50 and Counting

 50 Years Today………and counting.  A love of a lifetime, a lifetime of love.   We never really thought or not about being married for 50 years.  We were happy for our Grandparents reaching 50 years together, we knew our Great Grandparents had been married that long, never really thought about ourselves not being the same.   Elusive, inclusive, a far off future floating in and out of our daily living, learning, loving.  Dreams of sons coming to fruition, love of, and pride in them immeasurable.  Celebrating theirs and their childrens milestones.  Grandchildren making once far off musings come to life,  giving joy beyond what our minds eyes ever imagined.   Our true and most rewarding life work giving a once unimaginable gift.  

Our Playlist Today

We remain most often The Outsiders and the outside does still gives us the best view as Time Marches On

We still believe He Ain’t Heavy and we have now passed the only years When I’m 64 made sense

We are still running Against the Wind  and we often think Ain’t it Funny, How Time Slips Away

Some days we float Into The Mystic, and most days we still feel Happy Together

So Thank You For Being Our Friend, and hanging around till When All Is Said and Done

We are Still Standing and can most often be found Forever in Blue Jeans 

We listen for The Sound of Sunshine, and look forward to Where Rainbows Never Die

Love like there’s no tomorrow, Log Hard, and Let the Good Times Roll ❤️

Bad Day Story

 If you are looking for a story that leaves you feeling as if life is all sweet wine and beautifully scented roses, this is NOT it.  This is also not a Readers Digest Condensed version, so I’ve put the punch line up front for those of you who skim and just want to know how a story ends. Our sweet, loving, loyal, and brave little dog Mocha was killed Friday morning by a rattlesnake, while right next to me. She most likely saved me from getting bit. It was frightening. It was messy.  It was confusing.  It was terrifying. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and my apologies to Judith Viorst but Alexanders' Day was nothing in comparison.      

I was working in the yard as I often do in the early morning hours here in the Northern Sacramento Valley.  Hummingbirds were humming and dipping into the dew laden daylilies edging the garden path.  Doves were gently cooing from their perches in the drooping olives trees across the yard.  My 11-pound Doxie mix Mocha was at my side as usual.  A few low-lying long leaf bushes were less than 2 feet behind me as I worked cleaning a nearby area.  Mocha was between me and the little bushes, resting in the still gentle sun of the new day, tired from our already completed sunrise walk.  I finished the clipping task in front of me and lifted a last rake full of trimmings to the trash can.  A fence lizard skittled across the patios end near us and Mocha rose.  She took a couple steps, and nosed into the little bushes behind me, then jumped back very slightly as is her common lizard inspecting behavior.  I bent down and attached her leash on as we were going to head to the front yard, my hands literally brushing in the little bushes at our feet.  “Let’s go sweetie”, said I.  On her first step, Mocha stumbled.   Oblivious, I encouraged her to come along.  She then attempted to follow me but only managed a couple wobbly steps.  A strong sense of alarm went off in my brain, bright lights flashing in my eyes, my ears were ringing, as the hairs on my arms stood and my throat began to tighten with fear. I instinctively grabbed my rake and stuck it into the bushes as I reached for Mocha.  A soft rattling sounded much like a gentle rustle of dried leaves caused me to gasp.  Within seconds a now full panic set into my body as I tried to focus on getting Mocha towards the house.  Once to the door I ran to get a blanket, grabbed my phone and called my son Nick.  Mocha was now lying down and vomiting.  A racing, yet somehow also slow motion feeling of blurriness enveloped me as simultaneously I cried into the phone and ran to the car, dog and blanket wrapped in my arms.

Mochas' usual vet is a 25-minute drive if one hits the traffic lights right.  A closer option was 5 minutes away if I punched it.  I absolutely exceeded the speed limit and broke several other traffic laws.  This vet had never seen Mocha, simply because we had felt more comfortable with Dr. Tom and chose to make the drive for the commonplace vet needs.  This day however, the obvious choice was the nearest.   I prayed that this office had the anti-venom in stock.  As I haphazardly parked, I realized it was not quite 8:00 a.m.  The door was locked.  In the small parking lot, a woman whose description I do not recall leaned against her car door looking at her phone and barely raised an eyebrow at me as I shook the locked door.   A man standing on the curb in front of another vehicle answered, “I don’t know” to my obviously frightened question, "What time do they open?”.  I am sure I was not calm in the least, but this guys' tone was so nasty that I immediately awarded him the forever title of “Mean Man”.  As I held Mocha in my arms, Mean Man and Lady Who Could Not Care Any Less both gave me a look of annoyance.  I saw a shadow on the glass door as it shook once, then opened slightly.  I grabbed the door, swung it open and yelled, “Please help”. Mean Man, who could also be a stand in for Captain Obvious, stepped toward me and stated sarcastically, “They are open now”.  The word "asshat" appeared in my cartoon talk bubble, though I did not verbalize it.  At least I don’t think I did. 

The following 5 minutes were filled with a fury of Mocha being taken from me by a concerned vet tech as she asked pertinent questions and gave me information. “Are you sure it was a rattlesnake?”, “How long has it been?”  Pointing to an open examination room someone directed me to “Sit in there and we’ll get her stabilized.”   I sat, I cried, I felt my son Nicks arm around my shoulder.  What I think was no more than 10 minutes and felt like 1000, another tech walked into the claustrophobic space and laid Mocha on the exam table, still wrapped in her coverings from home. I could hear her words, though I was having trouble processing. “I am so sorry.  It wouldn’t have mattered if you’d gotten her here in 5 minutes.  She was bit in the face, and it just went too fast.  The venom most likely moved quickly to her brain. I am so sorry.”   I remember saying I would take Mocha home and bury her.  The obviously saddened yet practiced vet tech asked if I would like her to “package Mocha up” and I remember thinking the question sounded so cold and uncaring. I answered that I would take her home just as she was. 

Sweet little Mocha.  A little dog with a big heart who had joined our family 7 1/2 years ago when she was just 12 weeks old as a rescue.  Mocha, who had brought us laughter and tears, countless joys and unconditional love, now lent a sorrow that felt frighteningly deep.  Mocha was gone.  I already felt the reality that daily life would be immensely different without her.  Her absence was already physically painful. Sorrow and tears cloaked the short drive home.  Mocha would be buried down by the giant bamboo she loved to play near.  We will be lost without her here.  

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Of Trains and Prayers

At Dunsmuir Railroad Resort a model train on a track traversing a cement model of the Castle Crags was not running, regardless of how many times our grandson (and others) pushed the appointed red button. Each time we were near, Maverick made the plea “Can I try and push the button just one more time?”  Each time we let him try, accompanied by words of caution that it probably wouldn’t work.  It did not work. Not a sound from the stout little engine, not a puff of smoke or poof of steam. Despite little boy eyes peering, and little boy hopes held high, the engine sat cold and liveless on the adventurous looking track winding its way through realistic rock mountains.  As we began to turn away, we watched through watering grandparent eyes as Maverick stood, almost at attention, eyes closed, hands posed in prayer. A moment passed, maybe 2 before he turned and happily skipped towards us, grabbing our grandparent hands, and announced, “I prayered”.   Our grandparent eyes watered a bit more.  We climbed on a retired Willamette Shay logging engine, dined in an old passenger car, spent the night in an aged caboose of days past, accumulating memories of moments present.  

Boys and Trains

Breakfast was had in the same dining car as dinner, and we were greeted as we entered by a cheery “Sit anywhere you’d like” from a now familiar hostess. Maverick decidedly chose the same table we’d sat at the evening prior, one with a view of the model train which remained sitting cold and unmoving in the morning frost.  As we enjoyed plates of fluffy hotcakes and warmed ourselves with hot cocoa, we watched other children push repeatedly on “the button” to no avail before eventually wandering to other areas of the railroad park.  When we’d had our fill of the trainman meals,  a smiling proudly five-year-old doorman with a trace of hot chocolate mustache held back the weathered, rusty train door as we exited the dining car.  

Nothing warms a soul like breakfast in a train dining car.

We descended the metal steps and were once again faced with the courtyard centerpiece model mountain and its’ motionless locomotive.  Our young doorman now reverted back to hopeful 5-year-old train enthusiast asked, “Can I push the button just one more time”?  “You can” we replied, followed by my meek attempt to weaken the disappointment I was certain would follow.  “Just remember that it is probably still broken but we will come back another time when it is working”.  

I am fairly certain Maverick did not hear my warning, as he rushed to the red button mounted on the nearby train shed wall.  Little boy fingers flattened against the wooden plank building as a little boy thumb stretched and pushed.  A little boy head holding hope filled eyes swiveled to look backward towards the model then back to the button as he, more desperately this time, pushed, and pushed, and pushed.  Then we heard it. A light but steady huffing sound as if a bellows were being pumped, faster and faster. “It’s going, it’s going buddy!”, a shocked Papa not so calmly and not at all quietly shouted, as Maverick turned and ran the few steps to the edge of the model.  Looking amazed, but with an understanding tone in his voice, Maverick quite calmly and matter-of-factly declared “I told you I prayered.” Attempting to describe the happiness of this little train loving dreamer is difficult. Pure joy. Pure, pure, joy.   

Castle Crag model at Dunsmuir Train Resort

Time was spent there, on this morning in Dunsmuir, California, following the little engine as it led its cars and the caboose that “looks just like the one we slept in” around and through, over and under, the features on its’ skillfully built track.  The red button was pushed again, and again, and yet again.  Finally satisfied, with fingertips freezing and cheeks aglow from the morning chill, we were two thankful grandparents and an absolutely content five-year-old, descendants of a long-ago logging train brakeman making our way back to the warmth of retired McCloud River 228 Caboose.  Quite certain were we, that a Great-Great-Grandfather and his train crew from 1933 watched with ancestral pride from a Roundhouse high above. 

1933-Hammond Lumber Company Logging Train Crew at
Crannell Roundhouse - Mavericks’ Great Great Grandfather at far right. 

Behind the Photographs- Camino Life

Life on The Camino de Santiago is amazing.  Amazingly peaceful, amazingly beautiful, amazingly thought provoking and inspirational.  Life on the Camino De Santiago is also amazingly real.  Real life.  Pack your determination, and your humor.  Leave your self judgement behind. Turned out to be the two most important things I took along, and the one I didn’t miss at all. 

Look  - Simple.  The Camino is simple.  Nothing to do but walk.  Unlike everyday walks at home, each Camino day brings new sights, landscapes, challenges.  Being lost in thought with a new view in sight is incredibly freeing.  Look outward, look inward. 

Humidity, sweat, and overall dampness- I’ll get straight to the point. You just might start the day out with wet underwear.  You just might end the day with wet underwear, and wet clothing. The humidity can be high on the Portugués Camino routes.  Clothing items washed out in hostel/hotel sinks don’t always dry overnight.  Or ever. Unless you’ve used an entire packing cube just for underpinnings, you’ll likely have a wet bra or panty band to start the day. Just saying. Speaking of the humidity, you’ll likely not notice the wet areas of your undergarments after an hour or two on the trail because everything will be wet from the humidity and the reaction of the human body to it. Everything. Wet.  Enough said. 

Bread. And bread.  And more bread.   Served with every meal, (in abundance) bread definitely helps fill the belly of hungry pilgrims. I think the description of “bread basket” for ones’ middle area may have begun on the Camino.  Bread gets bonus points for holding up well when carried in the backpack.  Unlike bananas.  How 7 pounds came off my body while walking the Portugués Coastal Camino I’ll never know given the amount of bread I consumed.  I miss the excuse of calories expended walking to eat more bread now that I’m home.  I still eat a lot of bread, I just miss that excuse.  

The Portugués Coastal Camino is a fairly flat route.  Not really. Compared to other routes? Possibly.  The terrain may not be nearing perpendicular but calling it “gently sloping” would be misleading.  Grossly misleading.  Long ascents were frequent.  Lots of uphill leading to lots of downhill sidestepping to protect 60-something year old knees. Lots of sweating.  Thus the need to rinse things in the sink at night.  And the excuse to eat bread.  And to chug Advil.  I think the only thing I consumed more of than bread, was Advil. 

Santiago Cake (aka More Bread) - A simple Spanish almond cake served with almost every cup of coffee (and in most cafes with any drink ordered) along the Camino.  Yummy.   I’ve already made it at home.  If you come to my house and have anything at all to drink, you’ll likely be offered a piece of Santiago Cake.  If you come to my house for any reason, you might be offered Santiago Cake.  On further thought, I may have consumed more Santiago Cake than Advil.  May have. 

C-19 - Don’t come down with CoVid on your Camino.  Or any illness.  You may need an additional rest day if you do.  If you do, eat more bread, eat more Santiago Cake, take more Advil.  CoVid may make your remaining walking days a bit difficult. You may not think straight with a Covid Fever.  A good sister can help with that. Be thankful if you are walking with your sister.  

Finish if you can - Honor your desire to walk the Camino. Walk with your eyes and your heart wide open. Walk. Climb. Eat the bread. Eat lots. Take the Advil.  Take lots. Think the thoughts.  Pray the prayers. Smile the smiles, shed the tears. Feel the feelings.  Honor your desire to finish.  Finish if you can. You’ll be ever thankful you did.  

Written for an old friend.  Me. 

It’s Decided Then—-Pre Camino

My Camino De Santiago Compostela actually began days, weeks, months, before the physical journeying.  I’d read of this phenomenon.  I’d heard first hand from others who had walked “The Way of St. James” that their own Camino had actually begun before setting foot in a plane, train, or automobile.  Most travels do begin before the actual physical journey with plans and preparations but this seemed to mean more of an emotional beginning.  Possibly of realizing of “why” one wants to walk the Camino, a desire to “find” something, a spiritual call for some.  

The Camino was historically a religious pilgrimage to the tomb of St. James and lo today many people (about 25%) still walk for a religious or spiritual reason.  https://hiketheway.com/blog/top-5-reasons-people-walk-the-camino-de-santiago

During the planning phase of this trip, still several weeks ahead but close enough that I was getting excited about post-covid travel,   I was talking to Father Aiden Rontoni in Redding, CA.  Father Aidan is a fairly young priest who livens up our overwhelmingly aging population at All Saints Church in Redding.  I appreciate his way of sharing different thoughts and ideas while remaining reverent to history and traditions.  I told Father Aidan of a couple challenges I was facing in preparing both mentally and physically for this journey. Father Aidan, with a huge smile and confident, calm tone said “Your Camino has already begun”.  I don’t remember the date, the time, and no, not what I’d had for lunch,  but I remember that moment as the one when I realized my Camino had indeed, begun.  

The  Camino De Santiago, also known as the Way of St James, is a network of ancient pilgrimage routes that leads to Santiago de Compostela. https://theculturetrip.com/europe/spain/articles/a-brief-history-of-the-camino-de-santiago/?amp=1

Walking the Camino De Santiago Compostela was on my radar though not on the “must do before I die” list.  I hadn’t thrown the Camino into the proverbial bucket mainly because I couldn’t imagine being away from my husband, kids, and grandkids for several weeks.  I don’t spend a lot of time on myself by choice.  I whine at times about it, joke about having my grandchildren so much, fuss about no “me time”, but it’s a choice I make.  I enjoy every second I spend with my grandchildren and my entire family.  Grandma Daycare is the best job for me.  Caring for and supporting others, that’s absolutely my game.  Well, baseball is too but that’s a story for another time.  I simply didn’t like the idea of missing my family and not being around to share their lives and support their highs and lows for several weeks.  Then……my wee bit older than me sister Sharon called.

Sharon and I are “Irish Twins”.  We miss the technical definition of “born within a year i of each other”  by 18 days but we claim the title regardless. With respect to our mother who delivered 5 children in slightly leas than 9 years we still often call ourselves Moms “Irish Twins”  Mom was Norwegian and Finnish. Our Irish comes from our Dad, but that’s a story for another time too.  

Sharon asked if I would “pretty please” walk the Portuguese Coastal Route of the Camino De Santiago Compostela with her.  Mmmmmmmm, I said.  “Please” Sharon said.  “Can I think about it for a week?” I said.  “Yes” Sharon replied. A week later, after much contemplation, prayer, and conversations with my family,   “Yes”  said I. 

https://www.caminodesantiago.gal/en/make-plans/the-ways/portuguese-coastal-way

   I love my siblings fiercely…..not an overstatement.  Siblings carry our history along with theirs and remain our link to the past when parents, aunts, uncles pass on.  Siblings are a touchstone to the inner child I believe none of us wants to leave behind.  My inner child began to get excited about supporting Sharons’ Camino walk.  My inner child and my adult self in all it’s jumbled disorder began to get excited about walking “her own Camino”  too. 

We planned.  We planned and we planned.  We replanned and rearranged plans.  Sharon did the bulk of the planning as that is her thing.  With my input on specific questions, ideas, must dos, must not dos,  and with Sharons’ magnificent travel experience, we planned a dream journey.  We talked about how even though we would be doing this together, we would also be walking our own Caminos.  We would have times when we would choose different paths, go different directions.   We would start in Porto, Portugal and end in Santiago de Compostela, Spain.  

We had a game plan, and on May 30th, 2022 it would be Game On! 

March (ing) to a Different Tune

We are all going to have to get through the next several weeks in ways that are uncomfortable.   Those who think the world is overreacting will have to deal with situations they find unnecessary.  Those who are fearful may or may not be comforted by various actions being taken around the globe and in our communities. It is not fear mongering to be prepared and to leave space for others to prepare.  It is not panicking to be concerned for our elders and protective of the emotional status of our children.  It is being a good human.

Please take care of yourself even if you don’t feel it necessary. Even if you are certain you are able to weather “COVID-19” without precautions, take steps for those among us who are not as sturdy. This is not a time for blowing caution to the wind and ignoring guidelines. Those who know me understand how difficult it is for me to “Do as I am told”.  I have no personal and little family history of conforming that is for certain.  That said, there are times in life when after weighing the facts we need to walk paths unfamiliar to us. The way I see it, this is one of those times.   A long list of what we “can’t do” hangs before us. Along with it and very doable is a growing list of what we “can do”.

We can be cautionary and prepared to weather this storm should it worsen while maintaining our sense of self (and our sense of humor). We can take care of ourselves while being aware of the needs of others and helping when possible.  We can be especially cognizant of elders and help when possible. We can be protective of our young people and respectful of their fears. Our children and their emotional status will be guiding the future. We can absolutely remain kind in our words and deeds.  Together in those same words and deeds, we will get through this.

42 Years and Counting

Anyone who has been married more than 10 minutes and tells you it’s all been wonderful, is most likely fibbing. At least a little.   Marriage is hard work from the get-go.  Marriage is work that is "worth it" and the rewards are great.  Arguably I suppose, some of the best rewards life has to offer come from the work of being married.   Marriage is comfort and companionship.  Different factors of the equation for each couple, the sum of which is Love.  Marriage is also frustration, sorrow, anger, and compromise.  Lots and lots of compromise.

I wouldn’t, we wouldn’t, trade a moment of our 42 years and counting. Maybe change a few of them a little, give a tweak here or there, but not change them.  February of 1976 I owned a pair of Levi 501’s, a pair of brown corduroy pants (also Levis I think), 4 tops, a journal, a transistor radio, and a pair of tennis shoes from Food Mart. Joe had a rented apartment, a green Chevy pick-up, and a Honda 550 Four (also green). Both the truck and bike had payments.  Wells Fargo technically owned them. We wanted to get married.  Joe worked in the woods during the logging season and at the Chevron Station during the winter.  Redwood National Park woes were heavy in Humboldt County.  He was a hard worker and that helped him have work when others didn’t.

Nina and Earl Walton were the owners of the Chevron Station at the time.  For those of you old McKinley-Villians, the station was on Central Avenue across the street from where the old Safeway was (now Eureka Natural Foods).  I think it is an empty lot today.  Nina and Earl were two of the most honest and kind people we have ever known.  They taught Joe and I a lot.  And they helped us get married. Nina and Earl gave Joe $300.00 and told him to go get married before he went back to work in the woods for the year.  They knew that once the season started, work hours would postpone any hopes for nuptials.  With their blessing, and a look of surprise on the faces of both our Mothers in the rearview mirrors, we quickly ran off to Reno.  It was February so we settled for the confines of the Chevy instead of the freedom of the Honda.  The $300.00 from Nina and Earl bought us the following:

• A dress for me 
• A shirt for Joe
• 2 gold bands from Weisfields at the old mall in Eureka (sized in Redding on the way to Reno
• Gas for the Chevy
• 2 nights at the Golden West Motor Lodge on North Virginia Street in Reno
• A 126 camera from a Pawn Shop on South Virginia Street in Reno
• A marriage license from Washoe County, Nevada
• A Start

The only photo we have of our “wedding” was taken by the JOP mid-nuptials with the 126 camera from the pawn shop.  With a look of amusement on his Wizard of Oz looking face, he kindly set down his book, picked up the camera, clicked a photo, picked his book back up and resumed his official duty.  Also in attendance were two courthouse clerks (neither one of which resembled an Oz character)  we had rounded up for witnesses.  We hadn't known we had to have witnesses until arriving at the courthouse.  I held my Moms bible and an embroidered hankey of my Grandma’s.  Joe held my hand.

Hand holding is directly connected to heartstrings.  That handholding has helped carry us through 42 years and counting.  Those 42 years have brought us among other things, the following:

• Immeasurable laughter
• Uncountable tears (both of joy and sorrow)
• 2 grown sons who bring us joy and pride every day and who have given us 2 bonus daughters and 6 grandchildren.
• Love we didn’t understand until our children were born, and again when given the gift of grandchildren
• Lost baby’s our arms still ache to hold and lost parents we wish we could speak to again
• Proof that loyalty to our siblings is always worth it - Part of our promise to each other before we were married was that neither of us would ever have to choose between each other and our brothers or sisters.  We never have.
• 35 years of Gyppo Logging and stories the likes of which number in the thousands
• Friends, many who started as employees, who we would do absolutely anything for; some we lost touch with, some have passed.  We have tried to learn from every one of them,  and while some may not remain in “our corner”, we will always remain in theirs.
• A life

The past 42 years and counting brought us a life.  We still have a truck payment, the Honda has long been gone.  We have a house payment and yardwork to do.  We stay in touch with and enjoy time with our brothers and sisters.  We don’t know if we should go out to a sit down dinner or just grab a beer and burger (most likely) before picking up groceries for the week.  We talk to or see our children and grandchildren every single day.  They put up with us.  We have years of experiences, learning, and memories.  Our "Still Want To Do" list is long and varied.   We have an unshakable knowledge that whatever the joy, whatever the trouble, we will go through it together tugging heartstrings, holding hands.   42 years and counting.

Because Sometimes Church Brings Me To Tears

 "Do you go to church?", and "Why?"

Yes, I go to church. Not every week, sometimes not for a couple weeks. I was baptized in the Episcopal Church and attended as a child. I do admit I have sometimes gone years without going to church.  The obvious reasons lead me to church.  I believe in God.  Sometimes I have problems that I just don't want to burden anyone with except God.  Sometimes I have problems that no one can solve except God.  Most days, I am so thankful for my life and the people in it that I want to thank everyone, especially God.  These days I attend All Saints Episcopal Church here in Redding on a "mostly regular" basis.  Regularly for me anyway.  Sometimes,  if I'm lucky, church makes me cry. 

Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve  2014, was one of those times. We had a new priest at All Saints. He might have had something to do with it. Father Paul has a voice that makes me want to listen. Father Paul has a voice that makes me happy to be in church, happy to believe. I am not always a good believer. He is from England, our Father Paul, with an accent appropriate to what you'd expect of a middle aged Priest from England. Sometimes those voices make people want to listen. Especially we here in America who I think draw a rather romantic notion when we hear those accents of the old country.  It is not just the accent that makes my Irish ears perk up.   It is the tone and emotion I hear in the words of a person speaking, preaching if you wish, about Faith. To be fair it's happened to me with other Priests and even without a priest around at all, this tearing up of mine at church. Not often, and rare as it is I find the tears joyful.

This midnight mass the pews were full.  Arriving a few minutes late as seems to be our habit, my husband and I sat in the last empty pew at the rear of the church. At least we were on the right side. I try to always sit on the right. It is closer to the door which makes it easier to sneak in given our habitual tardiness. I get all thrown off kilter if I sit on the other side. The incense and prayer at the columbarium, combined with Father Paul's story about Brother Froilan and the children in Northern Spain showing their parents the Christmas story through hand carved wooden nativity scenes, the candles we each held....it all wrapped warmly around 120 or so souls looking to feel the peace of God in their hearts. I did. My view from the farthest rear pew on the right of others in attendance told me I was not the only one to feel it.

The knowledge, the feeling of absolutely knowing that Christ is real, that the Holy Spirit is present and is being felt by others as deeply as I am feeling it is a bit surreal in itself. Most often I feel that way when I'm alone in my garden. Sometimes I feel it in the darkness of 3 a.m. on a sleepless night. Sometimes, I actually feel it at church.

The feeling is strong, a peaceful warmth tugging at my heart, and it makes me want to be at church more often. Tears can be joyful and these are joyful tears. Tears of thankfulness and pure peace. Tears that run through my heart as much as stream down my face. It is a feeling that when gone I am anxious for it to return. I want to feel that unexplainable, untouchable peace in my heart again. So, I go back. Yes, I go to church. Because sometimes, church brings me to tears.

Location:Redding, CA

A is for Apple Tree

A is for apple and the apple tree I've known all my life. Apple Tree lives in the orchard at my Mom's. The property was my Grandparents and Apple Tree was given its honored spot in the orchard close to 70 years ago. Care was given I am certain as she was placed in the rich dark earth by strong, yet gentle Norwegian hands. Nurtured and loved was she as new shoots reached high and her broad limbs strengthened. 

  As children we would sit in her limbs when Grandpa wasn't paying attention, and shimmy down in a hurry when he realized where we were. Our own offspring perform similar antics. For decades now Apple Tree has shared her treasured fruit and provided a peaceful resting spot beneath her canopy.

Apple Tree has watched children, grands, and great-grands ramble and wrestle in the tender, emerald blades surrounding her base. Silent watchman over generations at play.
 
As they have played and rested, so have the same generations cared for Apple Tree and her friends in the tiny orchard on the Northern California seaside prairie. New clan members and caregivers will learn of Apple Tree. They will learn of her strength, her loyalty, and her willingness to share abundant fruit and ample shade.

Some stay and some go out to find their own treasured plots and build new sacred places much like their forefathers found and built this homestead. They scatter much like Apple Tree's leaves in the late fall breeze. Fruits of labor they will remain, spreading branches and blooms of their own amongst the orchards of life. Earth keeps spinning and life goes on. And for now, A is for Apple Tree.



T. Bundy
Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Lost in the DP, Humboldt County

Spring Cleaning

February 23 marked 10 years since my Dad passed away.  In France, on vacation, unexpectedly, passed away.  Gone from this earth.  Left behind a legacy of family, friends, living for the day, falling down, dusting off, and Irish Humor.  Anyone who knew my Dad, however briefly, learned something from him.  I perhaps learned the falling down and dusting off the best.  I expect it of myself, and I accept it in others.  The hardest falls teach the most valuable lessons.  Falling comes in unexpected ways, over unexpected edges. Surely though, falling comes to all.  It is the dusting off that counts.  Even if we are dusty for a long while.  Even if we, or those next to us are so covered by yesterdays sandstorm we are hard to recognize, it is the dusting off that counts. 

It is important to dust ourselves, and just as important to dust others.  There are after all, spots we just don't think we can reach.  Don't be afraid to hand someone your duster and ask them to get that spot for you.  Help from others in your dusting might make your task a bit easier.  Of course, they might refuse.  If that is the case, kindly take your duster back for future use, back up against your obstacle, rub a little harder, and remove it yourself.  Equally, don't be afraid to help dust someone else if they ask.  If they hand you their own duster and it appears too rough or bristly, offer to use your own  feather duster. Gentle dusting is best when it comes to others. 

Dusting can be difficult.  Lots of places those dust bunnies can hide.  Be patient and attentive, and you'll find them though.  Go slowly and deliberately so as not to just scatter the dust.  Discard or cleanse thoroughly the used dusters for future use.

Dust is everywhere. Dust does not discriminate where it lands.  When someone falls or is stationary long enough, they will get dusty.   While falling and getting dusting can't be avoided, dusting off can be.  Don't avoid dusting.  I've found a little wine or Guinness can make the task easier.  Hey, I said a little.  Dust off people. Spring is coming.

Oh Shoe-T

Be warned, shoes can get you in trouble if you're not careful with them.  I know this because my shoes have gotten me into some odd situations.   Two of which are as memorable to those who witnessed these episodes  as they are  to me.  It's good I'm writing this because when I relate these two events aloud, the laughter usually interrupts the story before it's finished.  My laughter that is.  Those listening usually have facial expressions somewhere between disbelief and "She's really gone nuts this time".   If you don't know me, you might find it hard to believe.  If you do know me, you understand it is true.  Every last sole-ful word of it is true.

I have never, ever, ever, (thanks Taylor) owned a pair of high heels.  The tallest heels I've ever owned are the 2 inches on my old shit-kickers.  At 5'9" I don't have a desire to be taller.  As the proud owner of the nickname "Grace" growing up, I don't have a need for twisted ankles and scraped limbs from falling down steps.  I've had plenty of those while in my sneakers and flats.  I suppose my ragged relationship with shoes comes from just having to wear them at all.  I never used to take good care of my shoes.  I paid little attention to my shoes, and I suppose it was a matter of time before they and their friends revolted and gave me a footwear's version of a tongue lashing.

Event 1 in being schooled by my shoes began on a calm fall day showing no signs of what lie ahead.  I needed new work shoes.  I worked as an instructional aid and had "yard-duty" every day, which led me to comfy cozy shoes just high enough to keep my pant hems from dragging in the puddles and other nastiness found on middle school playgrounds.  I found what I was looking for in a pair of Munro shoes,  and was so fond of the fit that I purchased them in black, and in blue.  I liked them even more because Munro is an American company. My black and blue shoes made by a red, white, and blue company. 

I decided to take my new shoes on a test run (OK, walk) that evening.  My husband and I were picking up my little brother and his wife to go out to dinner.  We pulled in their driveway and I joyfully stepped out of the car as usual.  Sister-in-law Susie walked towards me and I raised my right foot, twirling it around, showing off my latest purchase.  All leather upper and strong last.  "I like them so much I got them in blue too" said I.  "I see that", said she.  Weird response thought I.  Giggle, giggle tee-hee, went she.  As I opened the car door to climb in, I took another look at my brand new shoes. My black and blue shoes.   My right black shoe, my left blue shoe.  You get the picture.  "Gyppo, we need to run back by the house" said I.   Enough said. 

Event 2 in being schooled by my shoes, and the lesson that finally made the point, came on a cold winter day in Weaverville, CA.  We were going to a dinner as our sons guests and had driven over from the coast a couple hours before. I had hurriedly tossed some things in a bag to change when we got to his house.  We had minutes to spare as I changed in his extra bedroom.  I put on a clean blouse and slipped my feet into my shoes.  Well, I slipped my right foot into a black right shoe.  My left foot had a little trouble.  There was no left shoe.  There was no left black shoe.  There was however, a right blue shoe.  My two right shoes. My black and blue shoes.

Six o'clock on a Saturday in Weaverville, CA there is no hope for purchasing shoes.  My daughter-in-law wears a size itty-bitty or something that doesn't stand a chance of housing my size 10's .   The muddy hikers I wore over weren't going to work either.  "Wag 'em and shag 'em", I hear from a trio of loggers ready to leave.  Heading out the door into 30 degrees and light snow, the Gyppo wisely says "Put on your damn shoes".  A lament he's all too familiar with living with me. "I will when we get there" I growled.   I attempted a brief explanation of my dilemma to no avail.  I don't remember if the noise in the truck for the next 10 minutes was supportive, or ridiculing.  Probably ridiculing.  I do know that as we made our way into the community hall ( full of about 200 people), I quickly made my way to our assigned table.  Two right shoes make it a little difficult to walk so I kind of waddled to our table.  By the time everyone had a round or two, my two right shoes were old news.  Except to my two big toes which were still recovering from major cramping. 

Such were my lessons in taking care of my shoes.  I realize shoe care may not be priority to many people.  I do suggest however, that you give your shoes the respect they need.  Wipe them down with a cool cloth after a hard days work or a night out dancing.  Give them a little spray of freshener on their over-tugged on tongues once in a while.  And please, wash the dogs business off the poor soles, don't just do the grass wipe and run.  That's a shoe's pet peeve.  Neglected shoes, overworked and overrun, can rebel fiercely and form a mini confederate army of sorts.  Rebel shoes come from all walks of life, and their leather uppers are brazen enough to sabotage any owner.  And rebel shoes have friends. They have friends with all the newest shoe technology and reinforced lasts just waiting to give a little pay-back for the mistreatment of generations.  So take heed, and take heel.  Be true to your shoes.

Old Cozy

All summer long it waits patiently, stuck behind shorter pants and summer dresses. My Old Cozy Sweater waits. Year after year it's just as soft and warm as it was the year before. My Old Cozy Sweater so soft. Through cool fall mornings and cold winter evenings it never complains about being tugged at and shivered in. Not a word does it whisper when left on the couch back or rocking chair for an afternoon. Old Cozy offers its' pockets for chapstick, found coins, kleenex, and runaway socks. Age and wear don't stop Old Cozy from early morning grocery store visits or midnight 7-11 runs. Over the years it has shouldered much laughter, as well as tears of joy and sorrow as it warms these shoulders of mine. It is somewhat mystic my Old Cozy Sweater. And its purple. 

Five Pound Box

It is December and the lovely boxes have begun to arrive. Most are delivered via United Parcel Service or the Postal Service. A few get hand to hand service by a Federal Express Courier, or even by the gift-giver themselves. Cool beans or I should say cool nuts. Nuts and chews, soft centers, caramel filled, nut covered, fruit centers, they all arrive in their best attire. Pretty boxes to decorate my office desk and filing cabinet, kitchen counter and coffee table. Some have real bows; some have a printed red ribbon on the white glossy paper covering their home of partitioned spaces and delicate tissue papers. Every year kind-hearted business acquaintances, some who are treasured friends in spite of these December deliveries, send these gifts of struggle.

Most of the time this struggle comes in one or two pound segments. Once in a while, like last Thursday, the struggle presents itself as a whopping five pound family in the same cardboard condo.  One, two and especially five pounds can be dangerous to a girl, especially a middle-aged working girl who has sworn herself  to be “the fun Grandma”.  Fun Grandmas need their energy, and too much chocolate can give them a headache.  Five pounds can turn Fun Grandmas into cranky Grannies faster than you can chew and swallow that marshmallow chewy thing covered in dark chocolate, or his cousin swathed in ground walnuts. It’s obscene what candy companies do to an otherwise perfectly lovely naked marshmallow.  Five pounds can be especially frightening when Fun Grandmas mix wine with anything chocolate.  Just ask my sister.  Oh wait, on second thought don’t ask my sister.  She was sworn to secrecy years ago, not long after she was sworn in as an attorney. At least I have legal defense should I drown a box of chocolates in the lake next week.

Why don’t Sees, Godiva, and Russell Stover come in Christmas boxes of two or even one?  Maybe they do and I just have generous business associates and friends.  It could mean hey sister sledge, five pounds means nothing to us.  Maybe when I walk away from a lunch meeting with an insurance agent they really aren’t looking at my oversized backside?   Or maybe they’ve been listening to  Christmas music on XM and they love all of mankind, and pudgy Fun Grandmas.  They may send extra because they think I will share with yarder crews and equipment operators when they come by for paperwork or paychecks.  Fat chance.

The month of December never fails to present me with this issue of boxed chocolates.  Different year, same problem. Hell, different decade, same problem. Five pounds of guilt wrapped in a pretty white box though is a bit excessive.   I will say, if it’s got the right center, guilt never tasted so good.  A cup of Baileys laced coffee and it’s all good, for an hour or so.  I am pretty sure I can have the issue narrowed down to four and a half pounds by this evening, maybe even four pounds.  I may need to wear yoga pants tomorrow.  Good thing I work at home.

                                         

Stilts

A dreary, foggy December day was unwinding in northern Humboldt County when my wisecracking brother Mike approached me for a ride "downtown".   He refused to tell me why until I had secured the use of Grandma's late 1960’s model Ford Fairlane.  I was a new driver so this was no easy feat.  As I drove the 7 miles to the little shopping center, Mike told me he wanted to go to Chilcott's.  I remember being surprised because Chilcott's was the toy store.  Mike announced he was going to get our younger brother Chris a present.  After I rather rudely reminded him that money would be needed, he grinned and said, "Just park the car and follow me".  I did follow him, and what that14 year old mischievous brother of mine did that December afternoon still brings tears to my eyes.

 

For a few weeks each year, the days of Christmas bless us with a handful of weeks filled with the making of new memories, the remembering of old.     Memories from childhoods and brand new bicycles, memories of early adulthood and making do with little or nothing,  memories of raising  children and prayers that the magic of these days will live in their hearts forever, for some the memories of grandchildren’s excitement.  For many, if not most, Christmas does bring at least a remembrance or two of difficult times.  The sleighs and Santa sacks of people everywhere are filled with a bit of both.  Many difficult times are best left in the past.  Some however, can be worth revisiting.  A few may even become our most beloved memories.

Our parents divorced when I was 13 years old.  My older sister was 14. We were five “Stone Kids” rounded out with Mike at 11, Dennice at 9, and Chris at 6.  Dad moved out, Mom went to work, Sharon went to work, and I stayed home with what we still refer to as "the little kids".  We are in our late 40's and 50's now but it is still how I describe my younger siblings. A few years passed with more than a few "stories you'll talk about when you're older" added to the memory banks.  Mom collapsed at her night job managing a bowling alley in the Bay Area when I was 16, and it became obvious that changes were necessary.   Our knight in shining armor was Mom's brother, our Uncle Harvey, who in two days’ time had us and our few belongings moved back to our Grandparents home in Humboldt County. 

To this day I can't imagine the change my Grandma and Grandpa had to deal with.  Their quiet retired life in what they referred to as "God’s Country" was turned muddled and chaotic with the invasion of their 38 year old daughter and her rowdy brood of 5 into their 2 bedroom cottage type home.  Grandpa was gentle and nurturing to his new housemates, and Grandma proceeded to spend less time in her garden and more time cooking and cleaning.  We "Stone Kids" were enrolled in local schools and attempted to adjust to a very different life.  Humboldt County in the 70's was much like it is today, stuck in the 60's, and a world apart from the Bay Area.  Culture shock is an overused term in my opinion, but it works here.  Mom spent much of the next several months in bed and it was a tough time.  We were lucky to have our Grandparents as a soft landing zone. Perhaps my most treasured childhood Christmas memory comes from these first years back in Humboldt County.

Christmas was nearing and it was no secret that money was nearly non-existent, though it certainly could have been much worse.  We were actually very fortunate.  We did not go hungry, and we were not homeless.  We had Grandparents who were managing to care for us, and Mom was beginning to pick herself up a bit.  One early December afternoon, the five of us were called to sit on Grandmas' brown upholstered sofa, which was already showing signs of being used as a bed by one or more of us.  

Mom announced to us in a soft, yet strong voice, that our Christmas present that year would be a load of peeler cores.  Grandma and Grandpas house had only wood heat, and peeler cores (waste logs purchased from a local mill) were an economical way to heat the place.   We were encouraged to help in the splitting and stacking of the cores into actual firewood.  There would be no presents under the tree.  We all had a unique and developed sense of humor and Mike, now age 14, was no exception. He stood up loud, proud,  and freckle faced with wild brown curls hiding his ears and shading his eyes announcing, "I don't care if there's only one present under the tree, as long as it's for me!”   Laughter and pillow throwing ensued, as we five assured our Mother that the firewood would be a great gift for our family. 

I was more than a little apprehensive on that foggy December afternoon as I followed my brother Mike into the toy store.  My uneasiness grew  as he approached the husband and wife owners at the counter, who kindly asked what they could help him find.  His reply was quite polite and very clear.  "Do you have any broken toys I can have?"  Owners Mrs. Chilcott and her husband looked sideways at me, then at each other, then back to Mike.  "What kind of things are you looking for?" Mr. Chilcott asked.  With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn corduroy pants, Mike grinned shyly and said, "I need a present for my little brother".  Mr. Chilcott told Mike that they didn't really keep the broken things around but motioned at us to follow him through the store as he mumbled something under his breath.   We followed him to a doorway in the back of the store walking between the shelves of board games and wire bins of giant bouncing balls and waited as he disappeared into the dimly lit and somehow magical back room.  After hearing a few muffled grunts and unrecognizable words from beyond the doorway and what sounded like boxes being pushed across the tile floor, the store owner emerged holding two long square wooden poles.  They were blue.  I can close my eyes and see them clearly even now.   They were stilts.

Mr. Chilcott handed Mike a pair of royal blue stilts, dusty and a bit scratched, with one missing footrest and the other dangling loosely to its place on the blue pole.   Mike informed Mr. Chilcott that these were perfect and assured him that he was capable of fixing them up.  Mike and I both thanked the husband and wife team and headed out the door with Mike explaining to me his plans for repair.   We headed back to Woody Road with two royal blue stilts wedged from the back seat through the open passenger window, and my brother Mike hanging tightly to his Christmas treasure.  Somehow we managed to sneak the stilts into the back of Grandpas garage without anyone seeing us.  I don't remember seeing Mike work on the stilts over the next several days, but we exchanged knowing glances whenever the subject of our peeler core Christmas present came up. 

On Christmas morning, Mike and I were up first.  Mike snuck out of the house and returned on tiptoes carrying the now shining royal blue stilts.   A few scratches were still evident but these stilts now had freshly painted, securely attached footrests of the same bright red color I’d seen Grandpa using on an old patio chair the past summer.  Others in the house slowly awakened and came to sit in the glow of the tree lights as was our tradition.  Grandma and Grandpa had managed to purchase each of us new pajamas, and Grandma had them wrapped handsomely so we did each have a present to open.   As we sat admiring our new sleepwear, Mike pulled the stilts from their hiding place behind the old piano and proudly presented them to Chris.   OH’s and awes came from almost everyone except Mom.  She sat staring at her eldest son with a look I can only describe as astonished pride.  A brotherly and nearly dangerous hug followed as the two boys attempted to keep from smacking the rest of us with one end or another of the awkwardly intersecting  stilts.  Amazingly they managed to avoid knocking over the already inclined Christmas tree.  Mike beamed as Chris examined the gift.  “Merry Christmas Little Brother”.  

Chris was the first of the "Stone Kids" to learn stilt-walking, and over the next months we all learned the skill.  Mom even gave it a shot a time or two.   Hours upon hours were spent on those poles over the years and at times arguments took place as to whose turn it was to exhibit their sense of balance, or lack of it as the case may have been.  We could all walk on stilts, some more gracefully than others.  We had to maneuver around the firewood logs for a while, but we could all walk on stilts.  Some of our children can walk on stilts as well. They learned on that same set of royal blue scratched up stilts with red footrests which they found still stored in their Great- Grandfathers old garage.

Nearly 40 years have now passed since that Christmas. We have all been blessed with many Christmas seasons since and have undoubtedly added to our collection of wonderful memories.   We’ve each had our own struggles, and added to the difficult memory sack as well, perhaps dealing a bit more easily with those struggles in part because of what we learned during earlier times.  While Chris was the recipient of the treasured and well used royal blue stilts that year, the rest of the Stone Kids shared in that joy, and I truly believe it was our brother Mike who received the most wonderful and lasting gift of all.

Day 30 - Thankfulness

Today I am thankful for Baseball.  I considered winding up this 30 day challenge with thanks for a more soulful topic, but Baseball is a most soulful activity.  I considered addressing lifelong learning, two of many words I try to live by, but I relate lifelong learning and life to Baseball.   Today I am thankful for Baseball.  I wasn’t ever a Baseball Player.  I don’t own stakes in a Baseball Team (though that would be pretty cool), yet I don’t remember a time when Baseball wasn’t part of my life. 

I learned a lot about Baseball from my Grandfather, who interestingly was blind.  Many summer hours were spent on his Humboldt County patio listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games.   Those moments of shelling peanuts, cleaning smoked fish, and sneaking a sip of Grandpa’s Hamm’s Beer, oftentimes as the Humboldt Fog began to roll in are treasures of my heart. I’m thankful to Baseball for those memories.

One of my earliest memories in life is sitting in the kitchen with my Dad and yet another transistor radio. Dad taught me a lot of the technicalities of Baseball.  He also taught me how to figure batting averages, on base percentages, and how to keep score.  These lessons with him are probably why I love Math, and scorebooks.  Dad also taught me how to yell rude comments at umpires and opposing players.  I don’t bellow out  “pitchers got a rubber nose” very often, but I’m glad I know how to when it’s needed.  I also know that if another man offers a certain first baseman a fictional picture of his wife or girlfriend, said first baseman will become flustered, and then giggle like a little girl.  My Dad had that affect on a lot of people.   Baseball gave me time with my Dad.  I’m thankful for that.

Raising boys, we spent a lot of time at little league fields.  Our boys did homework on bleachers while watching the games of their brother and friends.  For a couple months each year family dinners consisted of chili pies and hot dogs prepared at snack bars lovingly run by Moms and Dads to whom I am forever grateful.  Youth Baseball helped teach our sons not only about the game, but about adjusting their priorities, being responsible, and taking care of your friends. I’m thankful for the help in teaching those important life lessons.

As an aging child, Baseball has been and continues to be part of my life. Just the last decade has provided countless treasured moments.  The Red Sox curse breaking 2004 year could leave only true haters and Yankee fans without a warm feeling somewhere. I am blessed to occupy the seats that belonged to my Dad at AT&T. I can feel him at every game I attend.  Giants fans kept the faith through the lean years and were rewarded with moments correctly described as magic.  I was lucky to see the Bonds record-breaking hits and saddened by the ensuing controversy.   Joe and I helped hold the American flag on the field at the 2007 All-Star Game. I like to think I’m pretty good at forgiveness, but the lesson was learned anew when I began to love Barry Zito. Being at the park with my sons when Pablo hit 3 out on October 24th of this year will carry me through at least until pitchers and catchers report in February.  OK, I lie, it’ll stick with me forever. 

We’ve shared games and surrounding times with parents, siblings, offspring, and friends.  Each one is registered in my own record book of good times. Each one is eligible for my personal Hall of Fame. I’m thankful for every moment.  I’m thankful for Baseball.

New Beginnings

Similarities between Gyppo Logging and "life in general" are many, and my 36 plus year life as a Gyppo Logger's wife has offered many lessons. Some of these lessons I learned quickly, some of them took me a while. Some of these lessons I'm still learning.  "Gyppo Logger" by definition is an independent logger who works efficiently and inexpensively while being productive.  In my experience, Gyppo Loggers are most often either self or family taught, and most importantly, love their work.   I believe life is similar to Gyppo Logging in this way.  Productivity in our lives cannot be underestimated.  Productivity brings happiness.  If we have a full life our production is bountiful.  We may produce in our daily work, in our hobbies,and hopefully in our families.   We learn much of how we produce in our lives through our own life lessons, and much from our families.  The combination can be powerful, and it never stops.  Family to most Gyppo's is the most important blessing in ones life.  Combine the love of family with a love of your work, throw in a healthy dose of humor,  cover with a love of God, and you've got a pretty good foundation.  A Beginning.
The "new beginning" to this blog is literal, it's been a year since I started it and since I posted.  It also refers to the beginning of  another lesson in the making.   It appears  the beginning of another stage in the life of my family is at hand.  My Mom has Alzheimers Disease.  You might think this is an ending.  It is not.  A beginning is at hand for "The Stone Kids" as we have often called ourselves.  There are 5 of us from this Mother.  Each of us having played an important role in the lives of the others.  Each of us taking on new roles in this process our Mom is going through.   
We are a strong group.   One of the first lessons we learned was "Take on one Stone, you take on them all".   Trust me when I say, we've had to prove it.  Even with the youngest now being 46 years old, these 5 are unbreakable.  As the eldest (Sharon, 55) says, we have our own language.  She is correct.  We have our own way of talking to, teaching, teasing each other, a sense of humor many do not understand.  Our own children, who grew up with, suffered though, enjoyed much and benefited from this group of siblings, often do not understand us. My Gyppo  husband who has been in the family for 36 years, since Chris the youngest was 10, does not quite get our communication at times.  Our half brother and sister do permeate our little clique and sometimes, it feels as though we are 7.

From this Mother though, bound by circumstances known only to us,  tied together by memories that are only ours, we are five.
Perhaps this writing will help me, perhaps it will help my siblings, perhaps it will help you.  I cannot promise regularity,  perfect grammar, or a sense of humor all will appreciate. I will attempt honesty and understanding,  as my siblings and  I strive to learn and fully appreciate the lesson at hand.

The Hands That Rocked Our Cradles

(Thank You Sharon and Dennice for the Photo)