thick door of my classier hotel. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl_sxxpgHyxH5mxqRzVEn1TtR2UOKegmoyDi3HpVGIplDMBMiVwVHadOru4zW03OKumQld61s7u-pqOyKbELDhzJOPGObkIaa0vOuo_xyNeIV067WeIfCjir2YKEo8VA-idaQE7SnYBU/s1600/IMG-20210221-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="1600" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzl_sxxpgHyxH5mxqRzVEn1TtR2UOKegmoyDi3HpVGIplDMBMiVwVHadOru4zW03OKumQld61s7u-pqOyKbELDhzJOPGObkIaa0vOuo_xyNeIV067WeIfCjir2YKEo8VA-idaQE7SnYBU/w400-h194/IMG-20210221-WA0000.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Early in the morning around, I walked to the Louisiana-style donut shop, Nola’s, for lemon poppyseed and chocolate beignets. The expense of two donuts would have bought a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter at the Peterson’s grocery.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3k2Pvh-2s4tqbeibV0ZvsGX8Zm9ZfBQMYU5acG2xa1s4iqsUytpjoigLV_5hyQtCYuziyGPFhlbziMcRRSnpY11oe2wPAtwK53fNNExOB2zwBYbwx6x3F08aZe_wjPaUN5XqJrYcHAw/s2543/20210220_180010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH3k2Pvh-2s4tqbeibV0ZvsGX8Zm9ZfBQMYU5acG2xa1s4iqsUytpjoigLV_5hyQtCYuziyGPFhlbziMcRRSnpY11oe2wPAtwK53fNNExOB2zwBYbwx6x3F08aZe_wjPaUN5XqJrYcHAw/w400-h195/20210220_180010.jpg" title="View of My Hotel From the Evening Before" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">View of my hotel from the evening before.</div><br /><div>I ate the beignets downstairs at the hotel accompanied by a mug of free coffee from the lobby.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would still like to spend a month or so in a downtown Portland lodging. I envision long walks, good restaurants, and perhaps attending a few art or writer’s events along with those twelve hours at Powell’s. The reality of living in a big city would be a lark for me, but the inequities in downtown housing—so obvious during my one night in a hotel—is for many not the fantasy of a town dressed in black tails and white ties.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-37771275052603392012021-02-07T17:00:00.002-08:002021-02-07T17:00:43.940-08:00Quonset Huts and Why They Evoke Nostalgia<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-z0csLLiD3Mlj2wNWOhYuzWWNir4Fng0D0ospcgp-iTElNwWkWbROutlTdT-Y3Kv0bsKuGoCxRdD6wQjvTVD60n6oyloM9Gls-pwNGLSjfnz-JX_GxRoOO49g8l8H2whRkIGqB_CQV1I/s2048/IMG_20210202_222803_631-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-z0csLLiD3Mlj2wNWOhYuzWWNir4Fng0D0ospcgp-iTElNwWkWbROutlTdT-Y3Kv0bsKuGoCxRdD6wQjvTVD60n6oyloM9Gls-pwNGLSjfnz-JX_GxRoOO49g8l8H2whRkIGqB_CQV1I/w400-h210/IMG_20210202_222803_631-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I frequently pass this Quonset hut, a WWII relic, where it sits on the edge of a sketchy industrial area on the edge of town. It looks lost and lonely most days, but none more so than on a foggy one. Every time I notice the hut, I think of my dad and his long ago military service. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaMNQIRCnz-SUDEU8LY1se6G2dbix55lbXGoADQJm69CAthrm1gqLrV9cXEJrH9eNbU6nAeqpXG3Fx0a2UD7qJKKCST3YrJT6mxv6cAfg9u8Tvg5xKle-7gufPHFBVgIMgGl_VPAirQc/s2048/A6F9599F-847C-41D1-A590-34FFD58ECA2A_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaMNQIRCnz-SUDEU8LY1se6G2dbix55lbXGoADQJm69CAthrm1gqLrV9cXEJrH9eNbU6nAeqpXG3Fx0a2UD7qJKKCST3YrJT6mxv6cAfg9u8Tvg5xKle-7gufPHFBVgIMgGl_VPAirQc/w300-h400/A6F9599F-847C-41D1-A590-34FFD58ECA2A_1_201_a.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p>I've tried taking the hut's photo before, but I couldn't seem to catch its sense of uselessness, illustrating I hope the passing of the necessity for buildings constructed for purposes of war.</p><p>I admit to a certain nostalgia about WWII. This would seem to be in conflict with my aversion to military endeavors, but after some thought, I have concluded that my feelings of nostaglia, a word derived from two Greek words: <i>return home </i>and <i>pain, </i>has to do with my appreciation for a time when a frightening challenge was met with competence and some measure of grace. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGMIv2cas0YmHRhZh1Bm69twT3s_Lead56CmbRgD-2fduBzP0ptl9Zr2IF4eK_hVq2XeEJJEtiRYTQyn3mAzPAkWCih8YtdeSAJaQ1VRds77ahyphenhyphenOycxQqYgTiSMmXqAAx-mWvRDdp9s4/s2048/20210207_163223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="2048" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGMIv2cas0YmHRhZh1Bm69twT3s_Lead56CmbRgD-2fduBzP0ptl9Zr2IF4eK_hVq2XeEJJEtiRYTQyn3mAzPAkWCih8YtdeSAJaQ1VRds77ahyphenhyphenOycxQqYgTiSMmXqAAx-mWvRDdp9s4/w640-h510/20210207_163223.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>My father (third in line) with his sleeve rolled up, his jacket casually tossed over his shoulder, and a slight smile on his face conveys the spirit with which I speak. I have no doubt that my father would have preferred to continue his schooling to be a forest ranger, but within two weeks of Pearl Harbor he enlisted in the Army-Air Force and was sent to England for three years. In almost all of the photos of my dad during the war—a night with fellow Coloradan soldiers at a U.S.O. event, sitting on a bench with a WAC by some river, and standing in a heavy overcoat in front of the Louve in Paris—he is smiling. I know that he experienced and saw things of which he did not speak and certainly would not have left a smile on his face; and for me not seeing these things likely skews my impression of the War. </p><p>(This photo reminds me that this is the spirit with which I wish all Americans were approaching getting vaccinated for Covid-19. Just do it.)</p><p>I am reading a book about President John Adams and in it is mentioned the fact that silverware was melted to make lead bullets during the Revolutionary War. In both the First and the Second World Wars the practice was repeated with all kinds of metal. Somewhere in this world there are silverware and sewing machines and coins and bumpers all which contain traces of metal once used in implements or accessories of war and previously might have been silverware. When I notice a Quonset hut, a steel-sided structure, I know that it speaks of sacrifice of something gathered and given up for the cause of winning a war. Consider how lovely it will be when the sole purpose of recycling and repurposing will be to take something made in peace time and use it to make the world a better and more equitable place. When we skip the intermittant stage of recycling to make war implements. </p><p>During WWII the Lionel toy company switched from making toy trains to making compasses for warships and the Mattatuck Manufacturing Company switched from making its stock upholstery tacks to making cartridge clips. This is the stuff that I admire. The making of the Quonset huts in huge quantities falls into the same category. The unified effort of ordinary people, sustained and focused, is what bolsters my feelings of nostalgia for the war in which my father fought. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTIjpueaHDLBhaFo_gj4KCALBHMpNk6GFowEbMfZg-dda_dvdBkBoPecaP2-uuuLwV0Eyhv1ZE9dk0F1pibS5uPn3fRU4EmE9DKYy2_NqkC7L-vMnO2CqEngZJrZPKG9GU1ZGzhgwDvA/s2105/20210206_163530.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="2105" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTIjpueaHDLBhaFo_gj4KCALBHMpNk6GFowEbMfZg-dda_dvdBkBoPecaP2-uuuLwV0Eyhv1ZE9dk0F1pibS5uPn3fRU4EmE9DKYy2_NqkC7L-vMnO2CqEngZJrZPKG9GU1ZGzhgwDvA/w400-h178/20210206_163530.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>I love Quonset huts for the elegance of their swooping curve, an imitation of a rolling hill. I love that they were repurposed after the war as temporary houses, as roadside cafes, and mostly as farm sheds. I love that their easy-to-construct design makes them portable. Mainly, I love that they exemplify the good qualities of American democracy, our intentions to make the world right. And as always, I love that they remind me of my dad.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-18341604218931588312020-12-09T21:57:00.000-08:002020-12-09T21:57:06.320-08:00Pandemic Canyon Photos: Walla Walla Valley and Mill Creek <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwBsLCNWIojiqBoPAj7INK86zLOUqh477_H9Jv7Yw_JQeLONXD-vbHi94CVN3-4t_LFaqwsmj-kX16lsIiyqbw8KqTvpkdwcP6bIJt5jOhLLeEhZF3dYJy9RT59dFPpoGiPqRsqsOvRc/s2048/IMG_20200415_194354_420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1707" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwBsLCNWIojiqBoPAj7INK86zLOUqh477_H9Jv7Yw_JQeLONXD-vbHi94CVN3-4t_LFaqwsmj-kX16lsIiyqbw8KqTvpkdwcP6bIJt5jOhLLeEhZF3dYJy9RT59dFPpoGiPqRsqsOvRc/w334-h400/IMG_20200415_194354_420.jpg" width="334" /></a></div><p>This year feels as broken as our city's water lines were broken in February's flood. The river jumped its banks a short distance upriver from me and ripped apart the pipes bringing clean water from the watershed to Walla Walla.</p><p>As the pandemic loomed a few months after that record flood, my world became as narrow as the canyon where I live. Only occasionally did I venture to town or take a trip to the Wallowa Mountains for a day or two of camping. Slipping into town for groceries, the smoke of this summer's enormous fires made it seem like some end time was upon the world outside the canyon.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeDtQVqNPuutoQrAtX-jYRpo-IzyWztWL9e12n9iithI7_qdmNYHVaMsJuProKuBCjhu1dlbRY5lFQXKgCXMVUIreStw8AUhXVrFDpKyL1j8_hRKb4bI8lW066KbRpsEbN6_YOiSLujs/s2048/IMG_20200917_205259_806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1786" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjeDtQVqNPuutoQrAtX-jYRpo-IzyWztWL9e12n9iithI7_qdmNYHVaMsJuProKuBCjhu1dlbRY5lFQXKgCXMVUIreStw8AUhXVrFDpKyL1j8_hRKb4bI8lW066KbRpsEbN6_YOiSLujs/w558-h640/IMG_20200917_205259_806.jpg" width="558" /></a></div><p></p><p>Oddly, the two most depressing photos that I took this year, so expressive of this haunting time were of the muted gold smoke in the valley in the photo above and this one of fog on Scenic Loop rim. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRb6NXorO4RSRlB2egb-Nk9vmDGGozxAVBmfS4cfDIBZHOwZDoqyc-OculSi1cAABjpFg3JjpEmRagdlVTLDQjN3w_76OEEcoBd1NwvmFHPxCvBE5vY92Vs256FX7Z4lVhm8RzyBoTig/s2048/IMG_20201207_125002_303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRb6NXorO4RSRlB2egb-Nk9vmDGGozxAVBmfS4cfDIBZHOwZDoqyc-OculSi1cAABjpFg3JjpEmRagdlVTLDQjN3w_76OEEcoBd1NwvmFHPxCvBE5vY92Vs256FX7Z4lVhm8RzyBoTig/w512-h640/IMG_20201207_125002_303.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><p></p><p>But notably, instead of feeling like the world has become more dismal, this pandemic has made my nearby world seem larger and richer. It has happened in this way. I have taken up the habit of daily walks. Sometimes south into Oregon on a dirt road all the way to the Tiger Canyon Bridge or in the afternoon on a little road on the sunny-side of the canyon across from my cabin. Or recently all the way up Scenic Loop. The following photos show nature carrying on without regard to the state of the world and evidence of humans working, hoping, and expecting the world to continue. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3DU5x86QZUVYkzRpK8R6Dtj7tSz3-qOQmzHgZDzJ2pyzvG2TweXpjW07zY4WMwe37VBO4LIqRzVKR5Ze9tL2XhQpjoSupkkF4ifisBvJZaKeV1PwHhNGdaskoS2JReli_aVuQ0o-6BcE/s2048/IMG_20200519_182526_263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3DU5x86QZUVYkzRpK8R6Dtj7tSz3-qOQmzHgZDzJ2pyzvG2TweXpjW07zY4WMwe37VBO4LIqRzVKR5Ze9tL2XhQpjoSupkkF4ifisBvJZaKeV1PwHhNGdaskoS2JReli_aVuQ0o-6BcE/w400-h210/IMG_20200519_182526_263.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Leaf Platter with a Serving of Raindrops</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwygeE5T5H7-vvPWHAmkxq8u3gSBkLGVvuYfSPwjKKCeEIZLqY5_4FpN9ho90jpoXZ8d2EMYnMjX2UHh7TAlqErM-MB1Ljsw-ot9FnFtVIOvAbynSbveu3g_StScbrsM7jBoU_RCyJAY/s2048/IMG_20200318_162006_458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1780" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwygeE5T5H7-vvPWHAmkxq8u3gSBkLGVvuYfSPwjKKCeEIZLqY5_4FpN9ho90jpoXZ8d2EMYnMjX2UHh7TAlqErM-MB1Ljsw-ot9FnFtVIOvAbynSbveu3g_StScbrsM7jBoU_RCyJAY/s320/IMG_20200318_162006_458.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Grinch Resting on a Downed River Alder</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5kA1db5Wp_XbKYPQACOMv-iDZSE1QDDAWKeZN0jz48XMiSQ3dW24OrcVYvCINzvJvg1FTIiOSJnBE16vYT4f-N8kOI1mgj9JISPxuUiOZEsrJYo1Zd3MAGkVRIT22H-TczdMXzj14rY/s2048/IMG_20201204_161146_280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1137" data-original-width="2048" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5kA1db5Wp_XbKYPQACOMv-iDZSE1QDDAWKeZN0jz48XMiSQ3dW24OrcVYvCINzvJvg1FTIiOSJnBE16vYT4f-N8kOI1mgj9JISPxuUiOZEsrJYo1Zd3MAGkVRIT22H-TczdMXzj14rY/w640-h356/IMG_20201204_161146_280.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leaves Frozen under Ice (Maybe My Favorite Photo of This Year)</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSuOjY4P1i2sB9Q9E6ukqwdR9Zb0CW67NwLoZ8cAl-MMfZTfhKKPyIL2hlQUd_t-PtFMJtmIzNI8e3cZafMJvgSM9mcXwZ33VKdmsP9r-zbwlkPkmGLAmrM34l89wNtBf4BpqGAryV-s/s2048/IMG_20200815_195112_679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1934" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBSuOjY4P1i2sB9Q9E6ukqwdR9Zb0CW67NwLoZ8cAl-MMfZTfhKKPyIL2hlQUd_t-PtFMJtmIzNI8e3cZafMJvgSM9mcXwZ33VKdmsP9r-zbwlkPkmGLAmrM34l89wNtBf4BpqGAryV-s/w378-h400/IMG_20200815_195112_679.jpg" width="378" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Men at Work</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Otl293VACCJAMRBuTSjoq4ilBqFxnKQEtnH-4s5g6D_S_swqc4abpJM20fYl5jg7AQj7JovdQjh6ORQ30ze0grwWEJ81En5-Z5DgsfzOn500bobql-WwIKiEvbqOIOpxXONoX0AYlos/s2048/IMG_20200418_201403_551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1653" data-original-width="2048" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Otl293VACCJAMRBuTSjoq4ilBqFxnKQEtnH-4s5g6D_S_swqc4abpJM20fYl5jg7AQj7JovdQjh6ORQ30ze0grwWEJ81En5-Z5DgsfzOn500bobql-WwIKiEvbqOIOpxXONoX0AYlos/w400-h323/IMG_20200418_201403_551.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Design by Flood </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj1Y-vbH_tUwWwsSq3U8D1Lv10ULg_AM9BLWa17LKW31TZWxPylPrJ3wbRSjS00wRtTc5HPxZSJHeK-ifDm3ROebifj96K9shCRUmtw0wikj-z_Lgg2_C_dUPEiczm0pTwG3H0VjluBk/s2048/IMG_20200412_210452_873.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1405" data-original-width="2048" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsj1Y-vbH_tUwWwsSq3U8D1Lv10ULg_AM9BLWa17LKW31TZWxPylPrJ3wbRSjS00wRtTc5HPxZSJHeK-ifDm3ROebifj96K9shCRUmtw0wikj-z_Lgg2_C_dUPEiczm0pTwG3H0VjluBk/w400-h275/IMG_20200412_210452_873.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mailboxes Doing What They Do Best. Waiting.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnGqgjOCJ7s2s3N60SYdTZz2WYF1913AJ_uVYEIHTiWqqhd0KmTFcxTKcUc2uDS1tGuvk9Lc11ehPuvMxduW8aRd9tmefFr6wzUOunqjO-1NiKuuhhBe6kYUo7d5cYR1UemfiCiekejg/s2048/IMG_20200903_131433_910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1551" data-original-width="2048" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnGqgjOCJ7s2s3N60SYdTZz2WYF1913AJ_uVYEIHTiWqqhd0KmTFcxTKcUc2uDS1tGuvk9Lc11ehPuvMxduW8aRd9tmefFr6wzUOunqjO-1NiKuuhhBe6kYUo7d5cYR1UemfiCiekejg/w400-h303/IMG_20200903_131433_910.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Next Generation Testing Waters</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAc43V87ubtMBz4VuoH1UVIOspOeC0-JZZjyIf5RRM-aEpPThxtOF8JA_qoT4sVsNbn9SMj7PDr8XkLjAxhiG5IQ3oRlzYnmDG1V38MNUCUnZxtCAj-O2QBHnFezBlvxCq1w0LPL020c/s2048/IMG_20201204_161457_870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1712" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAc43V87ubtMBz4VuoH1UVIOspOeC0-JZZjyIf5RRM-aEpPThxtOF8JA_qoT4sVsNbn9SMj7PDr8XkLjAxhiG5IQ3oRlzYnmDG1V38MNUCUnZxtCAj-O2QBHnFezBlvxCq1w0LPL020c/w536-h640/IMG_20201204_161457_870.jpg" width="536" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pine Needles in Ice</td></tr></tbody></table><br />That's it. Well, one more. Apples waiting for deer.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ2yGaRTgF3muSyWYF7k2wJpNZU7mg03B5YXAiOYgpNh5qUbAtNIkDmcKQKqyvzwIRYMwk_sT8eeNxYWk6CCwa2DUQxtg0jGDfUPIqIo9t3FKHQPuFU9OxdDIGIyLDDiuMNCRcF01amo/s2543/20201206_145938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQ2yGaRTgF3muSyWYF7k2wJpNZU7mg03B5YXAiOYgpNh5qUbAtNIkDmcKQKqyvzwIRYMwk_sT8eeNxYWk6CCwa2DUQxtg0jGDfUPIqIo9t3FKHQPuFU9OxdDIGIyLDDiuMNCRcF01amo/w400-h195/20201206_145938.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-47109286652979471782020-11-27T19:58:00.000-08:002020-11-27T19:58:57.664-08:00They Will Remember the Carrots<p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWCxMs8u1ZMILMBrLrblO73QB4w8NCgSEz4Upluut9zv4pk-FUfB9egdrGeVhP3Rtp9pOU2P3f_XkPJaoA5Sfz-WCWWOfnkXflaK5zXan6YntDKLEmPn2M6-lKp9-Yaj_hlXUW7dd8eRY/s2543/20201113_120717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWCxMs8u1ZMILMBrLrblO73QB4w8NCgSEz4Upluut9zv4pk-FUfB9egdrGeVhP3Rtp9pOU2P3f_XkPJaoA5Sfz-WCWWOfnkXflaK5zXan6YntDKLEmPn2M6-lKp9-Yaj_hlXUW7dd8eRY/s320/20201113_120717.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p></blockquote>Sixty years out, I think, they will remember the carrots:<div>how delicious they were,</div><div>fresh and crisp, newly dug and scrubbed,</div><div>pleasing in their shades of </div><div>a muted purple, an orange and a nice turnip white.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sixty years out, I suppose they might remember the color of their</div><div>humiliation:</div><div>how while they sat in their family van</div><div>they watched their mom</div><div>beg through her missing teeth, her dark eyes sad.</div><div>She had begged to five cars in a row and not even one occupant had handed her a single</div><div>dollar bill.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then the carrots came</div><div>unannounced.</div><div>The sons ate them while</div><div>they waited for</div><div>the return of the woman</div><div>who gifted the carrots.</div><div>She, who drove an older-model Subaru,</div><div>not looking too prosperous.</div><div><br /></div><div>She had said (and they hoped it was true) she would</div><div>go to her bank and return with the remainder of</div><div>the cash they needed</div><div>to get home</div><div>to Mt. Vernon</div><div>on the far side of the state.</div><div><br /></div><div>They had slept cold in the car the night before</div><div>in a parking lot,</div><div>whose lights were like</div><div>spotlights in a prison yard</div><div>prying open their eyes</div><div>at each turning of their stiff discomfort.</div><div>The carrots in their carrot burrows,</div><div>early fall, frost-free,</div><div>had slept better than them.</div><div><br /></div><div>With a faint and desperate smile, the mom said to me,</div><div>"The water pump it gave out yesterday.</div><div>Took all my money to fix it.</div><div>I have three kids there in the blue van.</div><div>So far, I have gotten fifty dollars,</div><div>but I need</div><div>seventy to get home."</div><div>Nodding slightly towards her kids she hurriedly added,</div><div>"And I'll need to get a little extra to feed my kids."</div><div>She smiled when she remembered her kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you have a twenty?" she asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>The single mom (she told me she was a single mom) with</div><div>her smile circumnavigating her missing teeth</div><div>asked only for a twenty.</div><div>She could have asked for</div><div>a fair wage,</div><div>guaranteed income,</div><div>health insurance,</div><div>clear air, water, food, or</div><div>affordable housing,</div><div>but she only asked for a twenty (and a little more if it wasn't an inconvenience).</div><div><br /></div><div>Rifling through my wallet, I didn't have a twenty.</div><div>But if she waited, my bank wasn't far.</div><div>"Oh," I said, "while you wait, I have some organic carrots!</div><div>Take some!"</div><div>She looked surprised</div><div>and said <i>No </i>at first (maybe remembering her missing teeth.)</div><div>But then, you know,</div><div>the carrots were so beautiful,</div><div>and her sons hadn't eaten much, so</div><div>she reconsidered with an amused</div><div>grin, "Well, I'll take just a few."</div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't give her what she really needed.</div><div>It might be sixty years out or maybe more,</div><div>maybe centuries,</div><div>before</div><div>no mothers beg</div><div>in parking lots</div><div>while their dear chidren watch anxiously.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her sons, all teenagers (12, 14, and 15),</div><div>will look back as old men and</div><div>maybe they will remember the extra twenty for food</div><div>or the gift card for Subway</div><div>(enough still on it for three</div><div>twelve-inch-long sandwiches—</div><div>each one longer than any of the carrots).</div><div><br /></div><div>But I hope they will remember</div><div>With some amusement</div><div>how</div><div>their fortune turned on the arrival of</div><div>three carrots:</div><div>one a muted purple,</div><div>one an orange,</div><div>And one a nice shade of turnip white.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><p></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4859350592432682071.post-84828902870071238542020-11-01T11:52:00.000-08:002020-11-01T11:52:27.542-08:00Rural Postal Disruption<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX0qZi6aojp5ZSqtThnWuGXL-FG-liJz1Oc6G88oN31SdtDhFjhREz4eN1SK2QBrOXt5K4YuMkrqkyE9uy8kplXQYn-IuKFVNIU0D2uotDZQxyQWSqx7W3KGnzzT7KIU0H17jbmJiuQA/s2543/20201031_194751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyX0qZi6aojp5ZSqtThnWuGXL-FG-liJz1Oc6G88oN31SdtDhFjhREz4eN1SK2QBrOXt5K4YuMkrqkyE9uy8kplXQYn-IuKFVNIU0D2uotDZQxyQWSqx7W3KGnzzT7KIU0H17jbmJiuQA/w400-h195/20201031_194751.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>The flood was an enough of a problem for the mail carriers. The rain swollen and swift river carried rocks and boulders as though they were rubber duckies afloat in a pond. The river left its banks carrying its load of rounded basalt rocks,poured waist high through woods, and carved a new bed from the old roadway, making it impassable for mailmen. Uprooted trees fell, and one of them bashed a lone-standing mailbox with a glancing blow. By the time the waterline and roadcrews had replaced the broken watershed piping and repaired the road, this mailbox was left stranded across a gully with its door left ajar waiting for mail. Its flag missing. It swoopy new shape making it look like a sculpture in a a garden of a modern art museum.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZV_dQw4rPlLF_5qKXC82wj3oEGmRFeyd4g1k8kFqnVz9B_OrsUsjK4Z_xyXdxlHKDgw_lw3V9PTfwsJ1ElhFxpIeEILkui6wjnz6DMrC29yX6nymkdo8Mbq3zFKpp2VBb2dPD9mY1yA/s2543/20200720_191458.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZV_dQw4rPlLF_5qKXC82wj3oEGmRFeyd4g1k8kFqnVz9B_OrsUsjK4Z_xyXdxlHKDgw_lw3V9PTfwsJ1ElhFxpIeEILkui6wjnz6DMrC29yX6nymkdo8Mbq3zFKpp2VBb2dPD9mY1yA/w195-h400/20200720_191458.jpeg" width="195" /></a></div><p>But even before the newly appointed United States Postmaster began having mail-sorting machines dismantled in August and cut postman's hours to disrupt our upcoming election results, (I can't believe I just wrote that sentence.) another disruption was under way with that lone mailbox standing over the gully. The hazard arrived quietly and at first was small. It's silver gray tones blended well with the metal of the mailbox. It grew larger, filling most of the box.</p><p>Paper wasps construct nests by scraping and chewing wood fiber into a pulp and then layering it to make internal hexagonal cubicles enclosed in an exterior that looks similar to the flakey crust of a croissant. The nests are beautifully engineered.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnT39H0XoCYuCDJiPzPoXO0F2VH7IQWrqAa9dLChisZwFQDQnTiKTacOrOnA_yNkAPy3bBMD_NP3C2q5wegJI_w-1q5CR7JJ05sdHnxiVXcm5aopKCpy7TjJAVW7YDXpvxhSQ3qRJJa-s/s2543/20201031_194444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnT39H0XoCYuCDJiPzPoXO0F2VH7IQWrqAa9dLChisZwFQDQnTiKTacOrOnA_yNkAPy3bBMD_NP3C2q5wegJI_w-1q5CR7JJ05sdHnxiVXcm5aopKCpy7TjJAVW7YDXpvxhSQ3qRJJa-s/w400-h195/20201031_194444.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElRvmuES4acyun61cJ61UmFGXn4OE2rvLt3DD4_VxW1U3xgemByZCF_ZyusJc57svfEQ2w1rew1a0DvF7VyvPDj6dSihgGwh08-VSC8Vs1iRIwJKI3UyWl8m262HTxGejUtsJGBbuXYU/s2543/20201031_152629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElRvmuES4acyun61cJ61UmFGXn4OE2rvLt3DD4_VxW1U3xgemByZCF_ZyusJc57svfEQ2w1rew1a0DvF7VyvPDj6dSihgGwh08-VSC8Vs1iRIwJKI3UyWl8m262HTxGejUtsJGBbuXYU/w400-h195/20201031_152629.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>These particular type of wasps are wonderful to have near gardens, where they catch small pesky insects that cause damage to plants. The wasps are not aggressive unless they are having to defend the queen in the nest, like those queens whose nests are located in mailboxes. All summer the wasps created one last hazard for any mailman intent on doing his duty to that lone mailbox.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNs3lGKjkYPCB7x1sGM5zPhZnkpGYlrIIcLbej8CAllhbeSDf-a4KzxB5oKuQS1WYsnmsLu8bbODxE3CPfRzUB8iA757MJtQLJOFIh14ev8db2hGZI2FETl1mizKABqoW2rrSonQOM7Ww/s2543/20201031_194243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="2543" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNs3lGKjkYPCB7x1sGM5zPhZnkpGYlrIIcLbej8CAllhbeSDf-a4KzxB5oKuQS1WYsnmsLu8bbODxE3CPfRzUB8iA757MJtQLJOFIh14ev8db2hGZI2FETl1mizKABqoW2rrSonQOM7Ww/w400-h195/20201031_194243.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>But fall is here. We have had our first freeze. All of the paper wasps have died now. Except the queen. She will winter over in a snug place. The nest remains, intact and nonthreatening. Quite beautiful, really.</p><p>And the threat to the postal service of our democratic nation? </p><p>The aggressive dismantling of what we have assumed was non-political. Well, go vote. It is too late to mail your ballot in many places (due often to more poltical shennigans), so GO VOTE—in person or drop your ballot in a drop box. VOTE. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><p id="blogfeeds"><$BlogFeedsVertical$></p></div>boxoftaleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18446714466762994952noreply@blogger.com0