Monday, July 4, 2016
Always Winter: Freedom for Cans aka *THE PLAN*
Always Winter: Freedom for Cans aka *THE PLAN*: Happy Independence Day! Up at 6:00, I was determined to carry out *THE PLAN*. It was a beautiful morning for what I had in mind--cloudy, c...
Freedom for Cans aka *THE PLAN*
Happy Independence Day! Up at 6:00, I was determined to carry out *THE PLAN*. It was a beautiful morning for what I had in mind--cloudy, cool (48 degrees) with no wind to speak of. Believe me, if there had been wind, I would speak of it. I LOVE wind. As some--many?--who know me understand, I love any kind of weather. As long as it's doing something out there. Severe clear is reprehensible. And heat, in case you were wondering, is NOT weather. It is torture. Everyone knows HEAT is what makes Heaven's antithesis so completely and utterly deplorable. Well, that and the absence of God, but that is a topic for another time.
Figuring *THE PLAN* could take around 3 hours to complete, I quickly squeezed into my bike pants, layered on 2 shirts with the most brightly colored one on the outside, Velcroed my bike gloves around my wrists and secured my somewhat elderly bike helmet with a click of the strap. I know helmets are supposed to be replaced every 5 years or so, but c'mon, no crashes or cracks, so I'm good. I don't have toe clips on my trusty steed (an aging Trek 820 Mountain Bike) so there is no need for cleated bike shoes which is a good thing, because I don't have any. That fact has always made me feel somewhat inadequate, but I do have some really cool black and lime green Technica TRS shoes with Technigrip and green laces. I'm not just saying they're cool, I know they are. My grandsons, Jonathan and Luke, said so when I got them a few years back. The Technigrip feature, while intended for running shoes, works perfectly to keep my feet gripping the pedals. I call them my Mountain Bike shoes, and if all I ever wear them for is biking, that's what they are! Carefully I lined my panniers with plastic grocery bags, checked the air pressure in my tires, grabbed a water bottle, tightened my helmet and by 7:00 I'm off!
*THE PLAN*
One of the rides I've mapped out since moving to Belgrade is the Goldfinch Ct. to Powers Blvd. to Penwell Bridge Road to Springhill Rd to Airport Road to Tubb to W. Baseline and back to Powers. It's a 12-mile route that usually takes me an hour. OK--so I'm not ready for the Tour de Whatever. Every time I take this route, or any time I ride anywhere, it pains me to pass up can after can languishing by the roadside with no hope of ever being rescued. But today, July 4, 2016, would be different. It was *THE PLAN* to stop and pick up every can I spotted along this route. Gloriously, there was no traffic on Penwell Bridge. None. Zippo. Not too many people frequent that stretch of road anyway, because I rode for a quarter mile without finding anything. The closer I got to Springhill and non-farm civilization, the more cans started popping up. You never see this zipping by in a car or truck, so I'll enlighten you: some are crushed, some flattened by passing cars, some are shot in pieces and some are perfectly whole presumably indicating a more recent flight from a passing vehicle to the weeds by the side of the road.
My modus operandi was to bike along quickly looking for suspects, assess the subject and brake if it was a can. No bottles today--just cans. For sure no boxes, straps, foam pieces, tires, shoes, blankets, rope or twine. Those items are for another day and a bigger bag. I tried to stop before passing a can, but didn't or couldn't in many cases. That necessitated circling back. Good thing there was almost no traffic--even on Springhill. *THE PLAN* is not recommended on a non-holiday day. I tried to stuff each can in my pannier without getting off my bike, but was not always successful. Oh well. More exercise. I did make 2 exceptions to the "just cans" rule. There was a red Power Service Diesel Lubrication quart bottle right in front of Amaltheia Organic Dairy on Penwell Bridge Road. I like that dairy and always look forward to watching the goats play King of the Hill as I bike past. The diesel lubrication bottle just didn't look very organic, so into the pannier it went. The other exception was a white bottle with the lid still on that I have passed by for months. It reminded me of a Milk of Magnesia bottle, so I never was too excited to stop and pick it up. The bottle was lying close to the road on a curve, so anyone frequently traveling west on Airport at that location has to have seen that bottle a million zillion times. Today was July 4th. Emancipation Day for what turned out to be a Dupont Escort XP herbicide bottle. Half used. It felt so good picking it up.
I told my trainer, Jack, *THE PLAN* would take anywhere from an hour and a half to that 3 hours previously mentioned. It was nearing the 1-1/2 hour mark, so I tried to get a move on. I was about to turn onto Tubb, a road that I really do try to keep cleaned up, so I thought not many cans would be lurking. Wrong. On previous days, the planes landing and taking off at Yellowstone International Airport must have grabbed my attention, because there were a number of cans to be cornered in that last mile before home when I really focused my attention on the weeds. I pray for everybody on every flight incoming and outgoing, so if you're on a plane that I see, consider yourself prayed for.
Now back to *THE PLAN*
Total time: 1 hour 35 minutes
Total cans set free: 30
Breakdown of cans:
Bud Light 6
Miller Lite 2
Ice House 1
Bud 1
Monster Energy Drink 2
Not Your Father's Root Beer (I'll bet) 1
Sanpellegrino Clementina 1
Twisted Tea 2
Pabst Blue Ribbon 2
Mountain Dew 2
Smirnoff Ice Spiked Screwdriver 1
Coors 1
Rainier Mountain Fresh Beer 1
Mikes Harder Cherry Lime Punch 1
Mikes Harder Strawberry Lemonade 1
Tecate 1
Blue Moon Belgian White Ale 1
Michelob Extra Light Beer 1
Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA 1 (India Pale Ale if you are still reading)
Coors Light Silver Bullet 1 (definitely the coolest can)
Draw your own conclusions on the ratio between pop cans and beer cans.
So now *THE PLAN* is complete. Thirty cans freed from the desolation and humiliation of being cast to the weeds at the side of the road. Thirty cans on their way to the recycling factory. Did you know that most recycled aluminum is used to make new cans? From the time a can arrives in a recycling facility, it takes just 60 days to melt it down, turn it into a new can, fill it with a new beverage and place it back on store shelves. From there someone can buy it, drink it, pitch it out their truck window where it will lie helpless in the weeds until I or some fellow trash picker comes up with a plan. So drink up my fellow Patriots! Fly your flag, love your country, celebrate Freedom and please recycle.
Always,
Winter
Figuring *THE PLAN* could take around 3 hours to complete, I quickly squeezed into my bike pants, layered on 2 shirts with the most brightly colored one on the outside, Velcroed my bike gloves around my wrists and secured my somewhat elderly bike helmet with a click of the strap. I know helmets are supposed to be replaced every 5 years or so, but c'mon, no crashes or cracks, so I'm good. I don't have toe clips on my trusty steed (an aging Trek 820 Mountain Bike) so there is no need for cleated bike shoes which is a good thing, because I don't have any. That fact has always made me feel somewhat inadequate, but I do have some really cool black and lime green Technica TRS shoes with Technigrip and green laces. I'm not just saying they're cool, I know they are. My grandsons, Jonathan and Luke, said so when I got them a few years back. The Technigrip feature, while intended for running shoes, works perfectly to keep my feet gripping the pedals. I call them my Mountain Bike shoes, and if all I ever wear them for is biking, that's what they are! Carefully I lined my panniers with plastic grocery bags, checked the air pressure in my tires, grabbed a water bottle, tightened my helmet and by 7:00 I'm off!
*THE PLAN*
One of the rides I've mapped out since moving to Belgrade is the Goldfinch Ct. to Powers Blvd. to Penwell Bridge Road to Springhill Rd to Airport Road to Tubb to W. Baseline and back to Powers. It's a 12-mile route that usually takes me an hour. OK--so I'm not ready for the Tour de Whatever. Every time I take this route, or any time I ride anywhere, it pains me to pass up can after can languishing by the roadside with no hope of ever being rescued. But today, July 4, 2016, would be different. It was *THE PLAN* to stop and pick up every can I spotted along this route. Gloriously, there was no traffic on Penwell Bridge. None. Zippo. Not too many people frequent that stretch of road anyway, because I rode for a quarter mile without finding anything. The closer I got to Springhill and non-farm civilization, the more cans started popping up. You never see this zipping by in a car or truck, so I'll enlighten you: some are crushed, some flattened by passing cars, some are shot in pieces and some are perfectly whole presumably indicating a more recent flight from a passing vehicle to the weeds by the side of the road.
My modus operandi was to bike along quickly looking for suspects, assess the subject and brake if it was a can. No bottles today--just cans. For sure no boxes, straps, foam pieces, tires, shoes, blankets, rope or twine. Those items are for another day and a bigger bag. I tried to stop before passing a can, but didn't or couldn't in many cases. That necessitated circling back. Good thing there was almost no traffic--even on Springhill. *THE PLAN* is not recommended on a non-holiday day. I tried to stuff each can in my pannier without getting off my bike, but was not always successful. Oh well. More exercise. I did make 2 exceptions to the "just cans" rule. There was a red Power Service Diesel Lubrication quart bottle right in front of Amaltheia Organic Dairy on Penwell Bridge Road. I like that dairy and always look forward to watching the goats play King of the Hill as I bike past. The diesel lubrication bottle just didn't look very organic, so into the pannier it went. The other exception was a white bottle with the lid still on that I have passed by for months. It reminded me of a Milk of Magnesia bottle, so I never was too excited to stop and pick it up. The bottle was lying close to the road on a curve, so anyone frequently traveling west on Airport at that location has to have seen that bottle a million zillion times. Today was July 4th. Emancipation Day for what turned out to be a Dupont Escort XP herbicide bottle. Half used. It felt so good picking it up.
I told my trainer, Jack, *THE PLAN* would take anywhere from an hour and a half to that 3 hours previously mentioned. It was nearing the 1-1/2 hour mark, so I tried to get a move on. I was about to turn onto Tubb, a road that I really do try to keep cleaned up, so I thought not many cans would be lurking. Wrong. On previous days, the planes landing and taking off at Yellowstone International Airport must have grabbed my attention, because there were a number of cans to be cornered in that last mile before home when I really focused my attention on the weeds. I pray for everybody on every flight incoming and outgoing, so if you're on a plane that I see, consider yourself prayed for.
Now back to *THE PLAN*
Total time: 1 hour 35 minutes
Total cans set free: 30
Breakdown of cans:
Bud Light 6
Miller Lite 2
Ice House 1
Bud 1
Monster Energy Drink 2
Not Your Father's Root Beer (I'll bet) 1
Sanpellegrino Clementina 1
Twisted Tea 2
Pabst Blue Ribbon 2
Mountain Dew 2
Smirnoff Ice Spiked Screwdriver 1
Coors 1
Rainier Mountain Fresh Beer 1
Mikes Harder Cherry Lime Punch 1
Mikes Harder Strawberry Lemonade 1
Tecate 1
Blue Moon Belgian White Ale 1
Michelob Extra Light Beer 1
Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA 1 (India Pale Ale if you are still reading)
Coors Light Silver Bullet 1 (definitely the coolest can)
Draw your own conclusions on the ratio between pop cans and beer cans.
So now *THE PLAN* is complete. Thirty cans freed from the desolation and humiliation of being cast to the weeds at the side of the road. Thirty cans on their way to the recycling factory. Did you know that most recycled aluminum is used to make new cans? From the time a can arrives in a recycling facility, it takes just 60 days to melt it down, turn it into a new can, fill it with a new beverage and place it back on store shelves. From there someone can buy it, drink it, pitch it out their truck window where it will lie helpless in the weeds until I or some fellow trash picker comes up with a plan. So drink up my fellow Patriots! Fly your flag, love your country, celebrate Freedom and please recycle.
Always,
Winter
Monday, March 9, 2015
Back in the Saddle
How appropriate, right? Me, Montana, saddles. Notice I did not use the title "Back in the Saddle Again" lest I be infringing on some copyright or another. After all, "Back in the Saddle Again" is the song that defined Gene Autry and is the title of his biography. It was even voted 98th best song of the Twentieth Century. What I'm up to is not nearly as epic as having a song in the Grammy Hall of Fame.
I always wanted to be a cowgirl, but ended up a trash picker instead. Remember me? Garbage Grandma? It's been a really long time since I have posted. 636 days to be exact. That's 1 year, 8 months and 26 days. It can't be that long since I have done anything interesting can it? But it HAS been that long since I have gone on a trash picking adventure. Cold, wind and snow (kind of like the mailman) have never deterred me in the past, but somehow I couldn't get my trash picker and black bag out of storage until--yesterday. Oh, I picked up stuff here and there. It's in my blood. See something, do something--like bend over and pick up that Twisted Tea can (5% alcohol by volume) or Busch Light Beer bottle or Rosauers receipt or Kind Bar wrapper. (How kind.) But yesterday the open road called to me, the cans and bottles glinting in the sun up and down Tubb Road were begging to be picked up, and I couldn't contain myself. And a long-time dream of mine was realized. Always wanted to take 2 bags with me on a pick. Read on.
Since I like to recycle cans and bottles that go into my black garbage bags, separating them from the general grossness as I go seemed like a great idea. But I never could figure out how to hold 2 different bags' mouths open at the same time while picking. Voila! The answer? A retired husband!
I wouldn't say that I drug Jack along on my pick, but neither would I say that he jumped up and down wagging his tail at the prospect. He is a great partner on the whole and found 2 black bags and my 2 green pickers. (My shiny green "Nifty Nabber", formerly called Mr. Green in my book, well, OK, my manuscript that was supposed to be a book some day.) Caps and gloves and we were out the door. One hour and 15 minutes later we had to stop as our bags were full. In the old Colorado days, often I would time the end of my pick to coincide with Lee's lunch break so he could swoop by picking up both me and my bag, but here we see another downside of retirement. Nobody to pick me up! No matter as it was a quick 38 minutes back to the house. Of course, along the way we passed more cans. I couldn't stand to leave them there, so hands full, we returned home.
After a return trip to pick up and inventory the bags, here is the breakdown: 103-1/2 aluminum cans, 6 bottles and a whole bag full of miscellaneous items. The most interesting thing we picked up? A pen from the Sacajawea Hotel in Three Forks--headwaters of the Missouri. Imagine a ball point pen migrating all the way from Three Forks to Tubb Road--a distance of some 20 miles. I love the Sacajawea Hotel. Have you been there? The epitome of history, she is celebrating her 104th year. Kind of reminds me of the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park. I'm sure there is no need to remind my readers that Sacajawea was hired, by virtue of the fact that she was Toussaint Charbonneau's wife, as an aid to the Corps of Discovery expendition (Lewis ande Clark) because she spoke Shoshone. Her son's name, who was born on the "trip," was Jean Baptiste, but nicknamed Pompey by Clark. Sound familiar? Two of the tallest peaks in the Bridgers are named Sacagawea, 9,551' and Pomp Peak, 9551'. Isn't history so much fun? And so is picking up cans.
Always Winter
I always wanted to be a cowgirl, but ended up a trash picker instead. Remember me? Garbage Grandma? It's been a really long time since I have posted. 636 days to be exact. That's 1 year, 8 months and 26 days. It can't be that long since I have done anything interesting can it? But it HAS been that long since I have gone on a trash picking adventure. Cold, wind and snow (kind of like the mailman) have never deterred me in the past, but somehow I couldn't get my trash picker and black bag out of storage until--yesterday. Oh, I picked up stuff here and there. It's in my blood. See something, do something--like bend over and pick up that Twisted Tea can (5% alcohol by volume) or Busch Light Beer bottle or Rosauers receipt or Kind Bar wrapper. (How kind.) But yesterday the open road called to me, the cans and bottles glinting in the sun up and down Tubb Road were begging to be picked up, and I couldn't contain myself. And a long-time dream of mine was realized. Always wanted to take 2 bags with me on a pick. Read on.
Since I like to recycle cans and bottles that go into my black garbage bags, separating them from the general grossness as I go seemed like a great idea. But I never could figure out how to hold 2 different bags' mouths open at the same time while picking. Voila! The answer? A retired husband!
I wouldn't say that I drug Jack along on my pick, but neither would I say that he jumped up and down wagging his tail at the prospect. He is a great partner on the whole and found 2 black bags and my 2 green pickers. (My shiny green "Nifty Nabber", formerly called Mr. Green in my book, well, OK, my manuscript that was supposed to be a book some day.) Caps and gloves and we were out the door. One hour and 15 minutes later we had to stop as our bags were full. In the old Colorado days, often I would time the end of my pick to coincide with Lee's lunch break so he could swoop by picking up both me and my bag, but here we see another downside of retirement. Nobody to pick me up! No matter as it was a quick 38 minutes back to the house. Of course, along the way we passed more cans. I couldn't stand to leave them there, so hands full, we returned home.
After a return trip to pick up and inventory the bags, here is the breakdown: 103-1/2 aluminum cans, 6 bottles and a whole bag full of miscellaneous items. The most interesting thing we picked up? A pen from the Sacajawea Hotel in Three Forks--headwaters of the Missouri. Imagine a ball point pen migrating all the way from Three Forks to Tubb Road--a distance of some 20 miles. I love the Sacajawea Hotel. Have you been there? The epitome of history, she is celebrating her 104th year. Kind of reminds me of the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park. I'm sure there is no need to remind my readers that Sacajawea was hired, by virtue of the fact that she was Toussaint Charbonneau's wife, as an aid to the Corps of Discovery expendition (Lewis ande Clark) because she spoke Shoshone. Her son's name, who was born on the "trip," was Jean Baptiste, but nicknamed Pompey by Clark. Sound familiar? Two of the tallest peaks in the Bridgers are named Sacagawea, 9,551' and Pomp Peak, 9551'. Isn't history so much fun? And so is picking up cans.
Always Winter
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Redding or Bust
5:45 a.m. Sunday, June 2, 2013. "Okay." *Long pause* "All right." Nobody moved. Another drawn out, "O-kay, let's start moving toward the door." My son-in-law was trying to get his family and their friends who had come to say a final farewell to go outside the house. Finally everyone was standing around in front of the house instead of inside. Amber was left to activate the new push-button lock on the door. I could tell that act alone was pretty painful for her--almost like a death. This is the same person who stared a long while out her dining room window the evenig before and finally said her quiet goodbye to Long's Peak.
We had all known for a depressingly long time this was coming. Amber packed and cleaned for days on end. They bought new bedding, new dishes, new pots and pans and cutlery for what was to become a "Vacation Rental by Owner." They themed each room, i.e. "The Bird Room" (Morgan's old room--not sure it changed that much since she has collected empty bird nests for a long while, but it was the emptiest I had ever seen it), "The Animal Room" (Jonathan's old room, once home to trophies and all things athletic, now sporting pictures of fox, big horn and deer, complete with antlers on the wall) and "The Bear Room" (Luke's bedroom--once known far and wide as the Lego Kingdom, now decorated with bear posters, bear pictures and a cool wood-like carving of a bear with a fish in his mouth.) New beds had to be purchased, another couch was located on Craig's list and a table was built to accommodate 8-10 guests. Decisions had to be made: which games stay, which games go with them, which appliances make the trip, which ones need to be replaced. No personal items could be left in the house. Keepsakes had to be carefully boxed and stored in the garage, assuming that anything left in the vacation home could be stolen or broken. A new grill was purchased while space was found on the Budget rental truck for the grungy old one. The move, once couched in the phrase, "THE ADVENTURE BEGINS," had disintegrated into a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking tragedy.
Perhaps you think my opinions a bit dramatic or exaggerated, but this is how I saw the whole unfolding "adventure." I don't think I've ever known anyone forced to move completely against her will. In my experience, normally accompanying a family move is a compelling reason such as, "Daddy is getting transferred to Atlanta," "Daddy's company went out of business, and we have to relocate," "Daddy got a job offer in another state, kids, and we just can't turn it down." "Our credit is really bad, so we're just going to move away and start over." But when "Daddy" has a great job, the kids have rewarding friendships, the relationship with the local school is perfect, the oldest kid in school is between his sophomore and junior years and things in general are just hummin' along, why move?
No time to ponder this enigma any longer as the Budget truck hauling the Subaru followed by the Previa Van, affectionately called Beannie, was pulling away from the house and out to the highway. This is where I fit into the story. Of course, I didn't want Amber and her family to move. But the unvarnished reality is that it's not my deal, not my business and nobody asked my opinion. Does that allow my feelings to become detached from the situation? Absolutely not. The old saying always proves true, "A son is a son 'till he takes a wife. A daughter's a daughter the rest of her life." Amber is my daughter, I love her, and I love spending time with her. It's that simple. Now I was watching her drive out of my life. Get a grip. There's Facebook, Facetime and Skype. I'll be fine. But I wasn't fine. I was actually sobbing. It was some comfort that Alex, an upcoming senior at Estes Park High School who had been living with Amber and family during the past school year, gave me a long hug. But the sobbing continued as we dropped Alex off at his new (really old since he had lived there the year before) home.
That was last Sunday, and I cried all day. Actually I fell asleep a little while in the afternoon. It's probably physically impossible to sleep and cry at the same time, so I didn't really cry all day.
When Amber gave in to reality and posted on Facebook, "We are moving to California in 10 days," followed by "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do...", I found some of the comments appalling and condescending. But that's just me. I didn't write the post, and I didn't comment. I knew Amber saw moving as an exercise in obedience and not the assumed "adventure" many of her friends supposed it would be.
Red, swollen eyes greeted me in the mirror on Monday morning. I decided a long bike would be therapy for my lingering sadness. I didn't cry as much, but it took very little to stir my emotions and remind me of Luke's smile or Jonathan's voice. Every tall, muscular kid on a skate board was Jonathan. A boy walking toward me with long, straight hair bouncing with each step was Luke. I did a double-take when a silver-grey Previa turmed left in front of me. It only served to remind me that the driver was a stranger and not Amber and the kids. Just riding my bike down to Brodie and Fishcreek knowing that Amber wouldn't be at our meeting place made me cry. Good neighbors are a blessing. Good neighbors who are good friends are a gift from God. Anni is just that gift. She is kind and understanding with a listening ear--just the medicine I needed. We had a good talk on Monday.
On Tuesday, my friend, Barbie, called from Florida to see how I was doing. Barbie teaches fifth grade and related a couple of stories that really got my attention. The first was about a student of hers whose family got relocated half-way through the school year. It was decided that to minimize disruption, this boy would stay behind with his grandma to finish 5th grade. Of course, school ended, and the boy rejoined his family in their new town which was hundreds of miles away. The grandmother was highly distressed. Her nearest and dearest had been torn away from her. Even though she knew the day would come, it did little to ease her sorrow when her grandson rejoined his family in another state. Suddenly, and I do mean suddenly, I realized that I was not the only person getting relieved of grandma duties. There must be thousands of grammies all over the good ol' USA having their families torn from them in one way or another. It could be a death or a move (I prefer the move option) but really, the result is the same: shock, sadness and grief along with Question #1: "Why?" Immediately, I resolved in my heart to pray for this particular grandmother of the fifth-grade boy. Why stop there? I could pray for every grandma without a face or a name who had been abruptly and painfully parted from her grandchild or children. Now I had a purpose. There were grandparents out there with whom I could commiserate and lift in prayer--a fulfilling alternative to sobbing.
Story Number 2: Barbie had an emotional, heart-jerking grandmother story of her own that she saved for the very last to share with me. Her granddaughter had just been diagnosed with some kind of growth in her forehead. Her doctors had no idea what it was or how to proceed. Along with that terrifying news was an additional horror: her granddaughter's cheekbones were deteriorating. What? This is a perfectly healthy, physically fit 14-year-old. Barbie went on to explain how this completely unexpected health bombshell was affecting the family's forseeable plans. I listened with most of my hearing capacity, but I started to think...what in the wide world am I doing? I'm having a fit about my family who moved away? OK, so it is 1,200 miles that take 20 hours 9 minutes to drive. Still, they just moved. They didn't get sucked up in a tornado or swallowed by the earth. My family is alive and well and living in Redding, California. I should be thankful. They made the trip safely. I should rejoice that they are exploring the area and having new adventures. (There--I said the A word.) And I will rejoice. I will bless the LORD at all times. His praise will continually be in my mouth. God reigns. God rules my heart. Along with King Solomon I say: "O Lord God of Israel, there is no God like you in the skies above or on the earth below who unswervingly keeps convenant with his servants and relentlessly loves them as they sincerely live in obedience to your way." I will make no time for sobbing, no part of my day will be devoted to questioning, no regretting a decision that was not mine to make. I will get my priorities straight, pray for the lost and reach out to the hurting. And I will remember to call Barbie to thank her for calling me back from the depths of despair where I had no business in the first place.
Always,
Winter
We had all known for a depressingly long time this was coming. Amber packed and cleaned for days on end. They bought new bedding, new dishes, new pots and pans and cutlery for what was to become a "Vacation Rental by Owner." They themed each room, i.e. "The Bird Room" (Morgan's old room--not sure it changed that much since she has collected empty bird nests for a long while, but it was the emptiest I had ever seen it), "The Animal Room" (Jonathan's old room, once home to trophies and all things athletic, now sporting pictures of fox, big horn and deer, complete with antlers on the wall) and "The Bear Room" (Luke's bedroom--once known far and wide as the Lego Kingdom, now decorated with bear posters, bear pictures and a cool wood-like carving of a bear with a fish in his mouth.) New beds had to be purchased, another couch was located on Craig's list and a table was built to accommodate 8-10 guests. Decisions had to be made: which games stay, which games go with them, which appliances make the trip, which ones need to be replaced. No personal items could be left in the house. Keepsakes had to be carefully boxed and stored in the garage, assuming that anything left in the vacation home could be stolen or broken. A new grill was purchased while space was found on the Budget rental truck for the grungy old one. The move, once couched in the phrase, "THE ADVENTURE BEGINS," had disintegrated into a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking tragedy.
Perhaps you think my opinions a bit dramatic or exaggerated, but this is how I saw the whole unfolding "adventure." I don't think I've ever known anyone forced to move completely against her will. In my experience, normally accompanying a family move is a compelling reason such as, "Daddy is getting transferred to Atlanta," "Daddy's company went out of business, and we have to relocate," "Daddy got a job offer in another state, kids, and we just can't turn it down." "Our credit is really bad, so we're just going to move away and start over." But when "Daddy" has a great job, the kids have rewarding friendships, the relationship with the local school is perfect, the oldest kid in school is between his sophomore and junior years and things in general are just hummin' along, why move?
No time to ponder this enigma any longer as the Budget truck hauling the Subaru followed by the Previa Van, affectionately called Beannie, was pulling away from the house and out to the highway. This is where I fit into the story. Of course, I didn't want Amber and her family to move. But the unvarnished reality is that it's not my deal, not my business and nobody asked my opinion. Does that allow my feelings to become detached from the situation? Absolutely not. The old saying always proves true, "A son is a son 'till he takes a wife. A daughter's a daughter the rest of her life." Amber is my daughter, I love her, and I love spending time with her. It's that simple. Now I was watching her drive out of my life. Get a grip. There's Facebook, Facetime and Skype. I'll be fine. But I wasn't fine. I was actually sobbing. It was some comfort that Alex, an upcoming senior at Estes Park High School who had been living with Amber and family during the past school year, gave me a long hug. But the sobbing continued as we dropped Alex off at his new (really old since he had lived there the year before) home.
That was last Sunday, and I cried all day. Actually I fell asleep a little while in the afternoon. It's probably physically impossible to sleep and cry at the same time, so I didn't really cry all day.
When Amber gave in to reality and posted on Facebook, "We are moving to California in 10 days," followed by "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do...", I found some of the comments appalling and condescending. But that's just me. I didn't write the post, and I didn't comment. I knew Amber saw moving as an exercise in obedience and not the assumed "adventure" many of her friends supposed it would be.
Red, swollen eyes greeted me in the mirror on Monday morning. I decided a long bike would be therapy for my lingering sadness. I didn't cry as much, but it took very little to stir my emotions and remind me of Luke's smile or Jonathan's voice. Every tall, muscular kid on a skate board was Jonathan. A boy walking toward me with long, straight hair bouncing with each step was Luke. I did a double-take when a silver-grey Previa turmed left in front of me. It only served to remind me that the driver was a stranger and not Amber and the kids. Just riding my bike down to Brodie and Fishcreek knowing that Amber wouldn't be at our meeting place made me cry. Good neighbors are a blessing. Good neighbors who are good friends are a gift from God. Anni is just that gift. She is kind and understanding with a listening ear--just the medicine I needed. We had a good talk on Monday.
On Tuesday, my friend, Barbie, called from Florida to see how I was doing. Barbie teaches fifth grade and related a couple of stories that really got my attention. The first was about a student of hers whose family got relocated half-way through the school year. It was decided that to minimize disruption, this boy would stay behind with his grandma to finish 5th grade. Of course, school ended, and the boy rejoined his family in their new town which was hundreds of miles away. The grandmother was highly distressed. Her nearest and dearest had been torn away from her. Even though she knew the day would come, it did little to ease her sorrow when her grandson rejoined his family in another state. Suddenly, and I do mean suddenly, I realized that I was not the only person getting relieved of grandma duties. There must be thousands of grammies all over the good ol' USA having their families torn from them in one way or another. It could be a death or a move (I prefer the move option) but really, the result is the same: shock, sadness and grief along with Question #1: "Why?" Immediately, I resolved in my heart to pray for this particular grandmother of the fifth-grade boy. Why stop there? I could pray for every grandma without a face or a name who had been abruptly and painfully parted from her grandchild or children. Now I had a purpose. There were grandparents out there with whom I could commiserate and lift in prayer--a fulfilling alternative to sobbing.
Story Number 2: Barbie had an emotional, heart-jerking grandmother story of her own that she saved for the very last to share with me. Her granddaughter had just been diagnosed with some kind of growth in her forehead. Her doctors had no idea what it was or how to proceed. Along with that terrifying news was an additional horror: her granddaughter's cheekbones were deteriorating. What? This is a perfectly healthy, physically fit 14-year-old. Barbie went on to explain how this completely unexpected health bombshell was affecting the family's forseeable plans. I listened with most of my hearing capacity, but I started to think...what in the wide world am I doing? I'm having a fit about my family who moved away? OK, so it is 1,200 miles that take 20 hours 9 minutes to drive. Still, they just moved. They didn't get sucked up in a tornado or swallowed by the earth. My family is alive and well and living in Redding, California. I should be thankful. They made the trip safely. I should rejoice that they are exploring the area and having new adventures. (There--I said the A word.) And I will rejoice. I will bless the LORD at all times. His praise will continually be in my mouth. God reigns. God rules my heart. Along with King Solomon I say: "O Lord God of Israel, there is no God like you in the skies above or on the earth below who unswervingly keeps convenant with his servants and relentlessly loves them as they sincerely live in obedience to your way." I will make no time for sobbing, no part of my day will be devoted to questioning, no regretting a decision that was not mine to make. I will get my priorities straight, pray for the lost and reach out to the hurting. And I will remember to call Barbie to thank her for calling me back from the depths of despair where I had no business in the first place.
Always,
Winter
Monday, March 26, 2012
Larimer County
Pickin' beats subbing at the post office any day, without question, in a breeze, in a walk, hands down. Get it? I'd much rather be pickin', so pick I did this morning from about 9:45 until 11:15. I wasn't really sure where I would go as the whole town is crying out for attention, but ended up on Hiway 34 just west of the Donut Haus. My goal was to go up one side for 30 minutes and return on the other side to the light pole where I had locked my bike. I never made it. Looking down at the Big Thompson as I walked along, I kept seeing a ton of junk: bags stuck in trees and bushes, cans, alcohol bottles, cardboard boxes and what was that--a bike light? "Don't look," my head told me, "river cleanup day will come soon enough." Heart: "But some of that stuff is going to get washed downstream. What if the river rises before cleanup day?" Head: "You can't go down there. It's too steep, and besides, you'll need hip waders." Heart: "I'll look for an easier spot." Head: "You should ask the boys (Jonathan and Luke) to do that part while you take the hiway." Heart won.
It was tough slogging. Trying to get me, bare tree branches, bushes and tree roots popped out of hiding. Right away I found an 18-inch square piece of insulation in the river. Let me tell you that stuff holds water! Wrestling it ashore, I used my feet to squeeze out the water. Presto (pun intended) soon the insulation was trapped in my black bag instead of the river. There were the usual wrappers of every description, cans and those heavy, glass alcohol bottles. They are such pretty colors--mostly greens and browns, that I would like to collect them, but that would never do! Overall, the winner was plastic bags. It's easy for them to get blown from the hiway, down the embankment, toward the river.
I filled one bag and hefted it just below the asphalt on the dirt, and turned to go back. Soon after passing the point where I started pickin' about 30 minutes earlier, discovery was made of a huge (2 feet x 4 feet) brown double paper bag from ACE Hardware. Perfect--or so I thought. It ripped easily, but no worries, not 10 feet away was another big black bag with not so much as a tear. It filled up easily. That bag didn't willfully go up the hill and onto the highway, but I insisted. Watching for an opening in the cars, I left it on the opposite side of the street and went back for the first bag. That was the bag with the wet insulation, which was still pretty heavy. Hearing truck breaks, I looked up to see the familiar bright orange Larimer County truck stopping (and holding up traffic, but they're allowed) to pick up my 2nd bag of trash! It was Michael McCleary. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah! With an eastbound car waiting for me, I scurried across the road with the 2nd bag. I was not about to miss this opportunity! Mike tossed it up to the truck bed along side the first one. As I thanked him over and over, he asked what I was doing and told me to watch out for traffic, because "they don't like to slow down."
Even though I do enjoy going through the junk to pick out cans and bottles to recycle, I smiled all the way home thinking how very nice it was for Mike to stop, and how thanks to him, my job was completely over for the day.
Always,
Winter
It was tough slogging. Trying to get me, bare tree branches, bushes and tree roots popped out of hiding. Right away I found an 18-inch square piece of insulation in the river. Let me tell you that stuff holds water! Wrestling it ashore, I used my feet to squeeze out the water. Presto (pun intended) soon the insulation was trapped in my black bag instead of the river. There were the usual wrappers of every description, cans and those heavy, glass alcohol bottles. They are such pretty colors--mostly greens and browns, that I would like to collect them, but that would never do! Overall, the winner was plastic bags. It's easy for them to get blown from the hiway, down the embankment, toward the river.
I filled one bag and hefted it just below the asphalt on the dirt, and turned to go back. Soon after passing the point where I started pickin' about 30 minutes earlier, discovery was made of a huge (2 feet x 4 feet) brown double paper bag from ACE Hardware. Perfect--or so I thought. It ripped easily, but no worries, not 10 feet away was another big black bag with not so much as a tear. It filled up easily. That bag didn't willfully go up the hill and onto the highway, but I insisted. Watching for an opening in the cars, I left it on the opposite side of the street and went back for the first bag. That was the bag with the wet insulation, which was still pretty heavy. Hearing truck breaks, I looked up to see the familiar bright orange Larimer County truck stopping (and holding up traffic, but they're allowed) to pick up my 2nd bag of trash! It was Michael McCleary. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah! With an eastbound car waiting for me, I scurried across the road with the 2nd bag. I was not about to miss this opportunity! Mike tossed it up to the truck bed along side the first one. As I thanked him over and over, he asked what I was doing and told me to watch out for traffic, because "they don't like to slow down."
Even though I do enjoy going through the junk to pick out cans and bottles to recycle, I smiled all the way home thinking how very nice it was for Mike to stop, and how thanks to him, my job was completely over for the day.
Always,
Winter
Friday, March 16, 2012
Ezekiel
Jack and I indulged in a 7:00 walk this morning. With such a happy pink sky and little wind, I decided to do my first spring (which, let me be clear, hasn't started yet) bike ride as soon as I returned home and got the breakfast dishes washed and put away. Before changing into my biking gear, I began a new campaign in the ongoing war I've been having with my new bike helmet. I'm trying to attach the mirror from my old helmet to my new one, which isn't really new, but at least a decade newer than the one I've been wearing.
When you get old, you have to own something over ten years before it is no longer new. It's the same way with people. Pity the poor newcomers in town. In my mind they are going to be "new" until I read something in the paper about their retirement. Take Larry Gamble for example. Larry is Chief, Branch of Planning and Compliance for Rocky Mountain National Park, a job he has had since 1993. But every time I see him in town I think, "Oh yeah...Larry works for the Park now." I have a black sweater I think of as "new," but while organizing a few hundred photographs last week, I noticed I was wearing it in a picture taken 8 years ago. This is part and parcel of growing old. However, it does have its advantages, and that is you don't have to buy stuff as often. (If any old person is reading this, let me know if you concur.)
Back to my bike helmet. It's pretty old, and it's green, so that's why until recently, I wasn't even considering a new one. Okay, so it has a crack. I didn't crash--it just got old like me. I have wrinkles, my bike helmet has cracks. But a really cute guy at the Trek shop in Loveland told me that the foam liner deteriorates over time, and a helmet should not be worn more than 5 years. Obviously, HE'S never been old. But he did convince me to trade helmets with Jack, whose bicycle is currently residing in Montana. Jack's helmet is also more than 5 years old, but it doesn't look like a mushroom and has no cracks. It's so fandangled new that I can't find a flat spot to attach my mirror. Once you have biked with a mirror, there's no going back. I absolutely must have my mirror. I wore my old green helmet.
I did my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop this morning which is about 12 miles round trip. A little more than half way through the ride I pass a fairly new (remember the definition) horse complex that includes a large tree structure for the kids, several barns, paddocks and the main house. Somebody was out in the corral right next to the road with a beautiful red roan. The horse had a rope halter and was just running circles around the guy. I've noticed horses being trained in this manner before, but really had no idea what was going on. As usual, my curiosity got the best of me. I turned around and went back. "Can I watch?" seemed an appropriate question. He quickly answered in the affirmative, and then motioned me toward the horse. "You want to try?" "Who me--the goofy mushroom-hatted biker?" Without thinking, I headed to the gate, slid the heavy bar through the metal loop, squeezed inside and made my way over to the horse guy. Without a word, he handed me the rope and slapped the roan on the rump so the merry-go-round action would continue. Round and round I went with the horse. "Hey, I could get dizzy," I called to him. He motioned to me to hold the rope over my head and keep stationary while the horse keep doing circles. This went on for a few minutes, and then the guy left. I mean he just left. No "I go now," or "Be back later,"--he just left. "Oh, great. What if all 1500 pounds of horse decides to run AT me instead of AROUND me?" I wondered. The only pet I ever owned was a parakeet. Shouldn't OSHA be involved here? An Animal Control Officer? The ACLU? (For the horse, of course.) In about ten minutes the guy came back with another horse and introduced himself as Ezekiel. I guess he was just taking advantage of a second pair of hands so he could get his work done faster. Or maybe he wanted to see what a complete gringo would do if left alone with a rather large animal. Ezekiel concisely explained to me that the horses just needed to "exercise--run around" and the brown horse's time was finished. "See?" he explained, touching the neck of the horse that had begun to lather. So now we had a brown horse and a black piebald. Ezekiel tied up Brownie, for lack of knowing his real name, and switched halters so Blackie, who was about to take his turn at running circles. Ezekiel told me in his somewhat broken English that he would take Brownie back to the barn for some water. Feeling a little weird at this point, I thanked him for an experience I never would have had if something had not urged me to turn around. In his very easy way, Ezekiel told me to come back any time--that he was always there.
I have ridden my bike past that place a zillion times and have never seen anyone, let alone Ezekiel. I rode away feeling very thankful that a 40-something Hispanic guy would invite a 60-something white lady to peek inside his life in Estes Park, if even for only a few minutes. It's going to be a great day.
Always,
Winter
When you get old, you have to own something over ten years before it is no longer new. It's the same way with people. Pity the poor newcomers in town. In my mind they are going to be "new" until I read something in the paper about their retirement. Take Larry Gamble for example. Larry is Chief, Branch of Planning and Compliance for Rocky Mountain National Park, a job he has had since 1993. But every time I see him in town I think, "Oh yeah...Larry works for the Park now." I have a black sweater I think of as "new," but while organizing a few hundred photographs last week, I noticed I was wearing it in a picture taken 8 years ago. This is part and parcel of growing old. However, it does have its advantages, and that is you don't have to buy stuff as often. (If any old person is reading this, let me know if you concur.)
Back to my bike helmet. It's pretty old, and it's green, so that's why until recently, I wasn't even considering a new one. Okay, so it has a crack. I didn't crash--it just got old like me. I have wrinkles, my bike helmet has cracks. But a really cute guy at the Trek shop in Loveland told me that the foam liner deteriorates over time, and a helmet should not be worn more than 5 years. Obviously, HE'S never been old. But he did convince me to trade helmets with Jack, whose bicycle is currently residing in Montana. Jack's helmet is also more than 5 years old, but it doesn't look like a mushroom and has no cracks. It's so fandangled new that I can't find a flat spot to attach my mirror. Once you have biked with a mirror, there's no going back. I absolutely must have my mirror. I wore my old green helmet.
I did my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop this morning which is about 12 miles round trip. A little more than half way through the ride I pass a fairly new (remember the definition) horse complex that includes a large tree structure for the kids, several barns, paddocks and the main house. Somebody was out in the corral right next to the road with a beautiful red roan. The horse had a rope halter and was just running circles around the guy. I've noticed horses being trained in this manner before, but really had no idea what was going on. As usual, my curiosity got the best of me. I turned around and went back. "Can I watch?" seemed an appropriate question. He quickly answered in the affirmative, and then motioned me toward the horse. "You want to try?" "Who me--the goofy mushroom-hatted biker?" Without thinking, I headed to the gate, slid the heavy bar through the metal loop, squeezed inside and made my way over to the horse guy. Without a word, he handed me the rope and slapped the roan on the rump so the merry-go-round action would continue. Round and round I went with the horse. "Hey, I could get dizzy," I called to him. He motioned to me to hold the rope over my head and keep stationary while the horse keep doing circles. This went on for a few minutes, and then the guy left. I mean he just left. No "I go now," or "Be back later,"--he just left. "Oh, great. What if all 1500 pounds of horse decides to run AT me instead of AROUND me?" I wondered. The only pet I ever owned was a parakeet. Shouldn't OSHA be involved here? An Animal Control Officer? The ACLU? (For the horse, of course.) In about ten minutes the guy came back with another horse and introduced himself as Ezekiel. I guess he was just taking advantage of a second pair of hands so he could get his work done faster. Or maybe he wanted to see what a complete gringo would do if left alone with a rather large animal. Ezekiel concisely explained to me that the horses just needed to "exercise--run around" and the brown horse's time was finished. "See?" he explained, touching the neck of the horse that had begun to lather. So now we had a brown horse and a black piebald. Ezekiel tied up Brownie, for lack of knowing his real name, and switched halters so Blackie, who was about to take his turn at running circles. Ezekiel told me in his somewhat broken English that he would take Brownie back to the barn for some water. Feeling a little weird at this point, I thanked him for an experience I never would have had if something had not urged me to turn around. In his very easy way, Ezekiel told me to come back any time--that he was always there.
I have ridden my bike past that place a zillion times and have never seen anyone, let alone Ezekiel. I rode away feeling very thankful that a 40-something Hispanic guy would invite a 60-something white lady to peek inside his life in Estes Park, if even for only a few minutes. It's going to be a great day.
Always,
Winter
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Siren Song of the Counter Culture
I HAD to go pickin' yesterday. The stuff alongside the highways and byways must have been calling me. That's it! Maybe among things junk, it is considered an honor to get picked up. Can't you just hear the trash, "Pick me! Pick me!" On the other hand, do you like it when someone puts YOU in your place? That's exactly what I do, after all--aluminum cans in one sack, recyclables No.1-6 in a bin, glass in another bin, cardboard in the truck bed, gloves in that plastic sack hanging by the back door and everything else in a bag destined for the dump--unless it's something really nifty that I want to keep like a humongous bolt, or something I can't identify. Later on, Jack will tell me what it is. Anyway, it was such a lovely morning, I broke the Golden Rule. Oh, not THAT Golden Rule. My Picker's Golden Rule: "No pickin' over two hours." The primary reason for this self-imposed mandate is not that I'm too busy and have other more pressing matters to attend to, but that inevitably at the 2-hour mark, the trash bag is too heavy and unwieldy to carry. Never the less, I picked for 2 and one-half hours.
My feet kept taking me away from the house instead of toward the house. The price was paid later on as I had to propel my bag in a rhythmic swinging motion with my right leg pushing it as I walked north on Hiway 7. (I have this move perfected from many times of ignoring my Golden Rule.) Speaking of rules, I don't think they are made to be broken, do you? Rules are made to be kept; records are made to be broken--like the 3-way tie among Tom Dempsey, Jason Elam and Sebastian Janikowski for the longest NFL field goal--63 yards. Man I love football. OK, Winter, concentrate.
Turning west on Scott Avenue and just up the road a bit there is easy access to Fish Creek. All the cans and cups know that and somehow throw themselves into the water at that location. Noticing a styrofoam cup in the center of a quiet pool, I carefully picked my way down the rock-strewn creekside to its rescue. Too late, I realized the pool was so utterly quiet because it was frozen and so was my styrofoam cup. Not wanting to make a total waste of my effort to reach the cup, I retreated in a different direction and was rewarded with these finds: 2 tissues, a newspaper, a plastic bag and a CSU cup from McDonald's. Continuing west on Scott, I noticed a kiddie pool in the drainage area of Perch Pond. (Named by my grandsons for that plentiful freshwater gamefish.) It blew there from who-knows-where along with 3 plastic plant pots and several plastic bags. Abandoning my big, black bag and picker, I navigated the slippery, partly frozen slope to the blue plastic wading pool. I couldn't resist salvaging the pots as well, and nearly lost my balance dragging everything up to the street. Hmmmmm...I honestly think the wading pool was wider than our Honda, and I sure wasn't going to drag that thing over a mile back to my house. Enter Jack. He answered the phone at work and didn't seem a bit surprised to hear that I was leaving a pool at the intersection of Baldpate Court and Scott Avenue. Before I could walk another 20 feet, he came grinding his way up the street in the company truck. Yay! He made the big, blue, broken tub disappear. Thanks, Jack.
Quickly passing three mama elk with that what-do-you-think-you're-doing-here look in their eyes, it wasn't long before I warmed up enough to unzip my winter jacket and even my Nebraska sweatshirt. Sometimes I wonder why homeowners aren't interested in picking up the trash in their own yards, but while wondering, I reached Hiway 7. Lots of folks use the bike/walking path on 7, and one lady thanked me for what I was obviously doing and also warned: "Be sure to check for ticks when you get home."
All in all, it was a lovely spring-like day--almost inconceivable that one week earlier I had nearly frozen in less than a quarter of the time. As I walked along, my black bag, which wasn't in very good shape when I left home, kept slipping and ripping, so it was great timing when I found a large clear bag stuck in a bush. It was the perfect salvation for my holey, ripped black bag and allowed me to stuff even more stuff into the doubled sack. Besides all the normal trash, I discovered a big, red Christmas bow, 3 ever-present Marlboro cigarette packs, a gas cap, golf ball and a really cute polaroid picture of what I'm guessing was an 11-year-old kid in a striped tee shirt at Lake Estes Marina holding his 2 lb. 17-inch catch. Too bad this event is no longer recorded for posterity, as the picture made its way to the bottom of the bag.
Oh! Also found: 2 CDs. The first was 13 Moons by Charles Frazier, published in 2006. This is apparently a kind of coming of age novel about a boy who is adopted by Bear, a Cherokee Chief. Fascinating, I'm sure, but it went into the bag. The second was a copy of "Siren Song of the Counter Culture" by Rise Against. I just wish somebody would rise against littering and careless corralling of trash. Good grief, what was a empty Raisin Bran box doing on Hiway 7?
Always,
Winter
My feet kept taking me away from the house instead of toward the house. The price was paid later on as I had to propel my bag in a rhythmic swinging motion with my right leg pushing it as I walked north on Hiway 7. (I have this move perfected from many times of ignoring my Golden Rule.) Speaking of rules, I don't think they are made to be broken, do you? Rules are made to be kept; records are made to be broken--like the 3-way tie among Tom Dempsey, Jason Elam and Sebastian Janikowski for the longest NFL field goal--63 yards. Man I love football. OK, Winter, concentrate.
Turning west on Scott Avenue and just up the road a bit there is easy access to Fish Creek. All the cans and cups know that and somehow throw themselves into the water at that location. Noticing a styrofoam cup in the center of a quiet pool, I carefully picked my way down the rock-strewn creekside to its rescue. Too late, I realized the pool was so utterly quiet because it was frozen and so was my styrofoam cup. Not wanting to make a total waste of my effort to reach the cup, I retreated in a different direction and was rewarded with these finds: 2 tissues, a newspaper, a plastic bag and a CSU cup from McDonald's. Continuing west on Scott, I noticed a kiddie pool in the drainage area of Perch Pond. (Named by my grandsons for that plentiful freshwater gamefish.) It blew there from who-knows-where along with 3 plastic plant pots and several plastic bags. Abandoning my big, black bag and picker, I navigated the slippery, partly frozen slope to the blue plastic wading pool. I couldn't resist salvaging the pots as well, and nearly lost my balance dragging everything up to the street. Hmmmmm...I honestly think the wading pool was wider than our Honda, and I sure wasn't going to drag that thing over a mile back to my house. Enter Jack. He answered the phone at work and didn't seem a bit surprised to hear that I was leaving a pool at the intersection of Baldpate Court and Scott Avenue. Before I could walk another 20 feet, he came grinding his way up the street in the company truck. Yay! He made the big, blue, broken tub disappear. Thanks, Jack.
Quickly passing three mama elk with that what-do-you-think-you're-doing-here look in their eyes, it wasn't long before I warmed up enough to unzip my winter jacket and even my Nebraska sweatshirt. Sometimes I wonder why homeowners aren't interested in picking up the trash in their own yards, but while wondering, I reached Hiway 7. Lots of folks use the bike/walking path on 7, and one lady thanked me for what I was obviously doing and also warned: "Be sure to check for ticks when you get home."
All in all, it was a lovely spring-like day--almost inconceivable that one week earlier I had nearly frozen in less than a quarter of the time. As I walked along, my black bag, which wasn't in very good shape when I left home, kept slipping and ripping, so it was great timing when I found a large clear bag stuck in a bush. It was the perfect salvation for my holey, ripped black bag and allowed me to stuff even more stuff into the doubled sack. Besides all the normal trash, I discovered a big, red Christmas bow, 3 ever-present Marlboro cigarette packs, a gas cap, golf ball and a really cute polaroid picture of what I'm guessing was an 11-year-old kid in a striped tee shirt at Lake Estes Marina holding his 2 lb. 17-inch catch. Too bad this event is no longer recorded for posterity, as the picture made its way to the bottom of the bag.
Oh! Also found: 2 CDs. The first was 13 Moons by Charles Frazier, published in 2006. This is apparently a kind of coming of age novel about a boy who is adopted by Bear, a Cherokee Chief. Fascinating, I'm sure, but it went into the bag. The second was a copy of "Siren Song of the Counter Culture" by Rise Against. I just wish somebody would rise against littering and careless corralling of trash. Good grief, what was a empty Raisin Bran box doing on Hiway 7?
Always,
Winter
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