Assembly required

21 years and counting of late-night pre-Christmas assembly. Robert is our hero.

The Folly of the Perfect Gift

Countdown to Christmas. Allison's hamster is on hold at aunt Sandy's pet store. Everything else is either wrapped, shipped, stuffed in my closet or behind the laundry hamper (God forbid anyone look there!) or hidden behind twelve years of bankers boxes full of bank stubs in the basement. (Pardon the alliteration.) I may have hidden things other places, which I'll find at Easter time.

As usual Robert and I have waited till the last minute to shop for each other. We always play the "Oh, let's not buy anything big for each other" game where he always cheats and surprises me with something wonderful. Funny I never catch on. Nice for me that Robert suffered in his youth a humiliation so profound that it would forever cement his gift giving protocol with women. You see, when Robert was twelve he made the unforgivable mistake of presenting his mother with a mop as her Christmas gift. It was the Miracle Mop and he truly believed he was giving her something she'd appreciate. When she broke down crying, "This is what you think of me?" he was so mortified with shame that I get things like furs and jewelry every year when what I really want is appliances and tableware. Our early married years were frugal. Everything we had was second hand and I know this sounds unbelievable, but we didn't possess a microwave oven for a least four years. I actually heated milk and baby food on the stove like in ancient times, but I had two fur coats I didn't want, a small diamond necklace and plenty of perfume.

So a couple decades later I can't even think of anything else to cram into this house. We have it all. But Christmas demands you think of something to want. And besides world peace I'm really stretching. Okay, maybe a bigger Apple monitor. I'd like to buy Robert his very own personal computer, but I hesitate because he keeps warning me, "nothing expensive." Then this morning as he made breakfast it hit me what I would do.

Ever since Robert has returned from Steve's palatial Florida home he has been telling me about all Steve's neat stuff. Steve has done extremely well for himself and only outfits his home in the very best. On the third or fourth night there Robert phoned me and before hello he asked:
"What is the thread count on our sheets?"
"What?,"I said, stunned at hearing Robert utter a phrase I believed was unknown to him before his trip. "Um, three hundred, I think."
"Only three hundred? Are you sure it's not a thousand, because that's what Steve's are and I swore ours were too and he said he doubted that. Okay, thanks, bye."

It became a running joke with them to compare and contrast their stuff. We being the "low" design and Steve being "high." Mercedes trumps Chevy Tahoe. Sub-Zero trumps Kenmore. Armani trumps Old Navy. They are best friends from college so this was fun and amusing to them. Robert loves Steve like a brother and rejoices in his fortune. I know that's true because Robert is very unmaterialistic and satisfied. It's me and the kids that eat up our resources. Still, when Robert returned home he was full of wonder for Steve's neat stuff which he related to me in detail because it was fun to do so. But he was quick to tell me he's perfectly happy with our station in life and our cozy home. Up until that moment I was believing we were living pretty well, but that was before being reminded of those driven ones who raise the bell curve and make the rest of us feel like underachievers. Normally they're not in my orbit so I don't notice our lack and I live contentedly.

Anyway, back to this morning and the idea of the Christmas gift. As Robert pushed the toaster knob down he blurted, "Steve has this toaster, I think it's called Viking, and it makes toast perfect--every inch of the bread gets toasted perfectly." I stared at him for a minute, at his goofy excited expression. Wow, that's really nice, I said, but I was really thinking, Something by Viking I think I can afford. Alright buster, you're getting a toaster for Christmas.

So I headed to the Plaza to the kitchen specialty stores where I discovered none carried the magnificent 300 dollar Viking toaster. I actually heard myself saying, "Well then, give me your most expensive toaster." That's right, You heard me right. Nothing but the best for him. I'm thinking I'll put together a kitchen package. A few chef knives, a griddle, an apron and a big spoon and then I'm going to say, "Get in that kitchen, man, and cook me something!"

An Chlann

Where do I start? So much happening. Robert returned from his trip down the the east coast by boat and then five days visiting his old friend in Naples, Florida. Although he had a great time he claims to be cured of the the desire to buy his own boat. I'm actually happy to hear that. I don't particularly like boats, open water, or the idea of a boat payment. I like mountains. Maybe we can divert that imaginary money to my dream cabin in the Rockies. Meanwhile, we have plenty of possessions and matters begging to be taken care of, like our leaky roof and Ryan's exorbitant dental expenses (8 cavities, 4 wisdom teeth.)

I finally finished the video project for my friend, Carol, that I have been working on for two months. It combined interviews, photos (old and new), animated text, music, and hundreds of transitions. I built it in Final Cut Pro. The process was similar to making a piece of art: assembling the materials and arranging them in a creative fashion. It gave me a lot of pleasure to create the movie and more to hand it over. Carol was genuinely moved by it. I hope it's a testament to my creativity in editing, but the subject matter had a great hand in her perception of the piece since it's all about her family's heritage. The story it told was of a family's roots and character. It condensed into 42 minutes the journey of several generations. We learn of two members fleeing the potato famine in Ireland to suffer the strenuous passage over the Atlantic, to start anew in America, to struggle to make lives, to raise children, to become Americans, to cut a path for future generations.

That subject matter ensures a movie with strong emotional impact. That is why I loved making it. To take hundreds of individual lives and compress that into essentially a "statement" elevates the emotional impact. It's what storytelling does, organize and make sense of the past and offer a theme. For this family the theme was courage, perseverance and love--three elements sure to bring out the tears. Carol and I both wept through its making. All I know is that I'm hooked and want to continue creating this very product for other families. I call it a product, but it's really like making a lovely family portrait.

The other things that are keeping me busy I'll save to explain for another day. I'll close with this Irish blessing:

Dear Lord,
Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am
Keep ever burning before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope
And though I come not within sight
of the castle of my dreams,
teach me to be thankful for life
and for time's olden memories
that are good and sweet
And may the evening's twilight
find me gentle still

I am not Old

Where have I been? Here, but preoccupied. I'm working diligently on wrapping up my friend, Carol's, video project. She cries every time she views it, so I guess it's going well. It takes a lot more time than anybody could imagine. To work on it is to enter an alternate universe, a deep void that I must jump into at the expense of my "real life." I spent so much time in the chair that I wrenched my lower back and that hurt for days. Actually, the wrench probably occurred when I decided to clean out the garage and basement thus throwing my sedentary body into shock.

I had to take a break from all that to catch things up at work (I've only made a dent since I only go in twice a week.) There were months worth of materials and tasks waiting for me. So more sitting. While my travels have come to an end Robert is still away on his boat trip. He and the crew made it down the east coast from Chesapeake Bay to Florida. He phones me daily with reports. When they landed in Titusville they unexpectedly saw the space shuttle launch. I can't imagine a better position to have viewed it. When they reached Palm Beach or (Miami?) he left for his friend's house in Naples where he'll visit for a few days before returning Friday. Besides fun, they are talking business. Hopefully, Steve's Midas touch will rub off on Robert and we'll become multi-millionares and have a yacht of our very own. Or not.

I've been sick the past two days with what I believe is food poisoning (I'm blaming McDonalds.) I feel crummy from the inside out. Nobody much knows because I'm not one of those people who wants to tell you all about my health problems. No sir. Because that would mean I've passed into that middle-aged stage where health issues begin to dominate conversation. I'm also not going to talk about beauty and cosmetic procedures because that would also signal I'm getting old and besides I believe in the power of mystery. Does she or doesn't she?

I've decided to be sick is to be old. And to be old is to be ugly and I'm having none of that. Used to be I barely minded being occasionally ill, but now when dull-headedness and achiness and weariness set in I start thinking, "what if this never went away? What if this is what old is?" Normally, I never give this subject much thought but things around me seem to beg the question. Robert's dad is in and out of the hospital fighting one ailment after another where the matter of going to the bathroom becomes fodder for public discussion ( Can he or can't he?) My own friends are beginning to do that thing we swore we'd never do: freely discuss health problems ( bad knees, arthritis, unexplained pain.)

Sara lent me a book by Nora Ephron she says is a good read, It's titled: I Feel Bad About My Neck" It's an old lady's lament of
growing old and ugly. Although it was essentially depressing observations veiled in humor, I read it as a book intended for "others," those post-menopausal women I certainly cannot imagine relating to. My wicked delight came in the thought that I have at least 20 good years before reaching their sad pinnacle. And then I ran to schedule my Botox appointment.

Yesterday I threw away what I thought was a mistakenly addressed piece of mail to Robert. It was from the AARP. I was unaware that at 50 he qualifies. I'm only four years away myself. Jeeze. It seems like the world is conspiring to make me feel old.

The Hawk's View

We had a big snowstorm that kept me from walking a couple of days. When it did get warmer again I trekked out on my usual path on the golf course though now it was covered in about eight inches of snow. I struggled along the path thinking how snow shoes might be interesting to try, or even my cross-country skis, but already the snow was getting sticky. That's the thing about our winters, the snow rarely stays long.

The next day I walked again. This time I carried my camera hoping to catch a shot of a large hawk I'd seen out the window. I headed out on my path, but there were lots of icy patches from the melt. I found myself concentrating so hard of my footing that I rarely looked up to find the bird. I also found my footprints from the previous day. It seemed smart to try to use them again so with every step I tried to place my feet into the pre-cast footpath thus avoiding snow up my pantlegs. This seemed to work fair enough for awhile until I realized the flaws in this plan. Apparently, the day before, I walked with a lot more gusto; my strides were greater, probably due to my delight at finally getting outside. And now, the concentration and effort to match every footprint was becoming tedious. Wait, was that the left foot or right?

So I'm forging ahead, eyes honing in on the next step, the next step, never developing my own rhythm because I'm following my own footsteps of yesterday. I try to perfect my stride, to aim for perfect touch-down into each footprint mold thinking I'll catch the rhythm. But the aim for accuracy reduces speed making each next step a harder reach, and I'm getting tired and even a little dizzy, but I keep on, now in a determined trans-fixed state. Step, next step, oops, missed that one, where's the next? I'm pinning my camera against my body with one arm, so there goes my balance.

Somewhere halfway around I finally become aware that this is all very unpleasant. Not just the effort, because I secretly welcome physical effort, but the sensation I'm now aware of: the sensation of the unnatural. I'm intensely focusing on footprints made by me, by the me who walked here yesterday. I'm struggling to follow the footsteps of my ghost. I've walked this path a dozen years and the sameness never bothered me. A person may drive the same path to work, walk the same hall year after year, but never so precisely the same as what I was attempting to do--walk my exact footsteps. There was something unnerving in that. It made me feel like I was an echo of yesterday's self, following my yesterday self down this path. Which one is more real?

It gave me plenty to think about the rest of the way back, after I abandoned my old steps and crunched in the new. In the end I reduced it to this: If you could go back in time you wouldn't like it because of the creepiness factor of looking ahead at your old self. Better that all your steps are fresh.

Here's the hawk.

Please don't phone me

We are having a phone problem--as in can't find one in the whole house that works. I'm finding myself running across the house to answer the only reliable one left--the old rotary pay phone. The previous owners left it as it was, installed on the family room wall. (It was a collector's piece; our house isn't that old.)

In the meantime our cell phones die, our answering machines go glitchy and the handheld phones get lost or thrown in anger. I get so tired of keeping up with the gadgets and the batteries. But, I may get more tired of the up and down of running to answer the one or two phones that work.

I searched the house for any working phones to bring into the
central area of the house, the kitchen. One bedroom has an attached wall phone. Another has a (what's the part called that you hold in your hand? I'm sure the term escapes me because it is on it's way to becoming extinct and everyone justs hands it to you and says, "here's the phone", so I forget what you call it-- the handset?) that lets you hear but not speak. The kitchen phone is DOA and things are loose and tumbling around in the (handset thing again), slammed down one time too many. I dug up an old novelty from the boy's room's upstairs--a little red sports car.
It works best of all of them.

Night and Day

Here's something I rarely see: A sunrise. I caught it this morning as I returned from dropping Robert off at the airport. We had to leave at 4:00am to get there for his 6:00am flight. Knowing I would be rising in the middle of the night I decided to stay up. Funny, I'm not tired--yet. I might as well keep awake; I can make Beau breakfast before he goes to work. That would be a first. I've never been known as the breakfast lady. Poor family. I never liked to eat in the morning--why should anyone else? Unless it's a donut, then I'm there. Now if you want a late-night snack, fresh-baked brownies at 11:00, I'm your girl. I taught Robert how to make biscuits and gravy. Over the years he mastered great gravy and with constant praise and positive reinforcement he was lured into wearing the breakfast hat forevermore. (By the way, I made the best french onion/steak soup last night.)

Robert is headed to the Chesapeake Bay for a little ride on his sister's boat. They are taking it to Miami. I'd say lucky him, but I imagine it will be a mighty cold ride. They estimate the trip to take 10 days. I imagine all but one, the last one where they reach southern Florida, will be awfully cold. He is so excited though; it will be great fun for him.

A Drop in the Bucket

Our nice fall weather turned nasty today; Rain turned to icy pellets which the evil wind then threw into your face after it blew your umbrella inside out. Well, at least it makes coming home to a warm, cozy house that much more inviting. After fighting the elements trying to get groceries in, Allison and I both sighed and exclaimed to the kitchen: "Oh thank you, warm house." As I was straightening up she went into the family room to play. Moments later she came scrambling into the kitchen saying something about something jumping under the coffee table. I went to have a look and discovered a puzzling white mush. What? It took a few moments for me to comprehend that it was wet ceiling texture. I looked up to see a soggy spot of ceiling near the skylight. Oh lovely. It's really a lot worse this year, maybe so bad that we have to do something besides put a bucket under the leak. And in the next thirty seconds I was renting ladders scraping the popcorn texture from the 20 foot ceiling (we always hated that stuff--is now the opportunity to get rid of it?) Would I use a big putty knife or is there a special tool for that, and I'd need to wear a hat because it will get all in my hair, in fact, wouldn't I have to remove all the furniture first and lay down a tarp, and is there asbestos in that?

All Robert's framed golf flags will have to come off the walls so I can paint since now would be a good time, but then why not refinish the woodwork around the windows though there are quite a lot of them and they are all about 16 feet high, so again, the ladders. But first I 'd need to pull down the old peeling wallpaper (always hated that too); isn't there a special tool for that? I scooped up the white mush and eyed the soggy spot again. Maybe nobody will notice.

While Robert spent his day at his office, Allison and I paid Beau a visit at his business today with the intention of helping somehow. Where to start? While he worked the tire machine, Allie and I got out the industrial mop and bucket and went to work. I tidied up his counter. That was about it. I couldn't muster up the focus and energy required to really do some good, mainly because the job requires pure dirty labor. I need work clothes, boots, gloves, disinfectant, commercial grade cleaning appliances, paint, and hours and hours of time. I'd have to get a running start and not look back. I just finished a run like that through my own house where I could have used a holster to pack my vacuum attachments. In fact, this morning I ridded of the boxes and bags of toys and clothes I had organized and packed on my cleaning spree earlier this week. I helped the driver (for the charity) haul the stuff to his truck. I threw in the toddler bed which I helped him carry up from our basement, plus some other large items. I guess when I got to Beau's I wasn't in the mood for more work.

So I offered the support that comes from just showing up. And even better, a hot meal when he got home. I got a big hug. Allison wants five bucks for her part in mopping.

ROBO'S

Beau is making progress getting his business ready to open. I went down to check on him and get the tour since I've been away since September. I think it is very impressive. He has painted giant checkers on the warehouse and had a chain link fence installed around the grounds. The road and parking lot have been re-asphalted and the scraggly brush has been torn away from the front of the building though a few bunches of lettuce have popped up where Kenny, our live-in sign painter had his try at a garden. An office has been constructed inside with new cabinetry that Beau tried to stain himself. I said I'd help straighten that up.

His computer terminal and phone are up (921-TIRES) as well as the obligatory hot rod poster, this one personally signed by the scantily-dressed girl who straddles the car, something like, "You're hot!," a souvenir from the Las Vegas SEMA (stuff for cars) convention. The warehouse is filling with tires and wheels and new equipment like a wheel balancer . He's named his wheel and tire business, ROBO'S, a combination of letters from his name and his father's. It was actually the idea of Taylor, my little 16 year old friend, and the symbol or mascot, I guess, is a robot of sorts that Ryan's friend Jake created. A community effort.
I think it works.

A Thanksgiving Homecoming

We are back home. This month marks a year since we began our extended vacation. I'm a little tired to write much more than it feels good to be home--that is, after I made it my home again. I couldn't rest until I was comfortable and that meant getting my house into shape. I felt compelled to reintroduce myself to practically every object in my house by giving it a good dusting and clean-up. Hello grimy salt shaker. Glad everyone was too busy to notice me acting like a merry maid-on-speed because I'm sure I looked obsessive with my swifter and the vacuum attachment..

Robert thinks my laying hands on everything is some way of reclaiming my house again. I think he may be right. I also think there is some little magic going on--some transference of energy, as if every thing I handle becomes a little bit alive and connected to me. Every object tells me its history until one by one a whole story is retold. Then I feel secure and real. Then I can rest.

Well, not entirely--Thanksgiving is at my house, tomorrow. I've got my tables set, my stuffing in the refrigerator, and the turkey brining in one half of the kitchen sink. I'm thoroughly enjoying myself in the preparations although, again, I'm glad people don't witness the meticulousness behind my methods. It would translate as obsessive how I spend hours creating tablescapes, arranging branches and pinecones and little acorns. But the results! Today I loved every moment of it. I loved working in my kitchen while enjoying the view outside. Today was an incredible sunny warm day. Allison and her cousin, Lucy, explored the grounds around the house. Golfers were out like gluttons amazed to be catching such a lucky break. They moved in an energized pace like they were rushing to steal the day. I watched them buzz by on their carts grinning and high-spirited while I stood equally exuberant at my sink polishing silver wearing Robert's old golf glove (because that's all I could find.) Each one of us, no doubt, was feeling equally content and lucky to be here.

And while all this goes on Robert's father is in the hospital fighting a failing kidney. He won't make it to Thanksgiving dinner, but the prognosis today was encouraging. Dialysis is now in his future. He always seems to pull through whatever is out to get him. Meanwhile, many miles away my brother just welcomed his fourth child. I kid him that about his little Mormon family ( they are not) with their children named Kaleb, Adlai, Rebecca, and now, Josiah.

I am remembering the people we have lost through the years and sorry they aren't here to share in the holiday, my favorite holiday, but I am happy, so happy for all the little comforts, big and little, I have.

Witnessing the Moose Crossing

I was in Frisco today and struck up a conversation with a girl who turns out happens to live just a street below me in Wildernest. For some reason the subject of wildlife on the mountain came up and I shared with her that I have rarely seen much of it. She exclaimed that she sees moose almost every day on the same road that I travel. These three moose always barrel across Twenty Grand Road when she returns from work. They prefer to come out at dusk or in heavy snow she said. She told me a story about how a friend who was walking his dogs got chased by a moose all the way to a neighbor's door where he pounded on the door to be let in to safety. His dogs scattered. Then, unbelievably, the moose started butting at the door still in pursuit of the man.

It happened that it was late afternoon when Allie and I made our grocery run at the Frisco Safeway. We lingered there at the in-store Starbucks since I was in no rush to return home. I've been a little homebound these past few days--a combination of intense work editing my friend's video project and a major snow drop with furious winds that have caused a white-out. Drinking a chai tea latte while Allison dipped into a cup of whipped cream seemed pretty entertaining after my long days in the condo.

Anyway, as we heading for home up Buffalo Mountain Road and turned onto Twenty Grand, incredibly, we saw the three moose. They did just like my new friend said, they charged across the road in front of my car and down into the lower woods. We were astonished.
I did not take this photo.

Warning: Bright Sunshine Ahead

Besides its natural beauty, the best thing I like about the Colorado Rockies is its attitude. It's like a gentle giant. Maybe it's the sunshine, so much of it, almost all the time. You find yourself smiling a lot. Last week I was driving the Interstate down the mountains toward Denver, smiling, passing old mining towns with cute names like: Silver Plume, Downieville, Idaho Springs, when I came across an unusual (to me) message on a huge LED sign. The streaming text read:
Bright Sunshine Ahead.

I know it's a warning, but it gave me a chuckle. I couldn't snap a photo of it so here's an example of the type of sign I'm talking about. Usually it throws out an air of dead serious importance. Amber Alert. Nuclear Holocaust Ahead. Not, Don your sunglasses it's a little bright today. Another sign warns:
Truckers. Don't be fooled. Steep grade next 6 miles.
A little cheeky for DOT standards I think. It it makes you wonder about the seriousness of other signage. Like the one that reads:
Retract Your Sunroofs. Falling Rocks Ahead.
No, that's me joshing you.
But since the conformance to standards seems to be getting more casual by the day it should seem no surprise that whomever is programming these LED messages feels free to take a little creative license. The next image I found online is a joke...or maybe not. It's probably sited on a street corner in San Francisco.

Taken on the same day

It's been unseasonably warm the past few days. I think a record was set yesterday. I even opened up the windows to air out the house. This is how Buffalo Mountain looked in the early afternoon as I drove over Swan Mountain Road over Lake Dillon.




In the few minutes it took me to return from Dillon to pick up Allie at school the mountains became shrouded in clouds and by the time I pulled into the garage this is what it looked like.

Windows are now closed, gas fireplace full-on. We'll probably wake up to a foot of snow.

Good intentions

I'm normally not a bad cook, but something about the high altitude has done me in. The final straw--my attempt to bake a cake from scratch. All that trouble for this pathetic mess. At least the batter was delicious.

I have to get back in practice since I'm hosting Thanksgiving back home. We'll be returning to home for good. (Or at least Allison and I since Robert has hardly been here.) I'll be driving back two days before Thanksgiving so I'll have barely time to prepare.

I have been putting a lot of thought into my tablescape. I have an idea to suspend decorated aspen branches over the table in a kind of alpine theme. Today I set out to steal a few branches from somewhere inconspicuous. My first thought was the Gore Forest behind my condo, but I couldn't imagine hauling my harvest down the mountain, not to mention it is probably a criminal offense; and it certainly would have been super premeditated since I purchased the saw this morning after dropping Allie off at school. Then, as I was coming down Buffalo Mountain Drive, I noticed a pile of newly-cut trees on a house construction site. Who could object to my sawing off a few branches?

Aspen is by far the softest wood I have ever sawed into. And lightweight too. I hauled away four branches about six or seven feet long. Hopefully, I'll make it home with them and my little decorating dream will be realized. I've been known to think too big when it comes to projects. One summer trip here I had a carpenter friend construct forms to make concrete stepping stones. When we got here I gathered everyone to go down to Blue River to collect river stones. Then we went to the hardware store for concrete. Everyone laid out their stone mosaics on the driveway and waited as I hand-mixed the concrete in a five gallon bucket. I added water and stirred, added more water and stirred. This went on for over an hour as I never got the consistency right. Dusk approached and one by one everyone retreated to the house leaving me and my bucket until finally, I too, gave up. The next morning the bucket of concrete had solidified around my stirring stick turning my whole project into a giant concrete Popsicle.


Besides the cake, my day wasn't a waste. I took a long walk, a pilgrimage really, through Keystone to the playground on the Snake River, a place we have taken our boys through the years. I had someone's birthday to remember. That little someone sat on this very slide so many years ago.

Men, again

Robert, Beau, and his friend, Luke, flew in for the weekend. They stopped over on their return from a convention in Las Vegas. Robert is helping Beau set up his business and Luke (who is actually Ryan's best friend) is basically apprenticing with us. The visit was short, but sweet. They all enjoyed sleeping-in and watching football. We miss having men around, although, they eat a lot and mess up the place.

BTW, Beau is actually 6 ft tall. It's Luke that is the giant!