What I thought I knew about skiing: Growing up in the San Fernando Valley in Southern California, I was unexposed to the pleasures of downhill skiing. The winter Olympics were not noticed by me, nor were any local skiers evident in my circle of acquaintances or friends. Switzerland and the Alps were made for skiing and winter sports, but I was not yet drawn to playing in the cold. I remember liking speed, especially riding down hills on my black Raleigh 3-speed with my friends, or borrowing my sisters Flexi-Flyer - a sled on wheels that was made for "sledding" on the sidewalk. Now, we might call it an early form of street luge.
In the winter of 9th grade, my family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah. This was tainted by the death of my grandmother, but Utah has mountains and even in the city, the invitation to enjoy playing outside is immediate and rewarding. It became known to my family that we needed to learn to ski. After all, the ski resorts are close and there is plenty of used equipment ready to be cleaned out of the garages of the locals, in this case, members of my father's congregation. Old skis and leather boots and bent poles and mostly useless coats and gloves were donated. I skied in Levis and cotton shirts and long underwear that saw a previous life as a body suit meant to go under a plaid skirt. The body suit had to be completely removed in order to use the ladies room; I think I only wore that once and I certainly recall how annoying it was to take everything off.
My parents purchased lessons for the entire family from the local newspaper. Our lessons were at Brighton or Solitude. Anyway, they are both up Big Cottonwood Canyon. My first day of skiing was at Brighton - I learned to snow plow, a ridiculous method for moving downhill, but still a great way to slow down or stop if necessary. I rode the lift on what must have been a short and shallow downhill run, my newish Levi's leaving blue marks in the snow when I sat down involuntarily. Eventually, my parents purchased new equipment for all of us. I had lace-up leather boots and Fischer 250 skis. I had a puffy down filled jacket that had a cotton lining with a paisley print. I was very proud of that coat. I had crappy long underwear, the stocking cap I got from my grandmother and I assume, gloves.
Early days in my skiing experience, I went to Park City with a 10th grade boyfriend, Rex, and after a
few terrifying runs, walked, carrying my skis, back to the lodge. This must have been before lessons. Rex was from Colorado, and he and his brothers were excellent skiers. After completing lessons, my family did more regular skiing trips, exploring several local resorts. On Sundays after church, we would drive up to Alta, at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, purchase a $4.00 10-punch ticket and ride and ski the afternoons away. My friends and I were sometimes able to get more than 10 chairlift rides because we were girls, and I assume, attractive enough to qualify. I never was very good at skiing, but I had fun and we did not worry about the quality of the snow.Then I went away to college, got married, and moved back to California.
What I learned about skiing: Summers are too long between seasons and I welcome the snow. If I had the money, I'd vacation in the Southern Hemisphere and ski in Chili during the winter. About ten years ago, I began skiing again. Living in Boise, Idaho, puts me about 20 miles from the lower parking lot at Bogus Basin. It's still a 40 minute drive, and every year, some fool drives off the road onto the foothills.When my friend John and I first started going up to Bogus, we drove in his 1978 VW Rabbit, with studded snow tires and front wheel drive. He once accused me of trying to rip out the chicken-strap, and I pointed out that if he continued to drive fast, I'd keep being terrified and thank goodness for a chicken-strap. John taught me most of what I know about skiing correctly, even though I sometimes got tired of being in "student" mode. I'll never look as stylish or smooth as he does; but I can get to the bottom from anywhere at Bogus Basin.
Bogus Basin started selling ski passes for $200.00 per year. Without that, I probably would not be a dedicated skier. I've gone through 3 pairs of new skis in the past ten years. At the end of the 2011 season, I replaced my pretty green and white Head Xenon 9.0 163-centimeter long fatter skis with 4-Front Identity Series Madonna all mountain woman's 165-centimeter long even fatter skis that are about 90 at the waist and 120 wide at the tips, twin: that is. Yikes, as you can tell, I've gotten into the ski lingo. But more than that, I've really come to appreciate fat skis that float on powder and turn easily because they are much shorter than what we skied on in the 1970's. Even more important to someone who is cold most of the time, polypropylene and other warm man-made fabrics were invented, becoming the standard in cold weather and sporting gear. I still use down filled gloves on cold days and I started wearing a helmet after Sony Bono died from skiing into a tree.
Skiing itself is often sublime, sometimes annoying, and well worth the months of working out, leg lifts, leg presses, core work, upper body work and whatever else TJ has insisted on a third set of 15 reps. Skiing powder, although the most tiring, feels amazing and you can hear people "wooh whooo"ing all over the slopes. When there is powder, (precipitation at something below 28 degrees), John and I rush up the mountain along with the rest of Boise's powder hounds and find our way to our favorite off-trail powder caches. I won't bore you with their locations, as I don't want to share. Some years are better, and there is more available powder; some years have lots of warmth and slush as did this one. This year, Bogus did not open until the end of January: GASP! We were all disappointed by the short season, especially after the 2010-2011 season when Bogus opened at Thanksgiving. I had enough time to put together a quilt that pictures the snow and "first tracks" last fall.
We made it to the end-of-year party at Bogus on April 7th after skiing a record 5 times in 8 days. This year, John won a prize for locating a Pabst Blue Ribbon on that last day while skiing one of our "secret" (there's no such thing) runs. Earlier that week, we drove to McCall and skied for free on a Tuesday during a week long promotion at Brundage Mountain. Now, the snow has melted from Shafer Butte and there is nothing left of the white stuff on the top of the mountain, visible from the Boise valley. How I miss turning the corner from Chair 6, and bracing myself for the wind blowing up the trail and forming drifts as I head for Wildcat, or if it's lunch time, Tiger. Perhaps I'll join the brush cutting crew this summer and help remove some of the brush that stubbornly remains above the snow all winter. I paid for my season pass for next year in February, and I'll probably buy new ski socks. We just need more SNOW!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
21st Blog: What IThought I Knew About Winter
What I thought I knew: As Robert Lewis Stevenson would say: "In winter, I get up at night and dress by yellow candlelight...." I'll finish the poem when I write about summer. Since I have grown up in the age of incandescent bulbs, I have never dressed by candlelight. I'll stop there, as this will be about light instead of winter. I recall winter in the San Fernando Valley as being mild, with the Santa Ana winds whispering and pulling your hair around to keep things interesting. Sometimes the temperature when I was going to school was in the 50's. So cold, I had to wear a coat; the coat was carried over my arm by the afternoon. Winter was divided from summer by swimming pool availability and the many months of attending school. There were no visible seasons in the greenery around our house, except when the ash trees changed colors and finally dropped their leaves. No raking needed, and of course, dichondra lawns do not "die" over the winter months.
We occasionally visited winter from our home in the San Fernando Valley. We would drive into the surrounding mountains for a youth group outing to the snow. Wrapped in inadequate clothing, we made snowmen and threw icy snowballs, finally driving home while wet, steaming up the car windows. There was no warm specialized polyester fabrics and we had only knitted or crappy borrowed gloves to keep our hands warm, but not dry. Winter in southern California meant that going to the beach involved flying kites and looking for sea shells, plentiful after storms. Cold waves forced us to wear shoes and coats to the edge of the water; hiking continues where the winter is mild.
After moving to Salt Lake City, I learned about winter in person. Gifts of hand-me-down jackets and gloves and hats were eventually replaced by my first down jacket. It was deep blue on the outside and had a paisley lining in cotton. I loved wearing such a fine jacket, the lining drawing comments from others with ordinary coats. Long underwear was purchased, but still cotton, with silk and wool being the fancy fabrics of the time. The mountains to the east of Salt Lake are astonishing; Mount Olympus and it's regal rock patterns are stunning when covered in snow. It snowed regularly there, and why not at 4500 feet above sea level? I learned to shovel, an endeavor that I continue to enjoy in Idaho. I like the satisfaction of seeing my work completed.
Utah is well known for it's powder and ski resorts. I learned to ski, taking group lessons and using rentals. Alta, Snowbird, Solitude, Park City and Brighton were all within 45 minutes of my house. The roads must have been icy and snowy, but I don't remember that as being a problem. What I did learn, is that snow silences the surrounding noises and actually seems warmer than just a cold day. As a teen in Salt Lake, I was able to sled from the hill above our house to the street corner our house defined. Last time I was there, the hill was covered in new construction; the scrub oak and dirt trails were more inviting.
Boise is what I know about winter. As I am writing this, it is very cold (low 20's to low 30's) but dry; the latest that the local ski resort has ever opened. Fortunately, there is a winter storm warning for later in the week. Two days later as I write in the afternoon, the storm has covered Boise in 4-5 inches of heavy snow (as measured on my driveway.) I have shoveled a few times, just to keep it from getting icy. I learned about shoveling ice in Salt Lake City, and don't wish to meet that particular challenge again. I keep my driveway, the sidewalk in front, the path for the postman and part of the easement to the park mostly cleared. Today, I shoveled my neighbor's driveway and walkway too.
Winter snow storms bring the irresistible joys of playing in snow. It makes my daughter's white German Shepard appear yellow, and watch out where he goes! My children grew up sledding and playing in the Boise snow; making snowmen in the park behind us and riding snowmobiles with our friends "up at Vern's" in Placerville. What I know about winter and look forward to is skiing. I have new skis this year, a gorgeous pair of purple/zebra striped fat soft boards that hug the hill and make turning in powder sublime. Everyone should have a chance to experience the sublime in every season. I guess I have three more seasons to consider extending my thoughts to the keyboard.
Winter also means that the Big Dipper is harder to find from my house and drying clothes on hangers takes place indoors. During cold days, my second cup of coffee is reheated in the microwave instead of poured over ice. Other facts about winter: It's possible to set off bottle rockets without worrying about fires too much but impossible to keep your floors clean. Wool or polyester socks are warmer than cotton socks and 67 degrees in the house is cold during the winter and warm during the summer. I have learned to sweep the accumulated snow from the bottom of my car prior to driving into the garage and to carry a shovel, down jacket, spare gloves and a hat and blanket in my car. Last year, I ended up sideways in a friends front yard after a similar storm and now I have snow tires. Winter driving involves going slow (but not in first gear) and learning how your car responds close to home so you know what will happen when you get out into traffic. Snow tires and chains and weight in the back of your truck also contribute to being safe; it's the other drivers (idiots driving too fast or tailgating) you need to look out for.
What I know about winter and enjoy the most is that it ends; the small birds bring this news ridiculously early in the spring. They seem unaffected by the cold weather, searching my trees for nesting material and something to eat. I am also hungry in winter, nesting in my house in sweat pants, warm socks and considering making cookies or biscuits or shortcake. Like the birds, I also consume nuts and berries to stay healthy. I continue to work out in a studio that is too cold at 55 degrees when I arrive and too warm at 59 degrees when I depart. The cold of winter is better for sweating; cooling down is easier than during summer. Winter is no reason to stay inside and become one with the couch. There are plenty of new fabrics and specialty clothing to keep you warm and dry and outside; so - go outside and play!
We occasionally visited winter from our home in the San Fernando Valley. We would drive into the surrounding mountains for a youth group outing to the snow. Wrapped in inadequate clothing, we made snowmen and threw icy snowballs, finally driving home while wet, steaming up the car windows. There was no warm specialized polyester fabrics and we had only knitted or crappy borrowed gloves to keep our hands warm, but not dry. Winter in southern California meant that going to the beach involved flying kites and looking for sea shells, plentiful after storms. Cold waves forced us to wear shoes and coats to the edge of the water; hiking continues where the winter is mild.
After moving to Salt Lake City, I learned about winter in person. Gifts of hand-me-down jackets and gloves and hats were eventually replaced by my first down jacket. It was deep blue on the outside and had a paisley lining in cotton. I loved wearing such a fine jacket, the lining drawing comments from others with ordinary coats. Long underwear was purchased, but still cotton, with silk and wool being the fancy fabrics of the time. The mountains to the east of Salt Lake are astonishing; Mount Olympus and it's regal rock patterns are stunning when covered in snow. It snowed regularly there, and why not at 4500 feet above sea level? I learned to shovel, an endeavor that I continue to enjoy in Idaho. I like the satisfaction of seeing my work completed.
Utah is well known for it's powder and ski resorts. I learned to ski, taking group lessons and using rentals. Alta, Snowbird, Solitude, Park City and Brighton were all within 45 minutes of my house. The roads must have been icy and snowy, but I don't remember that as being a problem. What I did learn, is that snow silences the surrounding noises and actually seems warmer than just a cold day. As a teen in Salt Lake, I was able to sled from the hill above our house to the street corner our house defined. Last time I was there, the hill was covered in new construction; the scrub oak and dirt trails were more inviting.
Boise is what I know about winter. As I am writing this, it is very cold (low 20's to low 30's) but dry; the latest that the local ski resort has ever opened. Fortunately, there is a winter storm warning for later in the week. Two days later as I write in the afternoon, the storm has covered Boise in 4-5 inches of heavy snow (as measured on my driveway.) I have shoveled a few times, just to keep it from getting icy. I learned about shoveling ice in Salt Lake City, and don't wish to meet that particular challenge again. I keep my driveway, the sidewalk in front, the path for the postman and part of the easement to the park mostly cleared. Today, I shoveled my neighbor's driveway and walkway too.
Winter snow storms bring the irresistible joys of playing in snow. It makes my daughter's white German Shepard appear yellow, and watch out where he goes! My children grew up sledding and playing in the Boise snow; making snowmen in the park behind us and riding snowmobiles with our friends "up at Vern's" in Placerville. What I know about winter and look forward to is skiing. I have new skis this year, a gorgeous pair of purple/zebra striped fat soft boards that hug the hill and make turning in powder sublime. Everyone should have a chance to experience the sublime in every season. I guess I have three more seasons to consider extending my thoughts to the keyboard.
Winter also means that the Big Dipper is harder to find from my house and drying clothes on hangers takes place indoors. During cold days, my second cup of coffee is reheated in the microwave instead of poured over ice. Other facts about winter: It's possible to set off bottle rockets without worrying about fires too much but impossible to keep your floors clean. Wool or polyester socks are warmer than cotton socks and 67 degrees in the house is cold during the winter and warm during the summer. I have learned to sweep the accumulated snow from the bottom of my car prior to driving into the garage and to carry a shovel, down jacket, spare gloves and a hat and blanket in my car. Last year, I ended up sideways in a friends front yard after a similar storm and now I have snow tires. Winter driving involves going slow (but not in first gear) and learning how your car responds close to home so you know what will happen when you get out into traffic. Snow tires and chains and weight in the back of your truck also contribute to being safe; it's the other drivers (idiots driving too fast or tailgating) you need to look out for.
What I know about winter and enjoy the most is that it ends; the small birds bring this news ridiculously early in the spring. They seem unaffected by the cold weather, searching my trees for nesting material and something to eat. I am also hungry in winter, nesting in my house in sweat pants, warm socks and considering making cookies or biscuits or shortcake. Like the birds, I also consume nuts and berries to stay healthy. I continue to work out in a studio that is too cold at 55 degrees when I arrive and too warm at 59 degrees when I depart. The cold of winter is better for sweating; cooling down is easier than during summer. Winter is no reason to stay inside and become one with the couch. There are plenty of new fabrics and specialty clothing to keep you warm and dry and outside; so - go outside and play!
Friday, December 2, 2011
20th Blog: What I thought I knew about Christmas Letters
What I thought I knew: My parents wrote extensive Christmas Letters and enclosed them in suitable Christmas cards. They were a report on the year of the family, what each of us has accomplished and where we spent our vacation. They sent out multiple cards, and it was a chore to get them all addressed and stamped. We in turn received many Christmas cards, which my mother would display in various ways, depending on the year. They would be set out on the piano, or attached to ribbons and strung in banner form from the ceiling and sometimes, set upon a ribbon or piece of yard, balanced by resting on the interior fold of the card. At least, that's how I remember the cards. We also made Advent Calendars from prior year's cards - pasted like doorways over the appropriate bible verse.
When I was married (late 1970's,) I began the tradition again. I can recall when my list of recipients was around 100 people. Having to do this chore by myself made me appreciate my mother's impatience with my father. Or maybe, she was just impatient anyway.... I searched every December for cards that were not too religious, unless I liked the picture. I looked for cards with humor and whose interior message was not too pointed. Eventually, I began looking for politically correct messages about "the holidays" instead of Christmas. Because I'm Lutheran, I occasionally feel nostalgic and send a card that mentions the birth of Christ and the miracle of forgiveness. Besides, my father was great at celebrations, so it sometimes feels good to mention Christmas.
Over the years, I have enjoyed letters enclosed in holiday cards (yea, even Christmas cards...) from friends and families. I really like the year by year photos of friends, detailing how their children have changed and grown. I look forward to reading how everyone has spent their year, and what they did on vacation. I too include those details. Sometimes, my letters struggle to remain only one page and sometimes I get them printed to I can cut the paper in half and still have both sides printed. Computers have helped immensely. I can print up my own letter, review it over and over and still have a chance to fix a sentence or a word. It's all about the nuance. Sometimes I've been so busy with holiday events and career, I've sent letters after Christmas is over. This allows me to include thank you notes: two cards with one stamp!
What I have learned about Christmas Letters: I still enjoy receiving and sending this journal of my life and the lives of people I know and love. I have come to view my letters as personal missives, to be forwarded to everyone who I care about. I try not to make them too long, and I try to mention everyone who is immediately important to me. Like myself when my father managed to mention his children during a sermon, I manage to mention my children, even when they don't spend much time at home or have moved away and gotten married. As if they couldn't report themselves!!! I try not to overstep my boundaries. I don't report anything awful, although, sometimes I do embarrass them.
I love having the opportunity to use the computer for this. Hey! I could email my letter to everyone with photos attached! (*wait: is that Facebook?) My sister Kathy sends silly letters every year. They detail what her animals have done and she sometimes fibs about events and people. Since I already know what happened, I really enjoy reading her tales. My college roommate Beth sends photos of her daughters every year. They have grown into beautiful college graduates. My friend Mark has already sent his Christmas letter for 2011 (I got it yesterday) and it sounds like his life is truly wonderful at this time. (*wait: maybe Christmas letters are my version of Facebook updates, only one per year!)
Since it is December, I must think about a letter for this year. It must include the things I'm proud to have completed or attended or visited or shared this year. It must include a shout-out to my children and significant others. It might talk about my career, my yard or my choice of cereal, (no longer Cheerios). I have to shop through my cupboards for past Christmas cards that were leftover. I will use them, as I have a mixed collection. Besides, none of you will remember what card I sent last year.... I still have a box of all the Christmas cards I've gotten for the past 20 or so years, maybe 30 years? Some get packed every year with the Christmas ornaments. Perhaps next year, I'll have an Advent Calendar making party. Bring cookies!
When I was married (late 1970's,) I began the tradition again. I can recall when my list of recipients was around 100 people. Having to do this chore by myself made me appreciate my mother's impatience with my father. Or maybe, she was just impatient anyway.... I searched every December for cards that were not too religious, unless I liked the picture. I looked for cards with humor and whose interior message was not too pointed. Eventually, I began looking for politically correct messages about "the holidays" instead of Christmas. Because I'm Lutheran, I occasionally feel nostalgic and send a card that mentions the birth of Christ and the miracle of forgiveness. Besides, my father was great at celebrations, so it sometimes feels good to mention Christmas.
Over the years, I have enjoyed letters enclosed in holiday cards (yea, even Christmas cards...) from friends and families. I really like the year by year photos of friends, detailing how their children have changed and grown. I look forward to reading how everyone has spent their year, and what they did on vacation. I too include those details. Sometimes, my letters struggle to remain only one page and sometimes I get them printed to I can cut the paper in half and still have both sides printed. Computers have helped immensely. I can print up my own letter, review it over and over and still have a chance to fix a sentence or a word. It's all about the nuance. Sometimes I've been so busy with holiday events and career, I've sent letters after Christmas is over. This allows me to include thank you notes: two cards with one stamp!
What I have learned about Christmas Letters: I still enjoy receiving and sending this journal of my life and the lives of people I know and love. I have come to view my letters as personal missives, to be forwarded to everyone who I care about. I try not to make them too long, and I try to mention everyone who is immediately important to me. Like myself when my father managed to mention his children during a sermon, I manage to mention my children, even when they don't spend much time at home or have moved away and gotten married. As if they couldn't report themselves!!! I try not to overstep my boundaries. I don't report anything awful, although, sometimes I do embarrass them.
I love having the opportunity to use the computer for this. Hey! I could email my letter to everyone with photos attached! (*wait: is that Facebook?) My sister Kathy sends silly letters every year. They detail what her animals have done and she sometimes fibs about events and people. Since I already know what happened, I really enjoy reading her tales. My college roommate Beth sends photos of her daughters every year. They have grown into beautiful college graduates. My friend Mark has already sent his Christmas letter for 2011 (I got it yesterday) and it sounds like his life is truly wonderful at this time. (*wait: maybe Christmas letters are my version of Facebook updates, only one per year!)
Since it is December, I must think about a letter for this year. It must include the things I'm proud to have completed or attended or visited or shared this year. It must include a shout-out to my children and significant others. It might talk about my career, my yard or my choice of cereal, (no longer Cheerios). I have to shop through my cupboards for past Christmas cards that were leftover. I will use them, as I have a mixed collection. Besides, none of you will remember what card I sent last year.... I still have a box of all the Christmas cards I've gotten for the past 20 or so years, maybe 30 years? Some get packed every year with the Christmas ornaments. Perhaps next year, I'll have an Advent Calendar making party. Bring cookies!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Nineteenth Blog - What I thought I knew about lawn care
What I thought I knew - My dad used to mow the lawn. I'm not sure about the first house I remember living in, but in the San Fernando Valley, my dad mowed the lawn. This house had a type of grass called dichondra, which looked very much like small lily pads, with leaves from a half to one inch in diameter. It sometimes got to about 3 inches high, at which point, my dad would mow it. He spent more time weeding this lawn. I can remember him in the summer, outside sitting on the lawn with a transistor radio and a Busch beer, pulling weeds. He was especially vigilant about the dreaded spotted spurge. This weed resembles the equally dreaded and sharp 'goathead' weed found in Idaho, spreading it's thin vegetation over the flat ground. Sometimes, I joined my dad pulling weeds, and sometimes I had to work on the lawn. Mostly, I recall that the lawn was a haven for snails in the evening; I learned to never go walking in the dichondra without shoes after dark.
After we moved to Salt Lake City, I started mowing the lawn. It was a large grass lawn, and I don't recall much weeding. I was assigned most of the lawn mowing after I was in my junior year of high school. This was eased by the presence of an electric mower. I also trimmed the pyracantha bushes with a power clipper with sliding blades. Only my mom was allowed to trim the roses. The lawn in front of the house occasionally played court to our volleyball games in the summer. Once, someone who was angry at my dad ran his car across the lawn, leaving two long gouged tire trails that lasted for a year and longer. Sometimes, my parents hired out the mowing to a member of the church youth group. I volunteered to bring these boys iced tea; after all, it was hot in the summer and they surely required refreshment.
The next time I worked on a lawn was after moving to Seattle. There I learned that lawns can be persnickety and temperamental. This lawn required fertilizer, almost no water, and the removal of quantities of moss. Fortunately, there was not much of the lawn and we had a power mower. My neighbor next door used a push mower, but he and his family were sort of hippies. I have never succumbed to the romance of having a push mower; but I did learn how to sharpen the blade of mine. Seattle has lots of greenery, but the wide expanses of lawn are often wet and not as friendly to picnicking as you might think. The high point of our Seattle lawn was returning after a Sunday brunch to find 100's of plastic forks stuck in our grass. Eventually, this trick was recycled in Boise on the perpetrator.
What I know now - I really enjoy mowing my lawn. It's small and takes only about 30 minutes total mowing time. Removing the leaves and pine cones requires more of my effort and time. This lawn lives in Boise, and has been mine since I moved into this place when it was new. Over time, a small ditch has formed in the front yard, delineating the water line from my house to the outside shut off valve. The side yard facing mostly north has become mossy and the lawn has started to die off under the two enormous pine trees and the maple in the back yard. Clearly, I am not good at picturing the future of large plants. I have two Ponderosa Pines planted from seedlings on the side yard. I realize they are forest giants, but I never meant for that to happen in my yard; these are not even the two largest pine trees.
Back to the lawn. Pine needles kill everything and make a big mess on the lawn. The Ponderosa's have 7-10 inch needles, and the other two pines have 2-3 inch needles. Neither needle is easy to rake away, particularly if you wait for them to gather all fall. Because the front lawn has suffered under that pine tree, I have removed the dead grass, forming a flower garden of mostly Columbines, Hollyhocks, some Lupine and transplanted Hostas. Those last need to be moved to the side lawn where they can again enjoy the mossy shade. The side yard shade results from the house and the second large pine tree, a feeding station for squirrels and a constant reminder not to plant things too close to the house. I am planning to find some type of perennial plants to grow, spreading their leaves and hopefully some flowers under that second pine tree. Eventually, there may not be much lawn back there, reducing mowing and watering time.
The maple tree in the back yard does it's job, making a southwestern facing deck off the dining room tolerable even in very hot weather. The past few years have been apparently been enriching for this tree, as it has formed and dropped an enormous amount of seeds, clusters that are larger than it's leaves. The seeds gather in pockets they seem to form in the lawn, creating uneven lawn and bare dirt. Every year I cut and re-cut the maple seedlings that I have lazily allowed to grow around the house. Along with the leaves, the seeds tumble into my rain gutters, forming a rich mulch in just one year! For the first 10-15 years in this house, there was never a need to clean out the gutters; now they require hosing and trowel work twice a year.
The maple tree, naturally, drops it's leaves in the fall. Fortunately or unfortunately as is your preference, they don't all fall on the same day. They linger, floating down as green castaways in the wind during the summer and as golden ground cover during the fall. The leaves, the sun piercing through their multiple bright yellow forms always surprises me with their beauty in the fall. I have taken to raking several times rather than once in an attempt to make the task seem easier when divided into smaller parts. Yet the sum total of each autumn's leaf clean-up grows larger every October. One year, when I was in graduate school, I left the leaves alone, causing the death of any grass beneath my maple tree. When raked, the ground was mostly bare - an invitation for Boise's two weeds of choice, the dandelion and what is known as ground ivy. Eventually, with some hand pulling and more shoveling and trowel work, the weeds were banished to other parts of the yard where my mowing fails to reach them.
The weeds stubbornly grow next to my fence. The Boise Park Service has eradicated some of them along the park line (I have a city park behind me) and I mow the ones along the sidewalk leading to the park. Come August, the Boise Park Service sprays the weeds along the sidewalk too. I have plans for that portion of property along my side fence, but the need for a new fence keeps me from planting something I would kill during a fence build. I recently removed all the junk from the other side yard, the western facing yard that has all the volunteer maples advancing. Here, I planted some donated roses, captured by black plastic and bark for ground cover. Naturally, my lawn, although laced with unexplainable holes here and there, grows best in my flower beds and the junky western side yard.
My lawn has seen the advance of bugs and worms, the march of crabgrass and the invasion of dandelions. I have killed the bugs with a spreadable application over two years, pulled the dandelions every spring and throughout the summer and have yet to tackle the crabgrass. This is not my fault. The crabgrass is coming from my neighbor's yard; we have lawn in common. They have sprinklers; I have hoses and various watering devices. I water once each week after I mow. I move the hose around and set the timer for about 45 minutes. During the summer heat waves during July and August, I will take pity on my front lawn and water more often. My neighbor has his lawn mowed by a team of workers every Tuesday, and like a girls dorm, we all mow on the same day. The Boise Park Service also mows on Tuesday in the park behind me. I used to mow on Fridays or weekends, but as our lawns share space, I feel compelled to have my lawn looking as good as or as short as the neighbor's grass.
This year, I aerated my lawn. It has to be done every once in a while. I fought the machine all over the lawn, re-starting it when it died as I turned left or right. The rental store people only asked if I had tipped the machine when I complained. (How else could I have turned it? Am I supposed to only drive it in a straight line?) My lawn has many obstacles for so small a patch. The back has the maple tree, the weeping cherry, the swing set I played on when I was growing up and the aspens and rhubarb patch. The front is pretty straightforward; I can mow around the edges and then fill in the space easily. The side yard has the two said Ponderosa pines, but the lawn no longer grows near the other pine or close to the house inside the fence on the side yard. Mowing the weeds produces spitting leaves and dirt. Very nice.
Why do I love mowing the yard? Because there is visible proof of my efforts. There is greenery, sunshine, sometimes rain showers and being outdoors. It's the only way I have to show off to my neighborhood, and it contributes to my well-being, especially when I can sit in the shade on my deck, sipping a beverage and surveying all the freshly mowed grass.
After we moved to Salt Lake City, I started mowing the lawn. It was a large grass lawn, and I don't recall much weeding. I was assigned most of the lawn mowing after I was in my junior year of high school. This was eased by the presence of an electric mower. I also trimmed the pyracantha bushes with a power clipper with sliding blades. Only my mom was allowed to trim the roses. The lawn in front of the house occasionally played court to our volleyball games in the summer. Once, someone who was angry at my dad ran his car across the lawn, leaving two long gouged tire trails that lasted for a year and longer. Sometimes, my parents hired out the mowing to a member of the church youth group. I volunteered to bring these boys iced tea; after all, it was hot in the summer and they surely required refreshment.
The next time I worked on a lawn was after moving to Seattle. There I learned that lawns can be persnickety and temperamental. This lawn required fertilizer, almost no water, and the removal of quantities of moss. Fortunately, there was not much of the lawn and we had a power mower. My neighbor next door used a push mower, but he and his family were sort of hippies. I have never succumbed to the romance of having a push mower; but I did learn how to sharpen the blade of mine. Seattle has lots of greenery, but the wide expanses of lawn are often wet and not as friendly to picnicking as you might think. The high point of our Seattle lawn was returning after a Sunday brunch to find 100's of plastic forks stuck in our grass. Eventually, this trick was recycled in Boise on the perpetrator.
What I know now - I really enjoy mowing my lawn. It's small and takes only about 30 minutes total mowing time. Removing the leaves and pine cones requires more of my effort and time. This lawn lives in Boise, and has been mine since I moved into this place when it was new. Over time, a small ditch has formed in the front yard, delineating the water line from my house to the outside shut off valve. The side yard facing mostly north has become mossy and the lawn has started to die off under the two enormous pine trees and the maple in the back yard. Clearly, I am not good at picturing the future of large plants. I have two Ponderosa Pines planted from seedlings on the side yard. I realize they are forest giants, but I never meant for that to happen in my yard; these are not even the two largest pine trees.
Back to the lawn. Pine needles kill everything and make a big mess on the lawn. The Ponderosa's have 7-10 inch needles, and the other two pines have 2-3 inch needles. Neither needle is easy to rake away, particularly if you wait for them to gather all fall. Because the front lawn has suffered under that pine tree, I have removed the dead grass, forming a flower garden of mostly Columbines, Hollyhocks, some Lupine and transplanted Hostas. Those last need to be moved to the side lawn where they can again enjoy the mossy shade. The side yard shade results from the house and the second large pine tree, a feeding station for squirrels and a constant reminder not to plant things too close to the house. I am planning to find some type of perennial plants to grow, spreading their leaves and hopefully some flowers under that second pine tree. Eventually, there may not be much lawn back there, reducing mowing and watering time.
The maple tree in the back yard does it's job, making a southwestern facing deck off the dining room tolerable even in very hot weather. The past few years have been apparently been enriching for this tree, as it has formed and dropped an enormous amount of seeds, clusters that are larger than it's leaves. The seeds gather in pockets they seem to form in the lawn, creating uneven lawn and bare dirt. Every year I cut and re-cut the maple seedlings that I have lazily allowed to grow around the house. Along with the leaves, the seeds tumble into my rain gutters, forming a rich mulch in just one year! For the first 10-15 years in this house, there was never a need to clean out the gutters; now they require hosing and trowel work twice a year.
The maple tree, naturally, drops it's leaves in the fall. Fortunately or unfortunately as is your preference, they don't all fall on the same day. They linger, floating down as green castaways in the wind during the summer and as golden ground cover during the fall. The leaves, the sun piercing through their multiple bright yellow forms always surprises me with their beauty in the fall. I have taken to raking several times rather than once in an attempt to make the task seem easier when divided into smaller parts. Yet the sum total of each autumn's leaf clean-up grows larger every October. One year, when I was in graduate school, I left the leaves alone, causing the death of any grass beneath my maple tree. When raked, the ground was mostly bare - an invitation for Boise's two weeds of choice, the dandelion and what is known as ground ivy. Eventually, with some hand pulling and more shoveling and trowel work, the weeds were banished to other parts of the yard where my mowing fails to reach them.
The weeds stubbornly grow next to my fence. The Boise Park Service has eradicated some of them along the park line (I have a city park behind me) and I mow the ones along the sidewalk leading to the park. Come August, the Boise Park Service sprays the weeds along the sidewalk too. I have plans for that portion of property along my side fence, but the need for a new fence keeps me from planting something I would kill during a fence build. I recently removed all the junk from the other side yard, the western facing yard that has all the volunteer maples advancing. Here, I planted some donated roses, captured by black plastic and bark for ground cover. Naturally, my lawn, although laced with unexplainable holes here and there, grows best in my flower beds and the junky western side yard.
My lawn has seen the advance of bugs and worms, the march of crabgrass and the invasion of dandelions. I have killed the bugs with a spreadable application over two years, pulled the dandelions every spring and throughout the summer and have yet to tackle the crabgrass. This is not my fault. The crabgrass is coming from my neighbor's yard; we have lawn in common. They have sprinklers; I have hoses and various watering devices. I water once each week after I mow. I move the hose around and set the timer for about 45 minutes. During the summer heat waves during July and August, I will take pity on my front lawn and water more often. My neighbor has his lawn mowed by a team of workers every Tuesday, and like a girls dorm, we all mow on the same day. The Boise Park Service also mows on Tuesday in the park behind me. I used to mow on Fridays or weekends, but as our lawns share space, I feel compelled to have my lawn looking as good as or as short as the neighbor's grass.
This year, I aerated my lawn. It has to be done every once in a while. I fought the machine all over the lawn, re-starting it when it died as I turned left or right. The rental store people only asked if I had tipped the machine when I complained. (How else could I have turned it? Am I supposed to only drive it in a straight line?) My lawn has many obstacles for so small a patch. The back has the maple tree, the weeping cherry, the swing set I played on when I was growing up and the aspens and rhubarb patch. The front is pretty straightforward; I can mow around the edges and then fill in the space easily. The side yard has the two said Ponderosa pines, but the lawn no longer grows near the other pine or close to the house inside the fence on the side yard. Mowing the weeds produces spitting leaves and dirt. Very nice.
Why do I love mowing the yard? Because there is visible proof of my efforts. There is greenery, sunshine, sometimes rain showers and being outdoors. It's the only way I have to show off to my neighborhood, and it contributes to my well-being, especially when I can sit in the shade on my deck, sipping a beverage and surveying all the freshly mowed grass.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Eighteenth Blog - What I learned about the death of people I love
What I thought I knew - I don't remember anyone I love dying when I was very young. My great-grandmother on my mother's side must have died at some time, but I just remember her completely white hair in a ponytail on her small head. When I moved to Salt Lake City from the San Fernando Valley, my grandmother on my father's side died. It was 1971 and she was diabetic and had some strokes. It still feels maddening that she is gone; she taught me so much, paid close attention to me and I always thought of her as the most sophisticated and worldly of my relatives. Her name was Martha, and I am not sure I knew of her chronic afflictions, nor would I have been able to describe what diabetes meant in 1971. I do know that she made sure I had new dresses for Easter; she gave me my first bikini (how modern!) and she gave me a piece of family jewelry, a gold cross on a necklace which I wore for years, even in the shower. We called her grandmother, never grandma (the name that I identified with my mother's mom).
My neighborhood friend, Ruth, lost a close friend while we were attending Patrick Henry Junior High School. I did not know her friend and was lost as to what feeling would be appropriate for me. Ruth herself died in 2009 of ovarian cancer, and I regret now that I did not try to email or call or re-kindle the ashes of friendship. The last time I saw Ruth, she was on a layover in Salt Lake City, spending the night with my family when we were 16 and in high school. She seemed confident and in focus, beautiful and having fun. I learned a few years ago that she studied at Julliard, but became famous not for classical music but for her connection to Memphis and various styles of country music. She found an answer to "what should I do with my musical degree?"
In the early 1980's, my grandfather (father's side) died. He had lived for a while near us in Utah, occasionally serving as the substitute pastor at my father's church. He is responsible for giving me my first glass of wine and introducing me to Perry Mason and radio baseball announcers in Southern California, ("all right, OK...). I have his dog tag on a chain, which I used to wear with the gold cross his wife, my grandmother gave me.
In the early years of my marriage, I had an asthma attack that took me to the Kaiser in Redwood City, California. While waiting for my oxygen levels to increase and my breathing to ease, I listened to several nurses and paramedics discuss the arrival of a dead man who had been shot by his girlfriend. Apparently after shooting him, she called for an ambulance. There was a long argument about where he should have been taken, to Kaiser or to Stanford - which was closer, and whether or not the paramedics should just have declared him dead at the scene. Without the knowledge of this man and his life, his death and its exterior discussion seemed like a scene from a sit-com. With all my training in domestic violence treatment for men who batter (yes, it's usually men), I wonder now what extreme mental stress enabled the girlfriend to shoot her man? I wonder if she was arrested?
What I know now - Starting in 1992, I lost my mother-in-law, then my father-in-law. I got divorced, and then my mother became sick and died in 1998, my father in 2000. It's too much, and subject to another blog. They all should have been here for Krista's wedding. I'm still angry - still tensely sad and annoyed. It just does not seem fair that my children don't have both my parents or my ex-husband's parents to spoil them and educate them about the world from an older perspective. Two years ago, my boyfriend lost his father after a lingering illness that must have been very difficult for his father. We cooked for him once a week, John working out a recipe for whatever meat his dad had purchased because as John said, "I get to eat dinner with my dad." I wish my parents were here to eat dinner with me one more time; I wish we could talk about what I know now.
My grandma (mother's side) died a few years ago, about a month after we (myself, sister, brother and sister-in-law) visited her for the last time. She was 97 and lived in Fremont, Nebraska. She outlived two of her daughters and her husband. We took a hymnal to the nursing home where she lived and sang songs with her. She looked the same as I had always remembered her, except that she was in a wheel chair, not mowing the lawn. Grandma was tough, but showed her acceptance of age and life's changes: "What are ya gonna do?" she let slip during our conversations. During one visit, Grandma looked up at my brother and asked, "Bill, you're retired now aren't you?" - a pleasant surprise to Kristoph, who will probably never retire from making and recording music.
In February 1998, a few weeks before my mother died, my Uncle Lyle died. He was married to my "old" Aunt Sue and because of my mother's illness, my sister and I did not attend Uncle Lyle's funeral. We should probably visit her and have a memorial to celebrate his silliness and love for Sue. He was a smart man who apparently could not resist Sue; his leaving her at the same time as my parents left took her best friends. What's to become of us when our best friends die? The older I become, the more important are the relationships I have with family and friends. This means that when people I know die, I will be even more devastated than when I was younger. Rats! You can't have joy without also knowing despair. Enjoy your friends and relatives. Tell and show them you love them. Be fierce about it; be persistent about letting them know you care so that you don't have any regrets when someone is gone. That's what I know now.
My neighborhood friend, Ruth, lost a close friend while we were attending Patrick Henry Junior High School. I did not know her friend and was lost as to what feeling would be appropriate for me. Ruth herself died in 2009 of ovarian cancer, and I regret now that I did not try to email or call or re-kindle the ashes of friendship. The last time I saw Ruth, she was on a layover in Salt Lake City, spending the night with my family when we were 16 and in high school. She seemed confident and in focus, beautiful and having fun. I learned a few years ago that she studied at Julliard, but became famous not for classical music but for her connection to Memphis and various styles of country music. She found an answer to "what should I do with my musical degree?"
In the early 1980's, my grandfather (father's side) died. He had lived for a while near us in Utah, occasionally serving as the substitute pastor at my father's church. He is responsible for giving me my first glass of wine and introducing me to Perry Mason and radio baseball announcers in Southern California, ("all right, OK...). I have his dog tag on a chain, which I used to wear with the gold cross his wife, my grandmother gave me.
In the early years of my marriage, I had an asthma attack that took me to the Kaiser in Redwood City, California. While waiting for my oxygen levels to increase and my breathing to ease, I listened to several nurses and paramedics discuss the arrival of a dead man who had been shot by his girlfriend. Apparently after shooting him, she called for an ambulance. There was a long argument about where he should have been taken, to Kaiser or to Stanford - which was closer, and whether or not the paramedics should just have declared him dead at the scene. Without the knowledge of this man and his life, his death and its exterior discussion seemed like a scene from a sit-com. With all my training in domestic violence treatment for men who batter (yes, it's usually men), I wonder now what extreme mental stress enabled the girlfriend to shoot her man? I wonder if she was arrested?
What I know now - Starting in 1992, I lost my mother-in-law, then my father-in-law. I got divorced, and then my mother became sick and died in 1998, my father in 2000. It's too much, and subject to another blog. They all should have been here for Krista's wedding. I'm still angry - still tensely sad and annoyed. It just does not seem fair that my children don't have both my parents or my ex-husband's parents to spoil them and educate them about the world from an older perspective. Two years ago, my boyfriend lost his father after a lingering illness that must have been very difficult for his father. We cooked for him once a week, John working out a recipe for whatever meat his dad had purchased because as John said, "I get to eat dinner with my dad." I wish my parents were here to eat dinner with me one more time; I wish we could talk about what I know now.
My grandma (mother's side) died a few years ago, about a month after we (myself, sister, brother and sister-in-law) visited her for the last time. She was 97 and lived in Fremont, Nebraska. She outlived two of her daughters and her husband. We took a hymnal to the nursing home where she lived and sang songs with her. She looked the same as I had always remembered her, except that she was in a wheel chair, not mowing the lawn. Grandma was tough, but showed her acceptance of age and life's changes: "What are ya gonna do?" she let slip during our conversations. During one visit, Grandma looked up at my brother and asked, "Bill, you're retired now aren't you?" - a pleasant surprise to Kristoph, who will probably never retire from making and recording music.
In February 1998, a few weeks before my mother died, my Uncle Lyle died. He was married to my "old" Aunt Sue and because of my mother's illness, my sister and I did not attend Uncle Lyle's funeral. We should probably visit her and have a memorial to celebrate his silliness and love for Sue. He was a smart man who apparently could not resist Sue; his leaving her at the same time as my parents left took her best friends. What's to become of us when our best friends die? The older I become, the more important are the relationships I have with family and friends. This means that when people I know die, I will be even more devastated than when I was younger. Rats! You can't have joy without also knowing despair. Enjoy your friends and relatives. Tell and show them you love them. Be fierce about it; be persistent about letting them know you care so that you don't have any regrets when someone is gone. That's what I know now.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Seventeenth Blog - What I thought I knew about Fairy Tales
What I thought I knew - Maybe you've all heard the Fairy Tales. A young girl somehow loses her way, is eaten by the big bad wolf and is rescued by a strong man. A young girl pricks her finger and falls into a deep sleep and is rescued by a prince, who upon kissing her beautiful lips, frees her from the spell and they marry to live happily every after. It seems like these young women needed to be strong enough to rescue themselves, but were too naive or helpless. Oh, and they were beautiful. A girl's destinations were planned; her future ensured by marriage to the right man and choosing to make herself as domestically perfect as possible. Oh, and she was supposed to be beautiful. Whose Fairy Tale is that? Even Hef can't sustain this myth.
Today's Fairy Tale includes a two income household and the ideal of putting off having children for a while. Biology suggest that we have kids at young ages anyway, without planning and without marriage. We divorce, separate ourselves from the biological other parent and even a college education does not ensure the formerly inevitable supportive career.
What I know now - I would like to propose my own Fairy Tale. Each of us has lived, tried out, rejected, made up and struggled with our own Fairy Tales. Thanks to modern technology, anyone can rewrite, update, reject or completely ignore their own word processed version. Sometimes we need help from our friends, our counselors, our lovers and from events over which we think we have no control.
Today's Fairy Tale includes a two income household and the ideal of putting off having children for a while. Biology suggest that we have kids at young ages anyway, without planning and without marriage. We divorce, separate ourselves from the biological other parent and even a college education does not ensure the formerly inevitable supportive career.
What I know now - I would like to propose my own Fairy Tale. Each of us has lived, tried out, rejected, made up and struggled with our own Fairy Tales. Thanks to modern technology, anyone can rewrite, update, reject or completely ignore their own word processed version. Sometimes we need help from our friends, our counselors, our lovers and from events over which we think we have no control.
Chris's Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, there was a young woman of 34. She did not yet know what to do with her life, and listening to the music that emerged from radio stations suggesting destinations and all the emotions of wrecked or completed love did not help her. She searched her internal library, old tests and questioned the minds of counselors and friends. Settling on one thing for the rest of her life seemed impossible and she could not do it. She knew that choices narrowed her life's course and she resisted following only one path.
She finally settled on creativity, a life that allows and encourages the inevitable changes that insist on forcing us all to adapt to an ambiguous unplanned passage of time. She had spent her life choosing to behave appropriately, closely monitoring herself; ensuring she did what she believed was right and trying not to hurt anyone's feelings or interrupt their lives. Finally, at 52, she realized that just because you play nice does not mean as she believed, that you will get the life you expect, organized your life towards and intended.
At 53 she began to see that through taking care not to intentionally hurt or interfere with humanity she was a drag on the only event that matters or will become despite your planned destination. Ironically, her gradual philosophical twist was a radio hit, and one that she loved. She notices that change is the only constant; that she is not the only one to notice. In her rush to the intended life, she is able to correctly wriggle away from a path that requires no creativity and discovers her best strength so far.
Suddenly, the night is full of stars and she has always had the means to get to any of them, changing direction by just turning towards a new light.
And she lived happily, unless she was sad, ever after. The end.
Partial bibliography:
“Leads you here, despite your destination...under the milky way tonight” from the album Starfish, a song called “Under the Milky Way” by The Church.
Thanks also to Arthur C. Clark from 2001: A Space Odyssey; “...it goes on forever – and – oh my God! - it's full of stars!”
Thanks to the Big Dipper, that collection of stars in the sky that tells me from my driveway the seasons of the year.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sixteenth Blog: What I thought I knew about reading
What I thought I knew: When I was a child, my mother read to me every night. She read to me, I think through early junior high. We went to the library every two weeks and got to check out our own books. I have some of the books my mom read to me, and most of them are books of poetry. Robert Louis Stevenson is a favorite of mine: "How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so high?" or "In winter I get up at night and go to bed by candlelight; in summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day." My mother read AA Milne's "Winnie the Pooh" and CS Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" and Dicken's "David Copperfield" and all three of "The Lord of the Ring." She also read me my first mystery, "The Moonstone." We read Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" prior to seeing the play when we still lived in the San Fernando Valley and were going to the Old Globe Theatre in San Diego.
I loved to read. I read constantly. I read novels aimed at teenagers including all of the Narnia books several times over. I read Jessamyn West's "Cress Delehanty," all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder novels that started with "Little House in the Big Woods" and "On the Banks of Plum Creek." As an adult, I hated the TV version of her books: "Little House on the Prairie." I read my father's Playboy magazines and "Fannie Hill." He hid those unsuccessfully under the couch. I've read all of the Agatha Christie mysteries over and over. I read all of the Mad Magazine books I could borrow and every "BC" and "The Wizard of Id" comic I could find. I have purchased many of those from used bookstores as an adult. I will stop here as there is a thunder storm.
Continuing later in the month, I remind myself that I love to read by checking my bag of library books. Whew! I still have a few more books. I also read many James Thurber stories and his weird sense of humor makes me feel less a freak. During my late high school years, I soaked up Ernest Hemingway, Saul Bellow and I despised F. Scott Fitzgerald. Symbolism be dammed. I like a story that is about what people do and think. I also read essays by Montaigne, which I find impossible to read now, but thoroughly enjoyed then. I hated Faulkner - a long days journey into ennui, but wrote a paper for my AP English class about "The Simple Hemingway Style." Damn, I'm good.
Sometime in high school, I started reading the Nero Wolfe books by Rex Stout. My husband joined me in my enjoyment of Nero Wolfe, and we gathered any used books we could find at the Seattle Goodwill. I still have most of the Nero Wolfe collection by the Viking Press and some paperbacks. I read the Anne McCaffrey "dragons of Pern" series but quit when she acquired a co-author. Then my father introduced me to Tony Hillerman - mysteries at Four Corners taking place mostly on the Navajo reservation. I'll have a devil of a time without his books now that he has died. During the 1980s, I enjoyed the humor of "The Far Side", "Herman", "Doonesbury" and "Calvin & Hobbes" and I have collected many of those comics. I read some of the Dune books, all of the Ray Bradbury science fiction and I loved the Foundation Trilogy by Issac Asimov.
After my divorce, I found Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series that start with "One For the Money," and so on to her recent 17th book. Stephanie Plum has a dangerous job as a bounty hunter that she is ill prepared for and the romance of a homicide detective. Plus, she likes to shop for shoes at Macy's. Speaking of shopping, I really enjoyed the "shopaholic" stories by Sophie Kinsella, and I can finish one in a night (but they are like candy: you can overdo it and feel sick to your stomach). In graduate school, I of course read all the assigned reading. What a nerd! I got very good a reading journal articles and skimming right by the insistent and repeated lists of authors who were quoted. If the article was about research, I would read the beginning statement about what the author(s) expected to accomplish and then skip to the "results" section.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed the Nevada Barr mysteries, featuring Anna Pigeon as she works for the Forest Service in different National Parks. I think she should set one of her books in the black vastness of Idaho's Craters of the Moon, but it might be too small to hire Anna Pigeon. I read Robert Parker mysteries: you may have seen the Jesse Stone series on television starring Tom Selleck. I have whipped through the Temperance Brennan books by Kathy Reichs and other series by other mystery authors. I have read crap and waded through it because I was bored and read great stuff that kept me reading till I was done with the book. I have read things that after two pages were obscure or in a setting that is not modern (I like modern) and dumped them back in my library bag; I have a great shopping bag from Trader Joe's.
What I have learned: My tolerance for heavy reading has diminished. I need relief, not something to think about. When necessary, I peruse through work related texts and workbooks for counseling tools. The only magazines I've read in the last ten years are about motocross or Oprah's magazine. I don't take the newspaper and I turned off my cable TV. So, I read every night before I go to sleep as I have my whole lifetime. I have plans to read the Bible; you'd think a preacher's daughter would already have finished that book. I sometimes re-read books by Irvin Yalom, an existential therapist of some note who writes in an engaging and interesting manner about counseling. I re-read the "Lord of the Ring" books sometime after the movies started to appear and when I've read everything in the library bag, I re-read Rex Stout, or any other paperback from my collection. Shelf room being finite, I only keep a few authors around, along with books about painters or photographers. I've tossed most of my under-graduate text books.
My family also reads like me, so when visiting any one of them, I know there will be good reading material. I take books on trips and camping, and I include guides to the stars, birds, trees, flowers and wildlife. Am I not my father's daughter or what? Thanks for reading to me mom!
I loved to read. I read constantly. I read novels aimed at teenagers including all of the Narnia books several times over. I read Jessamyn West's "Cress Delehanty," all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder novels that started with "Little House in the Big Woods" and "On the Banks of Plum Creek." As an adult, I hated the TV version of her books: "Little House on the Prairie." I read my father's Playboy magazines and "Fannie Hill." He hid those unsuccessfully under the couch. I've read all of the Agatha Christie mysteries over and over. I read all of the Mad Magazine books I could borrow and every "BC" and "The Wizard of Id" comic I could find. I have purchased many of those from used bookstores as an adult. I will stop here as there is a thunder storm.
Continuing later in the month, I remind myself that I love to read by checking my bag of library books. Whew! I still have a few more books. I also read many James Thurber stories and his weird sense of humor makes me feel less a freak. During my late high school years, I soaked up Ernest Hemingway, Saul Bellow and I despised F. Scott Fitzgerald. Symbolism be dammed. I like a story that is about what people do and think. I also read essays by Montaigne, which I find impossible to read now, but thoroughly enjoyed then. I hated Faulkner - a long days journey into ennui, but wrote a paper for my AP English class about "The Simple Hemingway Style." Damn, I'm good.
Sometime in high school, I started reading the Nero Wolfe books by Rex Stout. My husband joined me in my enjoyment of Nero Wolfe, and we gathered any used books we could find at the Seattle Goodwill. I still have most of the Nero Wolfe collection by the Viking Press and some paperbacks. I read the Anne McCaffrey "dragons of Pern" series but quit when she acquired a co-author. Then my father introduced me to Tony Hillerman - mysteries at Four Corners taking place mostly on the Navajo reservation. I'll have a devil of a time without his books now that he has died. During the 1980s, I enjoyed the humor of "The Far Side", "Herman", "Doonesbury" and "Calvin & Hobbes" and I have collected many of those comics. I read some of the Dune books, all of the Ray Bradbury science fiction and I loved the Foundation Trilogy by Issac Asimov.
After my divorce, I found Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series that start with "One For the Money," and so on to her recent 17th book. Stephanie Plum has a dangerous job as a bounty hunter that she is ill prepared for and the romance of a homicide detective. Plus, she likes to shop for shoes at Macy's. Speaking of shopping, I really enjoyed the "shopaholic" stories by Sophie Kinsella, and I can finish one in a night (but they are like candy: you can overdo it and feel sick to your stomach). In graduate school, I of course read all the assigned reading. What a nerd! I got very good a reading journal articles and skimming right by the insistent and repeated lists of authors who were quoted. If the article was about research, I would read the beginning statement about what the author(s) expected to accomplish and then skip to the "results" section.
Meanwhile, I enjoyed the Nevada Barr mysteries, featuring Anna Pigeon as she works for the Forest Service in different National Parks. I think she should set one of her books in the black vastness of Idaho's Craters of the Moon, but it might be too small to hire Anna Pigeon. I read Robert Parker mysteries: you may have seen the Jesse Stone series on television starring Tom Selleck. I have whipped through the Temperance Brennan books by Kathy Reichs and other series by other mystery authors. I have read crap and waded through it because I was bored and read great stuff that kept me reading till I was done with the book. I have read things that after two pages were obscure or in a setting that is not modern (I like modern) and dumped them back in my library bag; I have a great shopping bag from Trader Joe's.
What I have learned: My tolerance for heavy reading has diminished. I need relief, not something to think about. When necessary, I peruse through work related texts and workbooks for counseling tools. The only magazines I've read in the last ten years are about motocross or Oprah's magazine. I don't take the newspaper and I turned off my cable TV. So, I read every night before I go to sleep as I have my whole lifetime. I have plans to read the Bible; you'd think a preacher's daughter would already have finished that book. I sometimes re-read books by Irvin Yalom, an existential therapist of some note who writes in an engaging and interesting manner about counseling. I re-read the "Lord of the Ring" books sometime after the movies started to appear and when I've read everything in the library bag, I re-read Rex Stout, or any other paperback from my collection. Shelf room being finite, I only keep a few authors around, along with books about painters or photographers. I've tossed most of my under-graduate text books.
My family also reads like me, so when visiting any one of them, I know there will be good reading material. I take books on trips and camping, and I include guides to the stars, birds, trees, flowers and wildlife. Am I not my father's daughter or what? Thanks for reading to me mom!
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