Jack and I recently returned from a short trip to Bozeman, Montana, where we thrilled to watch our grandsons play football for their respective teams. The Sleeping Giant Middle School Cougers shut out the Belgrade Panthers, but the Livingston JV Park High Rangers lost up in Lewistown. We were never the less honored to be part of Ben and Colten's lives for a brief time. They're growing into wonderful young men.
Of course I continued my daily routine of pickin' while visiting The Treasure State. You may ask if Montana trash is any different than Colorado's. Bottles from our very own micro brewery here in Estes aside, litter is pretty much litter in both places. There were empty cans of Mike's Harder Lemonade, Arizona Tea, Mountain Dew, 5-Hour Energy, Rock Star Energy, Budweiser, Dr. Pepper and Red Bull just to name a few similarities. There weren't nearly as many ciggies, that almost assuredly due to the fact that pickin' was partly carried out on school grounds. That's encouraging.
We're home now, but I want to take you back to October 5th, the Wednesday before we left. It was another perfect day in Estes Park. It was perfect for just about anything, but my thing is definitely pickin' up trash. Jack dropped me off at Ride-a-Kart, and I realized at once that I had never picked south of Highway 34 or north of Highway 36--that well-known little by-way called Mall Road.
Mall Road was named after the well-known and beloved Jacob O. Mall who came to practice medicine in Estes Park in 1932. He had graduated the previous year from the University of Nebraska. Dr. Mall was trained in surgery, obstetrics and orthopedics, but rarely took care of anything but ordinary colds and ordinary illnesses. Dr. Wiest had been doctoring in Estes since 1905 when Dr. Mall arrived. As Dr. Mall's career progressed, he did have the opportunity to deliver lots and lots of babies. When asked how many, he answered, "Hundreds and hundreds. I wish I had kept track. They were all home deliveries. It was much safer at home than at a hospital where there were all kinds of infections. Antibiotics had not been invented yet." There were fewer than 1,000 residents in those days. Office calls were $2.00 and a home visit $4.00.
If not one of the highlights of Dr. Mall's life, it certainly was the highlight of his wife's when they bought 5 acres of land and a beautiful new home for $14,000 in 1938 on the rocky hill near the south end of what is now Mall Road. Dr. Mall left Estes Park to join the war effort, and upon his return in 1946 opened a 12-bed hospital. Not long after, Blue Cross caused Dr. Mall's hospital and many others to close as they would pay a meagar $8.00/day per patient including feeding them. Dr. Mall, simply couldn't do it at that rate, and closed down. That brings us right up to the present, doesn't it?
The view of the Continental divide is sensual from Mall Road. At least it was that morning as the sun hit Hallet, Flattop, Notchtop and Knobtop in glorious shades of carnation and crimson, prompting me to remember our son, Sterling's, comical if not earnest appraisal of a sunset: "Jesus is sure a real good Pinker." Reluctantly, I turned my attention from the glory that is Estes Park in the early morning, to my pet project--pickin' up trash on the road, by the road and down the sides of Mall Road. My cell phone rang. It was Jack, not 40 yards up the road calling to alert me to all the trash he was noticing as he drove north. "I'm on it," I responded. Indeed, in minutes I was filling my bag quickly with soda cans, beer cans, ciggies and 2 Vitamin Water bottles, reminding me that some litterbugs are health conscious. Truly, this area had been neglected. Noticing a nice collection of cans and plastic bags on the east side of the fence, I made my way down an obviously worn path. A small but stern warning greeted me: "No Tresspassing." "Oh come now, you couldn't possibly mean me--Garbage Grandma? How can I beautify this area if I don't walk down to the fence and climb over or through it thus ignoring your sign?" Not normally a rules-are-meant-to-be-broken kind of girl, I very cautiously slipped between strands of barbed wire careful not to snag my brand new sweatshirt. Yes! There was a ton of junk there. Not a literal ton of course. Even if I knew the weight of all the trash I've picked up in the nearly 11 months since beginning this adventure, it wouldn't even closely approach 2,000 pounds. The most I've ever picked up and hauled home in one day was 12 pounds. That was a mistake.
Moving south down the road--still on the east side of the fence--another sign: "NO HUNTING." This one was really wrong. I was hunting. It didn't say no hunting for trash, so I ignored that one too. Guess what I found? A grill from a car, a mouse trap and a joker from a deck of cards. Now that's what I call eclectic. In fact, I might put that on my business card or my tee shirt--"Garbage Grandma, Eclectic Collector." Jack showed up way too soon. Even though I wanted to finish pickin' the whole road, Jack was my ride, and I sure didn't want to carry that car grill all the way home.
Jump to the present with me. Today's chosen area of collection was the Safeway parking lot. Not wanting to walk all the way there and back, I rode my bike and stopped on a dime at a red light which brought my total to $60.59. Life is good.
Always,
Winter
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Two Months to Go
In 2 days, September 17, I will have been pickin' 10 months. Another milestone. Since working at the Post Office will prevent me from posting on the 17th, here are my thoughts 2 days early.
Today is a beautiful day to pick--45 degrees, clouds playing hide and seek with the ridges and just a light sprinkle. Leaving home with a smile on my face, I chose the Community Drive route which takes me right past the schools. Since school started a few weeks ago, I have not been disappointed at the number of energy drink cans, McDonalds paraphernalia, candy bar wrappers and ciggies distributed along my path just waiting entrance into my big, black bag. Today I found a bright yellow #2/HB Dixon pencil. Imagine. Kids today are still using pencils in school. Somehow I thought 21st century students might have eclipsed that one-time necessity. As I dropped the pencil into my BBG, my thoughts wandered into the future. Maybe some day I will find discarded ipads along the road for a few blocks surrounding the schools. Now that would be progress!
More and more folks are stopping at random times and places to say "Thanks." That makes it really fun for me. One older man in particular walked past, then did a double take and returned to tell me how he and his wife appreciated the town keeping all the junk picked up in spite of the tourists. (The bright safety vest never fails to misidentify me.) I never tell guys like that that I don't work for the town. Why spoil the great image he has developed? One very warm day 2 weeks ago, I followed a trail of wrappers and soggy tissues up a drive and found myself pickin' just east of Chipper's Lanes. Sean Murray was behind his shop working on a car. Not wanting to disturb him, I picked around the area where he was working and avoided his space. He disappeared for a moment, but quickly returned and headed right for me. "I just wanted to thank you for picking up all the trash around here," he started, and then held out a folded bill. "Oh, I can't accept money for doing this," I began. (Wait...how much is that?) "No, take it. I want you to take it and have a nice lunch," he continued. "Well, okay, thank you very much," I said taking the cash. Sean went on to tell me how he was about to close up shop and head to Utah for the Labor Day weekend. After he left, I checked to see just where I would be going to lunch, and WOW! There were 2 fives neatly folded in fourths. Sean might not know it, but he just inadvertently purchased trash protection for Murray & Sons Automotive for some time to come. People are so nice, don't you think?
Speaking of nice people, one guy actually came to my house while I was sitting in my car in the drive waiting for Lee. (You should know it is usually the other way 'round.) He explained how he had seen me pickin' by Moraine Avenue and Elm Road (known to locals as the Dump Road.) "I think it is so wonderful how you are out there day after day picking up other people's junk. I see you all the time. Would you mind if I wrote a letter to the paper about what you're doing?" I thanked him, but made it very clear that I don't want or need any publicity. "Well, okay. I wondered if you would. Just let me say thanks again," and away he walked. It was Jeb, my next door neighbor. As part of the conversation, he also mentioned how he hadn't gotten any chocolate chip cookies in a while.
When my year is over, it's going to be really fun to tally all the miles and hours I've spent. Just in the past week, I picked 5 hours and 55 minutes and walked approximately 8 miles. When all is said and done on November 17, 2011, it won't be done. I'll probably still get out my picker from time to time, find my gloves and locate a big, black bag. I can't just quit cold turkey.
Always,
Winter
Today is a beautiful day to pick--45 degrees, clouds playing hide and seek with the ridges and just a light sprinkle. Leaving home with a smile on my face, I chose the Community Drive route which takes me right past the schools. Since school started a few weeks ago, I have not been disappointed at the number of energy drink cans, McDonalds paraphernalia, candy bar wrappers and ciggies distributed along my path just waiting entrance into my big, black bag. Today I found a bright yellow #2/HB Dixon pencil. Imagine. Kids today are still using pencils in school. Somehow I thought 21st century students might have eclipsed that one-time necessity. As I dropped the pencil into my BBG, my thoughts wandered into the future. Maybe some day I will find discarded ipads along the road for a few blocks surrounding the schools. Now that would be progress!
More and more folks are stopping at random times and places to say "Thanks." That makes it really fun for me. One older man in particular walked past, then did a double take and returned to tell me how he and his wife appreciated the town keeping all the junk picked up in spite of the tourists. (The bright safety vest never fails to misidentify me.) I never tell guys like that that I don't work for the town. Why spoil the great image he has developed? One very warm day 2 weeks ago, I followed a trail of wrappers and soggy tissues up a drive and found myself pickin' just east of Chipper's Lanes. Sean Murray was behind his shop working on a car. Not wanting to disturb him, I picked around the area where he was working and avoided his space. He disappeared for a moment, but quickly returned and headed right for me. "I just wanted to thank you for picking up all the trash around here," he started, and then held out a folded bill. "Oh, I can't accept money for doing this," I began. (Wait...how much is that?) "No, take it. I want you to take it and have a nice lunch," he continued. "Well, okay, thank you very much," I said taking the cash. Sean went on to tell me how he was about to close up shop and head to Utah for the Labor Day weekend. After he left, I checked to see just where I would be going to lunch, and WOW! There were 2 fives neatly folded in fourths. Sean might not know it, but he just inadvertently purchased trash protection for Murray & Sons Automotive for some time to come. People are so nice, don't you think?
Speaking of nice people, one guy actually came to my house while I was sitting in my car in the drive waiting for Lee. (You should know it is usually the other way 'round.) He explained how he had seen me pickin' by Moraine Avenue and Elm Road (known to locals as the Dump Road.) "I think it is so wonderful how you are out there day after day picking up other people's junk. I see you all the time. Would you mind if I wrote a letter to the paper about what you're doing?" I thanked him, but made it very clear that I don't want or need any publicity. "Well, okay. I wondered if you would. Just let me say thanks again," and away he walked. It was Jeb, my next door neighbor. As part of the conversation, he also mentioned how he hadn't gotten any chocolate chip cookies in a while.
When my year is over, it's going to be really fun to tally all the miles and hours I've spent. Just in the past week, I picked 5 hours and 55 minutes and walked approximately 8 miles. When all is said and done on November 17, 2011, it won't be done. I'll probably still get out my picker from time to time, find my gloves and locate a big, black bag. I can't just quit cold turkey.
Always,
Winter
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Driveup Starbucks
It's 6:45 Monday night, and I'm pickin'. Decided to walk to town as I'm never disappointed at the amount of junk waiting for pickup on the west side of Hwy. 7. This night was no exception as there in the middle of the intersection of Stanley Avenue and Hwy. 7 was an 80-pound bag of Portland cement. The bag was broken, and cement was piled high clogging up the intersection. I tugged at the bag. Ugh! Even with part of the bag spread around, it was still pretty heavy. Wouldn't you know if an 80-pound bag of Portland fell off the back of your truck? Wouldn't you want to stop and salvage as much of the cement as you could? Well, probably not considering an 80-pound bag costs only $4.90. Time is money after all.
You guys know the most common use for cement is production of concrete, right? The name is derived from its similarity to Portland Stone, a building stone quarried on the Isle of Portland in Dorset, England. The raw materials in Portland cement are calcium oxide, silicon oxide, aluminum oxide, ferric oxide and magnesium oxide. Pretty oxidious, huh? Cement is one of 3 materials used to make concrete, the other 2 being sand and water. So please don't confuse or use the words concrete and cement interchangeably, e.g. "Tommy, don't play in Aunt Alice's flower bed; stay on the cement."
Anyway, a little sand, a little rain and this could turn into a real mess. I couldn't just leave it there. Dropping my black bag and picker at the curb, I lugged the half bag of cement to the side of the road. At least that way no more trucks would make the bag their target. What's a picker to do? I made mental plans to come back for the rest, residue and remainder of the stuff at a later time, and I continued north on 7.
There is a completely different crowd out at 7:00 p.m. than at 6:00 a.m. At 7 p.m. all the tourists are hurrying to their favorite restaurant. At 6 a.m.--well, you know what? There aren't really that many people out at that hour. It's cool, quiet, and what in the world was I doing out pickin' past 7 p.m? Tim and Brenda probably wondered the same thing as they zoomed past, their Jeep greeting me with several friendly beeps. I checked the time. 7:40. Lee had arranged earlier to pick me up at Starbucks at about 8:00. What was I going to do for the next 20 minutes? I guess I could always go inside and get a cup of water. Oh, there's something to look forward to: sitting alone by the river with my safety vest on drinking a Starbucks water. Just as I was picturing this travesty, the Jeep pulled up beside me in the southbound lane. There was Brenda handing me a grande latte and Tim asking if I needed sugar, napkins or a straw. Friends do the most randomly wonderful things! As suddenly as they had appeared, off they went with the largest smiles on their faces I've ever seen.
Change of plans. I walked the 50 yards or so to the river behind Starbucks and sat there in my safety vest with my driveup Starbucks and MY great big smile! I called Lee, and sweetheart that he is, came with the truck and a flat-nosed shovel to clean up the cement at Stanley Ave. and Hwy. 7 while I enjoyed my coffee. We agreed to meet at the library parking lot. Swallowing the last precious drop, I picked my way across the street. A middle-aged man leaning against his car mused, "Ive never seen anyone picking up trash after dark. Can you choose your own hours? "Yes, I can," came my quick reply.
Always,
Winter
You guys know the most common use for cement is production of concrete, right? The name is derived from its similarity to Portland Stone, a building stone quarried on the Isle of Portland in Dorset, England. The raw materials in Portland cement are calcium oxide, silicon oxide, aluminum oxide, ferric oxide and magnesium oxide. Pretty oxidious, huh? Cement is one of 3 materials used to make concrete, the other 2 being sand and water. So please don't confuse or use the words concrete and cement interchangeably, e.g. "Tommy, don't play in Aunt Alice's flower bed; stay on the cement."
Anyway, a little sand, a little rain and this could turn into a real mess. I couldn't just leave it there. Dropping my black bag and picker at the curb, I lugged the half bag of cement to the side of the road. At least that way no more trucks would make the bag their target. What's a picker to do? I made mental plans to come back for the rest, residue and remainder of the stuff at a later time, and I continued north on 7.
There is a completely different crowd out at 7:00 p.m. than at 6:00 a.m. At 7 p.m. all the tourists are hurrying to their favorite restaurant. At 6 a.m.--well, you know what? There aren't really that many people out at that hour. It's cool, quiet, and what in the world was I doing out pickin' past 7 p.m? Tim and Brenda probably wondered the same thing as they zoomed past, their Jeep greeting me with several friendly beeps. I checked the time. 7:40. Lee had arranged earlier to pick me up at Starbucks at about 8:00. What was I going to do for the next 20 minutes? I guess I could always go inside and get a cup of water. Oh, there's something to look forward to: sitting alone by the river with my safety vest on drinking a Starbucks water. Just as I was picturing this travesty, the Jeep pulled up beside me in the southbound lane. There was Brenda handing me a grande latte and Tim asking if I needed sugar, napkins or a straw. Friends do the most randomly wonderful things! As suddenly as they had appeared, off they went with the largest smiles on their faces I've ever seen.
Change of plans. I walked the 50 yards or so to the river behind Starbucks and sat there in my safety vest with my driveup Starbucks and MY great big smile! I called Lee, and sweetheart that he is, came with the truck and a flat-nosed shovel to clean up the cement at Stanley Ave. and Hwy. 7 while I enjoyed my coffee. We agreed to meet at the library parking lot. Swallowing the last precious drop, I picked my way across the street. A middle-aged man leaning against his car mused, "Ive never seen anyone picking up trash after dark. Can you choose your own hours? "Yes, I can," came my quick reply.
Always,
Winter
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
I Voted!
Several times people who know I'm a junk junkie will ask, "What is the most interesting or unusual thing you have found?" That's a tough question as many roadside treasures seem interesting to me. Take today for example. After one hour and 25 minutes of pickin' I found a red umbrella cover, a black plastic motorcycle battery cover, eyeglasses minus the "glass," and two "I Voted" stickers. Now that's unusual. It has been some time since the last election, so...what? Somebody driving along saw those stickers on his dash and thought, "Oh, I don't need those any more" and tossed them out the window? I guess. Then I found a Panther Martin "Guaranateed to catch fish or it costs you nothing" card which had once contained a lure. This was neither interesting or unusual--it was disappointing. If there is one purist people group left, it should be fishermen, right? Why would anybody buy a Panther Martin lure, rip it off the card and throw the package out the window? And why is a company that sells rods, reels, flies and lures called Panther Martin? They actually have a black panter as their logo. Do panthers like to fish? Or, and this is the explanation I prefer, once upon a time there was a big, black dude nick-named Panther who lived in Mississippi and won his hometown fishing contest every year by using the same handmade lure. All the guys wanted one like it, but Panther had it patented and wouldn't even show it to them. When he could no longer fish, Panther began making lures and selling them in a small shop. The lures became a must-have for fishermen from coast to coast and Panther became a multi-millionaire. Panther's last name was Martin.
Dolf, a contract carrier sub at the post office saw me pickin' this morning and stopped to say, "You're hard core! You're everywhere!" It's probably a good thing that Dolf can't stay in one place for very long, because he was in the middle of the road. Not long after, a lady in a Lexus slowed to say, "Thank you for doing that." Actually, four people thanked me for pickin' this morning, but it's nice to be noticed by a Lexus.
Here are a few more true stories since my last blog post. I was pickin' on Country Club when a lady called to me from across the street. She was standing in front of her house when she asked, "Do you have a picker? Gloves?" "Do you need glasses?" I wanted to ask. "Will you take my Russian Thistle? I pulled them yesterday, and they are so nasty. I'm leaving today for Durango and really don't want them in my yard." Seriously? Did she think God was just going to send someone in an orange cowboy hat carrying a black garbage bag, green picker and gloves to come get the Russian Thistle out of her hair? He must have, because I took them. I would take almost anything unless it was an upright piano. By the way, she really liked my new Montana cowboy hat.
Earlier that same week I was pickin' on Hwy. 7 when I heard a man's voice saying over and over, "Leave it, leave it, leave it." "Oh, my gosh," I thought, "I have run into somebody who actually doesn't want me to pick up trash." Then I turned to see the guy was talking to his dog.
One morning at 6 a.m. I headed north down Hwy. 7, west on Stanley Avenue, past the hospital and up Moccasin Bypass. About 20 yards from the summit, a darling little black bear scampered across the road in front of me. "Oh, great," I said aloud, wondering if the darling little black bear had a mama. Looking around and seeing no mama, I decided she was having surgery at the hospital and traveled on. When I came to the top of the bypass, I angled away from the road down the steep side of a ravine where I had noticed a nice collection of cans and bottles a few days earlier. It was pickin' heaven. About half way, I was startled by a lady walking on the bypass who let out a yell, covered her chest with her hands and then exclaimed, "I thought you were a bear!" I went from seeing a bear to being a bear in the space of 10 minutes.
Now I need your help on this last one. Somewhere in Estes Park there is an Indian who has lost an arrow, lost a moccasin and lost his smokes (American Spirit cigarettes.) I know this to be true, because I found those three things. He should be easy to spot given the missing moccasin thing. Let me know if you see him.
Always,
Winter
Dolf, a contract carrier sub at the post office saw me pickin' this morning and stopped to say, "You're hard core! You're everywhere!" It's probably a good thing that Dolf can't stay in one place for very long, because he was in the middle of the road. Not long after, a lady in a Lexus slowed to say, "Thank you for doing that." Actually, four people thanked me for pickin' this morning, but it's nice to be noticed by a Lexus.
Here are a few more true stories since my last blog post. I was pickin' on Country Club when a lady called to me from across the street. She was standing in front of her house when she asked, "Do you have a picker? Gloves?" "Do you need glasses?" I wanted to ask. "Will you take my Russian Thistle? I pulled them yesterday, and they are so nasty. I'm leaving today for Durango and really don't want them in my yard." Seriously? Did she think God was just going to send someone in an orange cowboy hat carrying a black garbage bag, green picker and gloves to come get the Russian Thistle out of her hair? He must have, because I took them. I would take almost anything unless it was an upright piano. By the way, she really liked my new Montana cowboy hat.
Earlier that same week I was pickin' on Hwy. 7 when I heard a man's voice saying over and over, "Leave it, leave it, leave it." "Oh, my gosh," I thought, "I have run into somebody who actually doesn't want me to pick up trash." Then I turned to see the guy was talking to his dog.
One morning at 6 a.m. I headed north down Hwy. 7, west on Stanley Avenue, past the hospital and up Moccasin Bypass. About 20 yards from the summit, a darling little black bear scampered across the road in front of me. "Oh, great," I said aloud, wondering if the darling little black bear had a mama. Looking around and seeing no mama, I decided she was having surgery at the hospital and traveled on. When I came to the top of the bypass, I angled away from the road down the steep side of a ravine where I had noticed a nice collection of cans and bottles a few days earlier. It was pickin' heaven. About half way, I was startled by a lady walking on the bypass who let out a yell, covered her chest with her hands and then exclaimed, "I thought you were a bear!" I went from seeing a bear to being a bear in the space of 10 minutes.
Now I need your help on this last one. Somewhere in Estes Park there is an Indian who has lost an arrow, lost a moccasin and lost his smokes (American Spirit cigarettes.) I know this to be true, because I found those three things. He should be easy to spot given the missing moccasin thing. Let me know if you see him.
Always,
Winter
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Day 245
Happy birthday Sir Edmund Percival Hillary! He would have been 92 today. Did you know Sir Edmund and I are kindred spirits? We have so much in common! He conquered high peaks, I conquer mounds of garbage. He served in the Royal New Zealand Air Force; my brother served in the USAF. Sir Hillary unsuccessfully attempted to climb Cho Oyu, 6th highest mountain in the world on the border of Tibet and Nepal; I also have not summitted Cho Oyu. Sir Hillary was shy, tall (6'5") and harrassed by peers in school. That describes me perfectly. Sir Hillary has a coat of arms with the motto: "Nothing Venture, Nothing Win." I totally agree with that. Sir Hillary has written 12 books that we know of. I have also written several books, but until they get published, you have to call them manuscripts. Perhaps one day I shall be knighted "Sir Garbage."
Now for a few highlights from the last 45 days of the 245 that I have been pickin. On the advice of one who knows me well, I have decided that perhaps "ciggies" would be preferable to my constantly-used blog term "butts." So in the future, ciggies it will be! And speaking of those little mostly-white, sometimes tan cylindrical unused remainders, I have picked up 300 or more in 5 of the last 45 days. Whew! My total is now 15,521. I found quite a few outside the Mountaineer Restaurant this morning. I'm sure the old guys watching me from their table inside were hoping my picker did not come into contct with their Escalade.
People have been so friendly lately. Ken waved from his truck on his way to work at the post office this morning. After dispatching all the trash in front of B&B Food Mart yesterday, Bob, who owns the place, came walking down the sidewalk to thank me. While shaking my hand he observed that I was "doing a great service for the community." Then he quickly asked, "Are you getting paid?" (Lots of people ask me that.) "Well, say 'hi' to Lee."
Shell Gas and Carwash is right next door. I love pickin down there in the rocks, 'cause once I found a five dollar bill. The owner came out unexpectedly one morning to also shake my hand. He introduced himself and said he often sees me pickin and wanted to say "thank you." Then he told me to be careful on the rocks. What? Do I look old or something?
One fine June morning a man called to me across the street from the municipal building. "Is that a Nifty Nabber?" he asked. "Yes, it is. How did you know that?" He said he had one just like it, but a different color green. Now here was a man who obviously appreciated fine equipment. "Only mine has little suction cups on the end that keep falling off. Yours is better," he observed. We went on to discuss the fine points of our Nifty Nabbers when I noticed his wife was giving him that this-is-really-boring look. I was hoping he was going to tell me that he was the Founder, President and CEO of the Nifty Nabber Corporation and offer me a lifetime supply of nabbers. (They don't last forever, you know!)
A short time later, pickin in the NW corner of the First National Bank parking lot where it appeared the wind had deposited the contents of a nearby dumpster, I was startled by a car lock beep and turned to see a daper bank dude walking to his car. "That looks like a dirty job," he commented. "Ah, but I've hit the mother load," I retorted. What I really wanted to say was, "And how can you stand parking your pretty little BMW in this filth every day?" But I held my peace. After all, I might need a loan sometime.
One final word about Sir Edmund Hillary, his Sherpa guide, Tenzing Norgay and the well-known fact that I am technologically challenged. Perhaps Norgay and I could have been kindred spirits as well. Do you know why there is a picture of Norgay on top of Everest, but no picture of Hillary himself? Because Norgay didn't know how to use a camera.
Always,
Winter
Now for a few highlights from the last 45 days of the 245 that I have been pickin. On the advice of one who knows me well, I have decided that perhaps "ciggies" would be preferable to my constantly-used blog term "butts." So in the future, ciggies it will be! And speaking of those little mostly-white, sometimes tan cylindrical unused remainders, I have picked up 300 or more in 5 of the last 45 days. Whew! My total is now 15,521. I found quite a few outside the Mountaineer Restaurant this morning. I'm sure the old guys watching me from their table inside were hoping my picker did not come into contct with their Escalade.
People have been so friendly lately. Ken waved from his truck on his way to work at the post office this morning. After dispatching all the trash in front of B&B Food Mart yesterday, Bob, who owns the place, came walking down the sidewalk to thank me. While shaking my hand he observed that I was "doing a great service for the community." Then he quickly asked, "Are you getting paid?" (Lots of people ask me that.) "Well, say 'hi' to Lee."
Shell Gas and Carwash is right next door. I love pickin down there in the rocks, 'cause once I found a five dollar bill. The owner came out unexpectedly one morning to also shake my hand. He introduced himself and said he often sees me pickin and wanted to say "thank you." Then he told me to be careful on the rocks. What? Do I look old or something?
One fine June morning a man called to me across the street from the municipal building. "Is that a Nifty Nabber?" he asked. "Yes, it is. How did you know that?" He said he had one just like it, but a different color green. Now here was a man who obviously appreciated fine equipment. "Only mine has little suction cups on the end that keep falling off. Yours is better," he observed. We went on to discuss the fine points of our Nifty Nabbers when I noticed his wife was giving him that this-is-really-boring look. I was hoping he was going to tell me that he was the Founder, President and CEO of the Nifty Nabber Corporation and offer me a lifetime supply of nabbers. (They don't last forever, you know!)
A short time later, pickin in the NW corner of the First National Bank parking lot where it appeared the wind had deposited the contents of a nearby dumpster, I was startled by a car lock beep and turned to see a daper bank dude walking to his car. "That looks like a dirty job," he commented. "Ah, but I've hit the mother load," I retorted. What I really wanted to say was, "And how can you stand parking your pretty little BMW in this filth every day?" But I held my peace. After all, I might need a loan sometime.
One final word about Sir Edmund Hillary, his Sherpa guide, Tenzing Norgay and the well-known fact that I am technologically challenged. Perhaps Norgay and I could have been kindred spirits as well. Do you know why there is a picture of Norgay on top of Everest, but no picture of Hillary himself? Because Norgay didn't know how to use a camera.
Always,
Winter
Thursday, June 30, 2011
All Plugged Up
It was a beautiful cloudy morning--perfect for a pick/walk. Perhaps I have just coined a term: pick/walk \'pik/'wok\ n (ca. 2011) [prob from picking up trash while taking a walk] : the art of clamping trash with an instrument used for that purpose and depositing it in a waste receptacle while strolling along a street or highway. There. Now all I have to do is notify Merriam-Webster.
It's Thursday, so I had a destination pick/walk--the Farmer's Market. (I couldn't return the dry, chewy, perfect-for-silage corn I bought the previous week, but I sure could try to get my money back.) Starting what has by now become my all-too-familiar routine, I pulled on my leather gloves, folded down the top of my garbage bag and crossed the hiway in front of my house. I chirped a friendly "Hello!" to the first person I met--a young man carrying a backpack and walking toward me. No response. Distressed that my greeting-a-total-stranger charm may be fading, I then "good morninged" a cyclist who turned right in front of me. Nothing. This was perplexing as years ago I concluded after careful study that 99.99 out of 100 people will respond to a smile and a hi if you make the effort. "What's wrong with you people?" I muttered aloud. When the 3rd person totally ignored my greeting as he swooshed past on his bicycle, it dawned on me that none of these guys could hear me. "Why not?" I wondered. These are young people in their prime ear years! You probably have guessed what I'm getting at. Earbuds! Their ears are plugged with those black, pink, white, gray, silver, purple, blue or green noise-reducing, noise isolating, interchangeable silicone ear pieces attached to cords so one can listen to his iPod, iTouch, iPhone or mp3 player. This prevents these kids from entering into and enjoying the world around them. In 40 years, I wonder if they will accept stuffing hearing aids into their ears with the same careless abandon.
Those of you who view texting and e-mail as the cause of the premature death of something we used to call "letters" may also well hold iPods and their attached Earbuds responsible for atrophied manners such as the common greeting of passers-by on the street. What are these kids listening to anyway? Music? Since when does everyone like music so much that they cannot leave their homes without being connected to "You Give Love a Bad Name" (Bon Jovi) or some equally uplifting ditty accompanied by so much percussion that you can't understand the lyrics anyway? (Not understanding the lyrics might be a good thing except for the outrageously brutal vibrations received by body parts located from the chin upwards.) OK. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I suppose they could be listening to Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F Major, but I doubt it.
What will become of these noise addicts? They are missing the robin's encouraging song, the screech of a magpie, the haunting cry of the falcon, the rustling of the breeze, the ambulance turning left in front of them at the corner! They're going to forget life's small, but endearing custom of greeting a fellow occupant of the planet as he walks through life. Maybe if they are addicted soon enough, they'll never learn how even one unbidden smile can make someone's day. It's true--try it for yourself. I suppose all this electronic railing puts me squarely in the over-50 demographic. Just this week, my daughter explained to me, "Mom, people have a hard time reading you." So call me a geezer, i.e. "odd or eccentric." Guilty! But at least I'm a friendly, unplugged geezer. I just want to say "Hi!"
Always,
Winter
It's Thursday, so I had a destination pick/walk--the Farmer's Market. (I couldn't return the dry, chewy, perfect-for-silage corn I bought the previous week, but I sure could try to get my money back.) Starting what has by now become my all-too-familiar routine, I pulled on my leather gloves, folded down the top of my garbage bag and crossed the hiway in front of my house. I chirped a friendly "Hello!" to the first person I met--a young man carrying a backpack and walking toward me. No response. Distressed that my greeting-a-total-stranger charm may be fading, I then "good morninged" a cyclist who turned right in front of me. Nothing. This was perplexing as years ago I concluded after careful study that 99.99 out of 100 people will respond to a smile and a hi if you make the effort. "What's wrong with you people?" I muttered aloud. When the 3rd person totally ignored my greeting as he swooshed past on his bicycle, it dawned on me that none of these guys could hear me. "Why not?" I wondered. These are young people in their prime ear years! You probably have guessed what I'm getting at. Earbuds! Their ears are plugged with those black, pink, white, gray, silver, purple, blue or green noise-reducing, noise isolating, interchangeable silicone ear pieces attached to cords so one can listen to his iPod, iTouch, iPhone or mp3 player. This prevents these kids from entering into and enjoying the world around them. In 40 years, I wonder if they will accept stuffing hearing aids into their ears with the same careless abandon.
Those of you who view texting and e-mail as the cause of the premature death of something we used to call "letters" may also well hold iPods and their attached Earbuds responsible for atrophied manners such as the common greeting of passers-by on the street. What are these kids listening to anyway? Music? Since when does everyone like music so much that they cannot leave their homes without being connected to "You Give Love a Bad Name" (Bon Jovi) or some equally uplifting ditty accompanied by so much percussion that you can't understand the lyrics anyway? (Not understanding the lyrics might be a good thing except for the outrageously brutal vibrations received by body parts located from the chin upwards.) OK. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I suppose they could be listening to Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F Major, but I doubt it.
What will become of these noise addicts? They are missing the robin's encouraging song, the screech of a magpie, the haunting cry of the falcon, the rustling of the breeze, the ambulance turning left in front of them at the corner! They're going to forget life's small, but endearing custom of greeting a fellow occupant of the planet as he walks through life. Maybe if they are addicted soon enough, they'll never learn how even one unbidden smile can make someone's day. It's true--try it for yourself. I suppose all this electronic railing puts me squarely in the over-50 demographic. Just this week, my daughter explained to me, "Mom, people have a hard time reading you." So call me a geezer, i.e. "odd or eccentric." Guilty! But at least I'm a friendly, unplugged geezer. I just want to say "Hi!"
Always,
Winter
Friday, June 17, 2011
Lucky 7
Yippie ki yo ki yay! Big milestone--or is it a millstone? I have officially passed the 7-month-pickin' mark. I have lots to say about that, but first--allow me to opine on why I cannot/do not cook, an entirely unrelated topic. It was recently suggested to me by my son, Sterling, that I try to make at least one home-cooked meal each day. (How about breakfast, Sterling? I was thinking oatmeal.) Challenge! So remember how much I like carbs? A burrito seemed harmless and easy. But what really goes in a burrito? I had never made one before. I picked up some tortillas and figured I was off to a pretty good start. There was turkey burger and lettuce in the frig. What else could there be? I googled "how to make a burriot" and got nowhere. That's because "burriot" and idiot kind of rhyme, and google knew who was asking. Finally, the "Best Burrito Ever" recipe came up. It demanded I use rice, beans, onion, avacado, tomato, cheese, sour cream and salsa. What? No turkey burger or lettuce? This was disconcerting as the only ingredient I had on the list was rice.
Rice. Yes! I have tons of rice, because I heard on Fox News a couple of weeks ago that the Mississippi flooded all the rice crops in the south--most notably Arkansas--and rice prices were due to soar. We don't eat rice very often, but better safe than sorry, right? I bought several large bags which I thought would hold us until the flood water receded and rice prices dropped. I put the rice on to boil and went to Safeway for everything else. Bad plan. Going to Safeway in Estes Park any time between May and December is usually a bad plan. I got the beans, onion, avacado, tomato, cheese, sour cream and salsa and "dashed" home (as my step-mother would say.) Too late. I won't say there was smoke coming out the windows, but the rice was a mass of thick blackness super-glued to the bottom of my Revere Ware. Oh! So you should be home when making a home-cooked meal. Back to the drawing board (remember I have LOTS of rice) and a do-over. Thirty minutes or so later, Jack and I sat down to the "Best Burrito Ever." Half-way into it, I commented that it didn't taste that great. Then we discovered I had forgotten the sour cream and cheese. Let's face it, I pick way better than I cook. Back to Lucky 7.
Let's explore 7 a little bit. The number 7 is called a "lucky prime" and a "safe prime." 7 is the lowest number that cannot be represented as the sum of the squares of three integers. (Really?) There are 7 fundamental types of catastrophes. Only 7? I can think of three right off: 1. You arrive at SBux for a much anticipated latte only to discover they have closed 5 minutes earlier. 2. You arrive at SBux before they close, but they have run out of Pumpkin Spice syrup. 3. You arrive at SBux, but forget your SBux card, so you have to use your regular card and don't get credit toward your Sweet 15. See? There are way more than 7 catastrophes.
Everybody really likes the number 7. Think about 7-Eleven, 7UP, the 7 Dwarfs, 7 Brides for 7 Brothers, The Magnificent 7, the book 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. (Haven't read that one yet.) Then there is James Bond 007, Danica Patrick is NASCAR driver #7, New York Yankee great #7 Micky Mantle, Chicago Bears' George Halas #7, Phil Esposito, NHL Boston Bruins #7, and we'll never forget Denver Bronco's #7 John Elway. (Bet you never in your wildest dreams thought you'd make it into my blog, huh John?) Then there's the 7th inning stretch attributed to 27th President William Howard Taft. (Hmmm...somebody got tired of sitting.) There are 7 days in a week (aren't you glad?) 7 deadly sins, the 7-branched menorah, 7 seas, 7 Sisters (Pleiades) and some weirdo with 7 fingers on each hand, 7 toes on each foot and 7 pupils in each eye called Cuchulainn. (He might be deceased.) Let's face it, 7 is the perfect number. I don't know about the lucky part. My brother, John, always used to say, "My luck ran out when I met Jesus." Amen brother!
So I celebrate the 7-month anniversary of my year-long Pickin' Project. The first 30 minutes of pickin' this morning were glorious--50 degrees and cloudy. Windy too, but what's new? I've got the twist-in-the-opposite-direction-of-the-wind-to-get-my-bag-open thing down solid. (Don't you feel sorry for "pat" sometimes?) I picked up a lovely black glove today bringing the total to an even 100. It's difficult to think about those poor 100 people running around Estes Park minus one glove. In honor of the occasion, I picked 77 cigarette butts today. Are you ready for the 7-month total: 12,386. I'll end with a few encouraging words from a friend of mine: "Keep pickin' till there's no more trash left in Estes--no ifs, ands or butts!"
Always,
Winter
Rice. Yes! I have tons of rice, because I heard on Fox News a couple of weeks ago that the Mississippi flooded all the rice crops in the south--most notably Arkansas--and rice prices were due to soar. We don't eat rice very often, but better safe than sorry, right? I bought several large bags which I thought would hold us until the flood water receded and rice prices dropped. I put the rice on to boil and went to Safeway for everything else. Bad plan. Going to Safeway in Estes Park any time between May and December is usually a bad plan. I got the beans, onion, avacado, tomato, cheese, sour cream and salsa and "dashed" home (as my step-mother would say.) Too late. I won't say there was smoke coming out the windows, but the rice was a mass of thick blackness super-glued to the bottom of my Revere Ware. Oh! So you should be home when making a home-cooked meal. Back to the drawing board (remember I have LOTS of rice) and a do-over. Thirty minutes or so later, Jack and I sat down to the "Best Burrito Ever." Half-way into it, I commented that it didn't taste that great. Then we discovered I had forgotten the sour cream and cheese. Let's face it, I pick way better than I cook. Back to Lucky 7.
Let's explore 7 a little bit. The number 7 is called a "lucky prime" and a "safe prime." 7 is the lowest number that cannot be represented as the sum of the squares of three integers. (Really?) There are 7 fundamental types of catastrophes. Only 7? I can think of three right off: 1. You arrive at SBux for a much anticipated latte only to discover they have closed 5 minutes earlier. 2. You arrive at SBux before they close, but they have run out of Pumpkin Spice syrup. 3. You arrive at SBux, but forget your SBux card, so you have to use your regular card and don't get credit toward your Sweet 15. See? There are way more than 7 catastrophes.
Everybody really likes the number 7. Think about 7-Eleven, 7UP, the 7 Dwarfs, 7 Brides for 7 Brothers, The Magnificent 7, the book 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. (Haven't read that one yet.) Then there is James Bond 007, Danica Patrick is NASCAR driver #7, New York Yankee great #7 Micky Mantle, Chicago Bears' George Halas #7, Phil Esposito, NHL Boston Bruins #7, and we'll never forget Denver Bronco's #7 John Elway. (Bet you never in your wildest dreams thought you'd make it into my blog, huh John?) Then there's the 7th inning stretch attributed to 27th President William Howard Taft. (Hmmm...somebody got tired of sitting.) There are 7 days in a week (aren't you glad?) 7 deadly sins, the 7-branched menorah, 7 seas, 7 Sisters (Pleiades) and some weirdo with 7 fingers on each hand, 7 toes on each foot and 7 pupils in each eye called Cuchulainn. (He might be deceased.) Let's face it, 7 is the perfect number. I don't know about the lucky part. My brother, John, always used to say, "My luck ran out when I met Jesus." Amen brother!
So I celebrate the 7-month anniversary of my year-long Pickin' Project. The first 30 minutes of pickin' this morning were glorious--50 degrees and cloudy. Windy too, but what's new? I've got the twist-in-the-opposite-direction-of-the-wind-to-get-my-bag-open thing down solid. (Don't you feel sorry for "pat" sometimes?) I picked up a lovely black glove today bringing the total to an even 100. It's difficult to think about those poor 100 people running around Estes Park minus one glove. In honor of the occasion, I picked 77 cigarette butts today. Are you ready for the 7-month total: 12,386. I'll end with a few encouraging words from a friend of mine: "Keep pickin' till there's no more trash left in Estes--no ifs, ands or butts!"
Always,
Winter
Sunday, June 12, 2011
The Unusual
Today I picked for an hour on the 34 Bypass north of town. The usual culprits showed up--203 cigarette butts, one Marlboro pack, four Virginia Slims packs, a Red Bull can, a Dr. Pepper can (Paul wasn't on the bypass, was he?) plastic Safeway bags and a piece of cardboard. In the more unusual column was a "yocrunch" blue knit glove for somebody with extremely large hands--let me know if you lost one--a Do It Best Orange Marking Paint spray can, a vintage-looking silver Christmas ornament, a beefy hook attached to a 15-inch length of towing strap and a 1929 Model A.
Right! Picking up trash along the road, I came across a car pulled just off the hiway. I was trying to determine the problem the guy was having without being too obvious. After all, I'm not a mechanic or anything. As I got closer, the man standing in the road talking to the driver of the car called out, "Are you doing your civic duty because you are a solid American citizen?" "Yes, sir, I am," I heard myself say while thinking, "This guy sounds interesting." As I approached the car, I realized that it was towing the afore-mentioned vintage Ford. "I'm Milt, and this is my sister, Connie," he told me after I volunteered my name. Milt was dressed the part in a '20's cap and driving gloves and continued, "My mother had two children and half of them were girls." Here was a genuine character to match what he quickly explained to me was a 1929 Model A Roadster restored to perfection in one of the four original colors: Bonnie Gray. It looked muted green to me. Milt had been out for a good old-fashioned Sunday drive in Endo Valley when his brakes went out on the Model A. "They aren't hydraulic brakes, you know--they're mechanical. I call 'em 'press and pray,'" Milt laughed. Whatever they're called, it was a good thing Milt changed his mind from driving over Trail Ridge Road to just puttering around on this side of the Park where his sister was able to come to his rescue.
Milt bought the little beauty way back when he was in high school--dare I say over 50 years ago--for $100. I mentioned that my husband has always wanted a Model A; Milt said he could have this one for $24,000. Connie jumped into the conversation to say she was nearly mortally embarrassed when Milt would drive her to school in the contraption. "Oh, but it's so beautiful," I exclaimed. "Well, it didn't look like that then!" Connie added.
As we parted company Milt said again how he thought it was pretty unusual for me to be out picking up trash. I thought it was pretty unusual to find a 1929 Model A Roadster, but I guess considering Ford produced 4,320,446 of them, it wasn't too odd. I just hope I don't have to pick up that many cigarette butts!
Always,
Winter
Right! Picking up trash along the road, I came across a car pulled just off the hiway. I was trying to determine the problem the guy was having without being too obvious. After all, I'm not a mechanic or anything. As I got closer, the man standing in the road talking to the driver of the car called out, "Are you doing your civic duty because you are a solid American citizen?" "Yes, sir, I am," I heard myself say while thinking, "This guy sounds interesting." As I approached the car, I realized that it was towing the afore-mentioned vintage Ford. "I'm Milt, and this is my sister, Connie," he told me after I volunteered my name. Milt was dressed the part in a '20's cap and driving gloves and continued, "My mother had two children and half of them were girls." Here was a genuine character to match what he quickly explained to me was a 1929 Model A Roadster restored to perfection in one of the four original colors: Bonnie Gray. It looked muted green to me. Milt had been out for a good old-fashioned Sunday drive in Endo Valley when his brakes went out on the Model A. "They aren't hydraulic brakes, you know--they're mechanical. I call 'em 'press and pray,'" Milt laughed. Whatever they're called, it was a good thing Milt changed his mind from driving over Trail Ridge Road to just puttering around on this side of the Park where his sister was able to come to his rescue.
Milt bought the little beauty way back when he was in high school--dare I say over 50 years ago--for $100. I mentioned that my husband has always wanted a Model A; Milt said he could have this one for $24,000. Connie jumped into the conversation to say she was nearly mortally embarrassed when Milt would drive her to school in the contraption. "Oh, but it's so beautiful," I exclaimed. "Well, it didn't look like that then!" Connie added.
As we parted company Milt said again how he thought it was pretty unusual for me to be out picking up trash. I thought it was pretty unusual to find a 1929 Model A Roadster, but I guess considering Ford produced 4,320,446 of them, it wasn't too odd. I just hope I don't have to pick up that many cigarette butts!
Always,
Winter
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Pickin' and ...
Remember Roy Clark pickin'and agrinnin'on the old TV show "Hee Haw?" I thought of Roy today as I was pickin' and bikin' and grinnin'! It all started at 9:00 this morning when I left the house to check out the farmer's market in their new location. Well, maybe the location wasn't new, but everything under all the tents was new--brand new stinky asphalt. The whole parking lot from the grand stands at the rodeo ground to 4th Street used to be gravel. Now it is stinky asphalt. It won't always be stinky, but it will always be aslphalt. I'm pretty sure that's called progress. I call it the end of an era. Frown. I really do prefer gravel. It gives you that down-to-earth rodeo/farmer feeling. No more freezing your little sandaled toesies when it's 38 degrees at the farmer's market and you're walking through wet grass to get to the gravel.
Well, as it turned out, I forgot my cash so I couldn't get what I was after anyway. Probably the words "farmer's market" put you in mind of endless rows of fresh-picked, brightly-colored vegetables: tomatoes, corn, carrots, rhubarb, squash, green beans and the like. However, that's not why I go to the farmer's market. You can get delicious, high-priced vegetables anywhere. I prefer spending my $3.00 on a gigantic cinnamon pretzel from Styria Bakery. It's not like a pretzel-pretzel. It's like a cinnamon roll without the roll and the goo. It's just dough and cinnamon/sugar in the shape of a pretzel. This is for hard-core carb loaders like people who are heading out to pick up trash on their bikes.
How did that go, you may ask. Well, my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop normally takes me one hour and 20 minutes (with a head wind.) Today it took two hours and 30 minutes (with a regular ol' wind.) Of course that's because I stopped every 30 feet to pick up a Labatt Blue beer bottle--imported from Canada "every day", a Mtn. Dew can or a Lord Calvert Canadian Whiskey bottle. (Notice the Canadian influence in northern Estes Park.) It was stunning out, so even the annoying part about having to come to a screeching halt for a busted pair of sun glasses just when I got back up to speed could not erase my joyful sense of fulfilling my destiny as bag lady. Then I spotted a smiley-face helium balloon stuck in a bush. I parked my vehicle and ran across the meadow to free the captive face. The long attached ribbon gave me the idea of tying the balloon to the back of my bike. Off I traveled onto Devil's Gulch road looking very much like the Garbage Grandma Trash Mobile. The balloon slowed my already mediocre pace, but it sure matched my mood, so I let it bounce.
Now the problem with continually hopping off and on your bike is that people passing by think something is wrong with you. (Something is wrong with me tonight after all that hoppin'.) A couple on bikes slowed down a bit to ask, "Everything all right?" "Yep. I'm fine. This is a blast--you should try it." I lost them at "Yep," and they sped away. After a few more miles, a really sweet older couple slowed down to ask, "Are you OK?" The car behind them didn't know they were concerned about me and nearly rear-ended the nice people in the first car. I started to wonder if pickin' and bikin' was such a good idea. If you're just biking along, nobody stops to inquire about your well-being. I think I'll try the regular ol' way of biking tomorrow.
Oh! Forgot to mention that my son, Paul, sent me a great picture of snowin' and blowin' on Lone Mountain today. To quote him exactly, "Gotta be close to 32. It's snowing and very windy, and the power is out." To kind of twist the song that Alan Jackson made very popular, "It's wintertime somewhere."
Always,
Winter
Well, as it turned out, I forgot my cash so I couldn't get what I was after anyway. Probably the words "farmer's market" put you in mind of endless rows of fresh-picked, brightly-colored vegetables: tomatoes, corn, carrots, rhubarb, squash, green beans and the like. However, that's not why I go to the farmer's market. You can get delicious, high-priced vegetables anywhere. I prefer spending my $3.00 on a gigantic cinnamon pretzel from Styria Bakery. It's not like a pretzel-pretzel. It's like a cinnamon roll without the roll and the goo. It's just dough and cinnamon/sugar in the shape of a pretzel. This is for hard-core carb loaders like people who are heading out to pick up trash on their bikes.
How did that go, you may ask. Well, my Dry Gulch/Devil's Gulch loop normally takes me one hour and 20 minutes (with a head wind.) Today it took two hours and 30 minutes (with a regular ol' wind.) Of course that's because I stopped every 30 feet to pick up a Labatt Blue beer bottle--imported from Canada "every day", a Mtn. Dew can or a Lord Calvert Canadian Whiskey bottle. (Notice the Canadian influence in northern Estes Park.) It was stunning out, so even the annoying part about having to come to a screeching halt for a busted pair of sun glasses just when I got back up to speed could not erase my joyful sense of fulfilling my destiny as bag lady. Then I spotted a smiley-face helium balloon stuck in a bush. I parked my vehicle and ran across the meadow to free the captive face. The long attached ribbon gave me the idea of tying the balloon to the back of my bike. Off I traveled onto Devil's Gulch road looking very much like the Garbage Grandma Trash Mobile. The balloon slowed my already mediocre pace, but it sure matched my mood, so I let it bounce.
Now the problem with continually hopping off and on your bike is that people passing by think something is wrong with you. (Something is wrong with me tonight after all that hoppin'.) A couple on bikes slowed down a bit to ask, "Everything all right?" "Yep. I'm fine. This is a blast--you should try it." I lost them at "Yep," and they sped away. After a few more miles, a really sweet older couple slowed down to ask, "Are you OK?" The car behind them didn't know they were concerned about me and nearly rear-ended the nice people in the first car. I started to wonder if pickin' and bikin' was such a good idea. If you're just biking along, nobody stops to inquire about your well-being. I think I'll try the regular ol' way of biking tomorrow.
Oh! Forgot to mention that my son, Paul, sent me a great picture of snowin' and blowin' on Lone Mountain today. To quote him exactly, "Gotta be close to 32. It's snowing and very windy, and the power is out." To kind of twist the song that Alan Jackson made very popular, "It's wintertime somewhere."
Always,
Winter
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Ants in My Pants--Really
Well, it's May 17, and you know what that means, right? I have fulfilled the first half of my promise to pick up trash every day for one year. A friend of mine stopped me a few weeks ago to say she had seen me around town and wanted to thank me. "I'll bet you find some interesting stuff," she commented. "You have no idea."
Today I decided to clean the east fence line at B&Bs, our famous local gas/junk food store. I found 2 pennies and another interesting-looking coin which I got excited about until I looked closer--"Estados Unidos Mexicanos," it read. The center is aluminum bronze encircled by a stainless steel ring. One side reads N$1. Mexico was the first country in the world to use the dollar sign on their currency. Tough to find out the U.S. copy-cated that! (I just coined a new word!) So I found a 1994 peso. Big whoop.
The thing about pickin' trash today is that there was no wind--none--not a breath, not a whisper. I love it when I can just set the open garbage bag on the ground and toss stuff in from random locations. See how easily I find happiness? Even though I collected one full black bag of junk, there wasn't as much as I had anticipated. No need for the 2nd bag folded neatly and slipped into my back pocket. Could someone else have adopted my cause and beat me to it? I can only hope.
Apparently, convenience stores are a convenient place to drop one's cigarette butts, because I picked up 400 this morning. Think it odd that I picked up an even number? That's because I got to 400 and just quit, or I would be there the literal day long.
There is a 5 foot strip of grass between the parking lot and the fence at B&Bs. So I stand on the grass, or what passes for grass, while trying to extricate candy bar wrappers, paper plates, etc. from the chain link fence. Quite intent on removing a piece of paperboard lodged under the fence, I failed to notice exactly where I was standing. I was making somebody mad, because I looked down to observe ants scurrying all over my shoes and up my pant leg inside and out. Red ants no less. I brushed them off my jeans, off my shoes and then jumped around for a while hoping to discourage any lingering team members from staying. But once you get the creepy-crawlies, they're hard to get rid of. Whether there were any ants left or not, I kept feeling them. Gross. Stashing the bag where it wouldn't be noticed, I headed for home. A shower might be in order.
My hurried walk, however, was put on hold as I noticed a couple of nicely-dressed guys heading to their car at the Black Dog Inn. At first I thought they might be realtors. Then one of the guys in slacks and a sport coat--not something you see every day in Estes Park--called me over. Hmmmm..."I'm ready for anything, mister," I thought. "I've just defeated an angry mob trying to attack me, and I've got my picker in case you try something." But guess what? It was Jerry from the Gideons, and he wanted to give me a Bible! He has spoken at Rez a few times, knew Earl and Jan Treat, and also knew my brother, John, Pastor of Good Shepherd Bible Chapel. He even mentioned the Hoornbeeks! Lee, don't be surprised if Jerry calls about joining the Gideons. You just never know what divine appointments await until you get out there pickin'!
Always,
Winter
Today I decided to clean the east fence line at B&Bs, our famous local gas/junk food store. I found 2 pennies and another interesting-looking coin which I got excited about until I looked closer--"Estados Unidos Mexicanos," it read. The center is aluminum bronze encircled by a stainless steel ring. One side reads N$1. Mexico was the first country in the world to use the dollar sign on their currency. Tough to find out the U.S. copy-cated that! (I just coined a new word!) So I found a 1994 peso. Big whoop.
The thing about pickin' trash today is that there was no wind--none--not a breath, not a whisper. I love it when I can just set the open garbage bag on the ground and toss stuff in from random locations. See how easily I find happiness? Even though I collected one full black bag of junk, there wasn't as much as I had anticipated. No need for the 2nd bag folded neatly and slipped into my back pocket. Could someone else have adopted my cause and beat me to it? I can only hope.
Apparently, convenience stores are a convenient place to drop one's cigarette butts, because I picked up 400 this morning. Think it odd that I picked up an even number? That's because I got to 400 and just quit, or I would be there the literal day long.
There is a 5 foot strip of grass between the parking lot and the fence at B&Bs. So I stand on the grass, or what passes for grass, while trying to extricate candy bar wrappers, paper plates, etc. from the chain link fence. Quite intent on removing a piece of paperboard lodged under the fence, I failed to notice exactly where I was standing. I was making somebody mad, because I looked down to observe ants scurrying all over my shoes and up my pant leg inside and out. Red ants no less. I brushed them off my jeans, off my shoes and then jumped around for a while hoping to discourage any lingering team members from staying. But once you get the creepy-crawlies, they're hard to get rid of. Whether there were any ants left or not, I kept feeling them. Gross. Stashing the bag where it wouldn't be noticed, I headed for home. A shower might be in order.
My hurried walk, however, was put on hold as I noticed a couple of nicely-dressed guys heading to their car at the Black Dog Inn. At first I thought they might be realtors. Then one of the guys in slacks and a sport coat--not something you see every day in Estes Park--called me over. Hmmmm..."I'm ready for anything, mister," I thought. "I've just defeated an angry mob trying to attack me, and I've got my picker in case you try something." But guess what? It was Jerry from the Gideons, and he wanted to give me a Bible! He has spoken at Rez a few times, knew Earl and Jan Treat, and also knew my brother, John, Pastor of Good Shepherd Bible Chapel. He even mentioned the Hoornbeeks! Lee, don't be surprised if Jerry calls about joining the Gideons. You just never know what divine appointments await until you get out there pickin'!
Always,
Winter
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A Change of Place
It's been six days since we flew in to Denver from Santa Barbara after helping our son, Sterling, leap to 40 after being 39 for a whole year. I'm sure he needed our help to make this serious change. Sterling, Liza and the kids live in Ventura, officially the City of San Buenaventura, commonly called San Buenaventura with a population of 110,000. Somewhere along the line since Father Junipero Serra founded the mission in 1782, it became simply Ventura. Probably some kids were responsible for that since they don't like long names.
I could tell you some other interesting facts about Ventura like because it is located between the Ventura River and the Santa Clara River, it has the most fertile land in the whole state of California. Ever heard of Sunkist? Uh-huh. Headquartered there. Headquarters for Patagonia clothing too. Ever used to watch Perry Mason? A lawyer by the name of Erle Stanley Gardner, who with a last name like that probably should have worked for Sunkist, had his law practice there and created the iconic Mr. Mason. One of the most recognizable landmarks in Ventura is known as Two Trees. I'll leave the rest of that story to your imagination.
Ventura Harbor is very impressive and home to Channel Islands National Park Headquarters. That is the whole reason Sterling and Liza are in California. We got the royal tour which included packing all 12 of us into Sterling's office where there is a wonderful view of the ocean from his window. CINP has a great little visitor's center too. We stood on the deck of the Sea Ranger, the park service boat, and watched pelicans swoop into the harbor waters for lunch.
Ventura is known to have the best surfing in Southern California. Who would even care about that except the kids who asked before breakfast every morning, "When are we going to the beach?" Speaking of breakfast, on Sterling's birthday, Liza made Baked Oatmeal Alaska and THEN we went to the beach! Sterling and Liza like the beach at Oxnard, a shell's-throw down the road, so we barbequed there. It was VERY windy; oddly we had the whole park to ourselves. We had a good time unless you were Shawn who cut his foot on a piece of glass; Luke who sort of crushed his big toe in a longboard accident; Max, who totally scraped off his right kneecap in a scooter mishap; or Jonathan and Shawn (again) who received multiple abrasions and contusions while boogey boarding. For the uninitiated, this happens when the surf slams you to the ocean floor minus your board.
Unwilling to give up my Garbage Grandma career while vacationing, on Sterling's birthday I picked up one loaf of bread, 2 cans of veggies, (how was I supposed to know the homeless people stash these things in the bushes for later consumption?) one Nantucket Nectar bottle, one wild cherry Pepsi bottle, one Sparklette Water bottle, one Orange Crush can, one Captain Morgan Spiced Rum bottle, (yo, ho, ho!) 4 Smirnoff Vodka bottles, a Doritos bag, 2 large paper clips and 5 socks. In Estes Park I pick up lost gloves. In Ventura I picked up lost socks, flip-flops and underware. You can easily see how this might happen when changing into a swimsuit at the beach. Just ask Luke.
Besides getting acquainted with Ventura, we visited Hollywood for Luke who was celebrating his 11th birthday, drove up to Simi Valley to visit the Reagan Presidential Library (highlight), and did the town with Morgan who also insisted on celebrating her birthday (#17), but really--who wants to live in a city on the beach in Southern California where there is a year-'round 5-degree temperature differential, and it's sunny all the time?
Always,
Winter
I could tell you some other interesting facts about Ventura like because it is located between the Ventura River and the Santa Clara River, it has the most fertile land in the whole state of California. Ever heard of Sunkist? Uh-huh. Headquartered there. Headquarters for Patagonia clothing too. Ever used to watch Perry Mason? A lawyer by the name of Erle Stanley Gardner, who with a last name like that probably should have worked for Sunkist, had his law practice there and created the iconic Mr. Mason. One of the most recognizable landmarks in Ventura is known as Two Trees. I'll leave the rest of that story to your imagination.
Ventura Harbor is very impressive and home to Channel Islands National Park Headquarters. That is the whole reason Sterling and Liza are in California. We got the royal tour which included packing all 12 of us into Sterling's office where there is a wonderful view of the ocean from his window. CINP has a great little visitor's center too. We stood on the deck of the Sea Ranger, the park service boat, and watched pelicans swoop into the harbor waters for lunch.
Ventura is known to have the best surfing in Southern California. Who would even care about that except the kids who asked before breakfast every morning, "When are we going to the beach?" Speaking of breakfast, on Sterling's birthday, Liza made Baked Oatmeal Alaska and THEN we went to the beach! Sterling and Liza like the beach at Oxnard, a shell's-throw down the road, so we barbequed there. It was VERY windy; oddly we had the whole park to ourselves. We had a good time unless you were Shawn who cut his foot on a piece of glass; Luke who sort of crushed his big toe in a longboard accident; Max, who totally scraped off his right kneecap in a scooter mishap; or Jonathan and Shawn (again) who received multiple abrasions and contusions while boogey boarding. For the uninitiated, this happens when the surf slams you to the ocean floor minus your board.
Unwilling to give up my Garbage Grandma career while vacationing, on Sterling's birthday I picked up one loaf of bread, 2 cans of veggies, (how was I supposed to know the homeless people stash these things in the bushes for later consumption?) one Nantucket Nectar bottle, one wild cherry Pepsi bottle, one Sparklette Water bottle, one Orange Crush can, one Captain Morgan Spiced Rum bottle, (yo, ho, ho!) 4 Smirnoff Vodka bottles, a Doritos bag, 2 large paper clips and 5 socks. In Estes Park I pick up lost gloves. In Ventura I picked up lost socks, flip-flops and underware. You can easily see how this might happen when changing into a swimsuit at the beach. Just ask Luke.
Besides getting acquainted with Ventura, we visited Hollywood for Luke who was celebrating his 11th birthday, drove up to Simi Valley to visit the Reagan Presidential Library (highlight), and did the town with Morgan who also insisted on celebrating her birthday (#17), but really--who wants to live in a city on the beach in Southern California where there is a year-'round 5-degree temperature differential, and it's sunny all the time?
Always,
Winter
Monday, April 25, 2011
Slim Pickins
Another beautiful blanket of welcome moisture arrived last night bringing our 2-day total to 8-3/4 inches--at least that's what it measured on our deck railing. To God be the glory for every intricate inch! I delight in it. How many snowflakes are there in 4-3/4 inches of accumulated snow on my railing? Why is snow white? Did you know there are 12-sided snowflakes? It's such a mystery. Einstein said it best: "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."
However, under 4 inches of snow, the location of any trash is also a mystery! Undeterred, I set out at 8:00 this morning near a fairly likely location--the Safeway parking lot. I was hard put to find much at first--just a few soggy receipts and some duct tape. But the east side of the store yielded a bonanza of cigarette butts--a veritable tobacco crematorium. So in the end, I found much more than my required 5 items of trash and 25 butts.
May I add a little FYI before closing? If some day you find yourself eating a banana in public, (not to be confused with the Banana Republic) resist the evidently overwhelming temptation to toss the banana peel out your car window, along a path or even in a Safeway parking lot. If you think a bird, elk or deer will consider it a delicacy, think again. A banana peel, no longer cheerfully yellow, is pathetically ugly sprawled in a parking lot, and nobody wants to eat it. It takes 3-5 weeks to decompose. This is partly because the peel contains some of the very chemicals used in making plastics.
Always,
Winter
However, under 4 inches of snow, the location of any trash is also a mystery! Undeterred, I set out at 8:00 this morning near a fairly likely location--the Safeway parking lot. I was hard put to find much at first--just a few soggy receipts and some duct tape. But the east side of the store yielded a bonanza of cigarette butts--a veritable tobacco crematorium. So in the end, I found much more than my required 5 items of trash and 25 butts.
May I add a little FYI before closing? If some day you find yourself eating a banana in public, (not to be confused with the Banana Republic) resist the evidently overwhelming temptation to toss the banana peel out your car window, along a path or even in a Safeway parking lot. If you think a bird, elk or deer will consider it a delicacy, think again. A banana peel, no longer cheerfully yellow, is pathetically ugly sprawled in a parking lot, and nobody wants to eat it. It takes 3-5 weeks to decompose. This is partly because the peel contains some of the very chemicals used in making plastics.
Always,
Winter
Friday, April 15, 2011
Taxes and Trash
Ah--April 15th, the day we have all been anticipating. Taxes are due if you have amassed great wealth. No wait--if you have amassed great wealth, you have an income tax lawyer who knows how to help you AVOID paying income tax. Taxes are due only if you are Joe Schmoe. The top 1% wage earners pay 38% of federal income tax. 49% of Americans pay no federal income tax at all, and Joe pays the rest.
I am not going to report the money I found. Of course not. I didn't earn it. Well, now wait. I have found $43.44, and I kinda did earn it. But nobody would collect trash for 37 cents per hour--at least not in the good ol' USA. Besides, the IRS would never believe me.
Since it snowed 10 inches yesterday, pickin' was difficult. Even if it snows that much, there is still a place where trash and ciggy butts can be found. In fact, there are lots of places. Wherever money changes hands, trash accumulates. In 6 or 7 minutes, I found one McDonald's cup, one receipt, one unopened Ranch Dressing tub, one blue pastry paper, one flyer all about vaccines, and 32 cigarette butts. It was so windy, my sack was flying horizontally (did I get that right, Morgan?) I was at Safeway. By the way, if you find yourself at Safeway with nothing to do and no sack, no picker and no gloves, don't ask the manager for a dust pan and broom. Just don't.
Happy Tax Day everybody. Somebody said that taxes aren't actually due until the 18th, but I don't believe them. It's a trap. If you're late, can you imagine penalties and interest on 3 days unpaid taxes? The Feds have to find their 14 trillion somewhere.
Always,
Winter
I am not going to report the money I found. Of course not. I didn't earn it. Well, now wait. I have found $43.44, and I kinda did earn it. But nobody would collect trash for 37 cents per hour--at least not in the good ol' USA. Besides, the IRS would never believe me.
Since it snowed 10 inches yesterday, pickin' was difficult. Even if it snows that much, there is still a place where trash and ciggy butts can be found. In fact, there are lots of places. Wherever money changes hands, trash accumulates. In 6 or 7 minutes, I found one McDonald's cup, one receipt, one unopened Ranch Dressing tub, one blue pastry paper, one flyer all about vaccines, and 32 cigarette butts. It was so windy, my sack was flying horizontally (did I get that right, Morgan?) I was at Safeway. By the way, if you find yourself at Safeway with nothing to do and no sack, no picker and no gloves, don't ask the manager for a dust pan and broom. Just don't.
Happy Tax Day everybody. Somebody said that taxes aren't actually due until the 18th, but I don't believe them. It's a trap. If you're late, can you imagine penalties and interest on 3 days unpaid taxes? The Feds have to find their 14 trillion somewhere.
Always,
Winter
Monday, April 11, 2011
Perfect Pickin'
It was a perfect day to pick. Grabbing my picker, gloves and bag, I hopped on my bike and rode about 25 yards down Shady Lane before my front brake cable broke. Reasoning that the back cable was still functioning perfectly, I could see no reason not to proceed--slowly. I had a specific destination in mind which I reached in about 10 minutes.
Nobody in beautiful Estes Park, aka God's Country, would steal my bike, but I locked it just the same. Across the street, right where this expedition was set to begin, a local merchant greeted me. "Thanks for picking up the trash. I saw you yesterday. When you finish, you can come back here and help me with these branches," she suggested. "Ha ha," I laughed. "That's a good one. That's all I need. When I finish pickin' every stray ciggy butt, Coke can, (I mention them only because they are the most tossed soft drinks in the area) paper towel, vodka bottle and cardboard box, I'll be right back to help you pick up the tree limbs. NOT!" I didn't really say that, but I did laugh.
Today there was quite an assortment of paperboard beer can boxes: Busch, Budweiser and Bud Light. I don't exactly get why you would toss these boxes out the window as you drive along the highway. I mean, what are you going to do with the full cans that were in the box? It's only about a mile from Safeway to this location, so I think it's fairly certain one could not consume 24 cans in that distance. But what do I know about drinking beer?
As I walked along enjoying communing with nature, the usual culprits emerged: a PowerAde bottle, lots of styrofoam, a wash cloth, an empty Frito bag, a Meadow Gold chocolate milk carton, a Seagrams Peach Flavored vodka bottle. But today, I was in for something new--a Goldschlager alcohol bottle. (Please inform me if you know what exact type of alcohol Goldschlager brews--those Germans--whew!) Since the Food and Drug Administration has trained us all to read labels, I read on the Goldschlager bottle that it contained "real gold flakes." Good to know.
In no time at all, I had to head back. Enjoyable as it is, one cannot pick trash without considering the time. I crossed the highway and picked in the opposite direction. By now I was lugging my full-to-the-brim garbage bag and a huge cardboard box that wouldn't fit. Back at my bike I was approached by a happy camper who had news for me: "It's tick season." I've been well aware of this fact for weeks, but thanked him just the same. "I was up on Deer Mountain yesterday, and there were at least a hundred of 'em." Now unless he had run across a deceased deer, I found this quite interesting, for I have never, ever in 39 years seen a tick unless it was on the nose of a deer or the back of my kids' neck. Anyway, thanks for reminding me about the ticks, mister. All the way home I was sure something was crawling up my leg or across my shoulder.
Always,
Winter
Nobody in beautiful Estes Park, aka God's Country, would steal my bike, but I locked it just the same. Across the street, right where this expedition was set to begin, a local merchant greeted me. "Thanks for picking up the trash. I saw you yesterday. When you finish, you can come back here and help me with these branches," she suggested. "Ha ha," I laughed. "That's a good one. That's all I need. When I finish pickin' every stray ciggy butt, Coke can, (I mention them only because they are the most tossed soft drinks in the area) paper towel, vodka bottle and cardboard box, I'll be right back to help you pick up the tree limbs. NOT!" I didn't really say that, but I did laugh.
Today there was quite an assortment of paperboard beer can boxes: Busch, Budweiser and Bud Light. I don't exactly get why you would toss these boxes out the window as you drive along the highway. I mean, what are you going to do with the full cans that were in the box? It's only about a mile from Safeway to this location, so I think it's fairly certain one could not consume 24 cans in that distance. But what do I know about drinking beer?
As I walked along enjoying communing with nature, the usual culprits emerged: a PowerAde bottle, lots of styrofoam, a wash cloth, an empty Frito bag, a Meadow Gold chocolate milk carton, a Seagrams Peach Flavored vodka bottle. But today, I was in for something new--a Goldschlager alcohol bottle. (Please inform me if you know what exact type of alcohol Goldschlager brews--those Germans--whew!) Since the Food and Drug Administration has trained us all to read labels, I read on the Goldschlager bottle that it contained "real gold flakes." Good to know.
In no time at all, I had to head back. Enjoyable as it is, one cannot pick trash without considering the time. I crossed the highway and picked in the opposite direction. By now I was lugging my full-to-the-brim garbage bag and a huge cardboard box that wouldn't fit. Back at my bike I was approached by a happy camper who had news for me: "It's tick season." I've been well aware of this fact for weeks, but thanked him just the same. "I was up on Deer Mountain yesterday, and there were at least a hundred of 'em." Now unless he had run across a deceased deer, I found this quite interesting, for I have never, ever in 39 years seen a tick unless it was on the nose of a deer or the back of my kids' neck. Anyway, thanks for reminding me about the ticks, mister. All the way home I was sure something was crawling up my leg or across my shoulder.
Always,
Winter
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I Couldn't Resist
6:15. Grey. 32 degrees. What a beautiful day. I'm up and out the door. Oh! Did I mention there is no wind? Let wind be defined as anything from 15 to 62 MPH. The flagpole south of the power plant was rippling westward. That's a good sign. An east wind means SNOW. The air was heavy with that prospect. After pickin' a few stray tissues, a wadded McDonald's sack and two empty Camel cigarette packs, the glory began. "How full of the creative genius is the air in which these are generated! I should hardly admire them more if real stars fell and lodged on my coat," Henry David Thoreau confided to his Journal in 1856. Henry and I have that at least in common--with the possible addition of resistance to paying taxes and his dislike of any alcoholic drink, preferring that every man, "...be intoxicated by the air he breathes."
As I continued pickin'--a plastic spoon, a saucer from a potted plant (I wonder what happened to the plant?), a Copenhagen tin--I heard odd clickety-clack sounds which compelled me to look up. My reward was the glorious sight of a heard of perhaps 40 elk galloping down a small bank, crossing the road, plunging into a ravine and climbing up the other side where they abruptly stopped amid the Ponderosa. This demonstration in fluidity was made all the more charming by the backdrop of snow crystals, which could have been falling for hours, but chose this moment to create an ethereal scene for me. OK, perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but I stood motionless and momentarily captivated none-the-less.
Arriving home an hour later with a bag full of what had escaped others' trash cans, I was greeted by a cheerful fire in the stove. Let the day begin.
Always,
Winter
As I continued pickin'--a plastic spoon, a saucer from a potted plant (I wonder what happened to the plant?), a Copenhagen tin--I heard odd clickety-clack sounds which compelled me to look up. My reward was the glorious sight of a heard of perhaps 40 elk galloping down a small bank, crossing the road, plunging into a ravine and climbing up the other side where they abruptly stopped amid the Ponderosa. This demonstration in fluidity was made all the more charming by the backdrop of snow crystals, which could have been falling for hours, but chose this moment to create an ethereal scene for me. OK, perhaps that was a bit dramatic, but I stood motionless and momentarily captivated none-the-less.
Arriving home an hour later with a bag full of what had escaped others' trash cans, I was greeted by a cheerful fire in the stove. Let the day begin.
Always,
Winter
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Neither Snow nor Rain...
What started out as several delicious-looking clouds in the east and a few encouraging sprinkles has become a wonderful April snowstorm. We hurried with what passed for breakfast. As a measurable snowfall was actuallly forecast for our area, I had to get out pickin' before all the discarded tissues and bits of paper would be mistaken for or hidden beneath the snow. I'm kind of like the mail man you know: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Well, I'm not sure about the "gloom of night" part--it's kind of hard to see trash in the dark and you might pick up something really scary, but I have made a pact with myself (what more trustworthy and agreeable person could I find?) to pick up trash every day for a year. I have defined "trash" as at least 5 things not naturally found along a street or sidewalk and 25 cigarette butts. If I can beat the snowstorm, and get my pick accomplished for the day, I'm out the door. If it happens that 3 or 4 inches fall during the night, and I cannot distinguish a cigarette butt from a little twig or a Coke can from a snowball, the gig's off for the day.
This morning was perfect--just a light rain--so off I went to an area known to be littered with litter. Just about any place in town could qualify for this disgrace, but I had a certain rocky hillside in mind. Ha! Granny to the rescue. I gave up bending down to pick up the offending items long ago, so before my pickin' stick even got warmed up, I had 210 butts in my black bag. This particular place was just nasty, so I didn't plan to inventory my "treasures" after returning home. One such treasure, however, really was just that and went right into my inside jacket pocket--a Hamilton! That, as my Gram used to say, is a "ten spot." Not bad for 45 minutes of pain in the rain. (Normally this activity for which I have developed such a fondness is total joy, but today, my shoulder decided to give me some grief.) It was all good, though, as the rain turned to a wonderful wet snow and my haul (what a great word to describe a pile of junk-- no, worse--discarded junk) was 2 black garbage bags, a pile of tin roofing and a hubcap. Sorry about picking up the hubcap if you're out looking for it. It's been my experience that even if I left it there for you to find, guess what? In a week it would still be laying sadly by the side of the road waiting for the car with 3 hubcaps to drive by. I can't just leave it there.
After 45 minutes my jeans were soggy and my leather gloves frozen, so what better place to warm up than a shop called "Coffee on the Rocks. Where the coffee is as great as the views!" And all the trash is in the waste basket.
Always,
Winter
This morning was perfect--just a light rain--so off I went to an area known to be littered with litter. Just about any place in town could qualify for this disgrace, but I had a certain rocky hillside in mind. Ha! Granny to the rescue. I gave up bending down to pick up the offending items long ago, so before my pickin' stick even got warmed up, I had 210 butts in my black bag. This particular place was just nasty, so I didn't plan to inventory my "treasures" after returning home. One such treasure, however, really was just that and went right into my inside jacket pocket--a Hamilton! That, as my Gram used to say, is a "ten spot." Not bad for 45 minutes of pain in the rain. (Normally this activity for which I have developed such a fondness is total joy, but today, my shoulder decided to give me some grief.) It was all good, though, as the rain turned to a wonderful wet snow and my haul (what a great word to describe a pile of junk-- no, worse--discarded junk) was 2 black garbage bags, a pile of tin roofing and a hubcap. Sorry about picking up the hubcap if you're out looking for it. It's been my experience that even if I left it there for you to find, guess what? In a week it would still be laying sadly by the side of the road waiting for the car with 3 hubcaps to drive by. I can't just leave it there.
After 45 minutes my jeans were soggy and my leather gloves frozen, so what better place to warm up than a shop called "Coffee on the Rocks. Where the coffee is as great as the views!" And all the trash is in the waste basket.
Always,
Winter
Friday, April 1, 2011
This is not a joke!
Odd to think that I have chosen April 1 to make my first entry on my brand new blog called "Always Winter." Those who know me know that I do not tell jokes and many times don't get jokes. I don't tell them, because remembering the punch line is absolutely crucial. Not getting jokes is a whole different animal. If I figure that one out, I'll let you know. My intelligence is average, so that couldn't be it. I do like to laugh, but it's usually when I do something really silly like the time I lined up my toes in the heel mark at the Driver's License Office and wound up staring at a blank wall instead of the camera to have my picture taken. I laughed about that for weeks. I'm sure the officer did too. It has to be coincidental that I'm writing this on April Fool's Day, right?
Probably the next thing I need to explain is my title--Always Winter. That's easy. Never Summer was already taken. Stopping to think about it, Always Winter is better than Never Summer anyway, because even if it is Never Summer, it could also be spring or fall besides Winter. Not that I dislike spring or fall; Winter is just better. Well, OK, I do dislike spring, but not fall. Fall means Winter is on the way. Always Winter, in my mind, would be the height of seasonal glory. I'm not sadistic like the White Witch in Narnia who declared that it must be always Winter and never Christmas. Christmas is part of why Winter is the most beloved of all seasons. I don't get all gushy over longer days, pretty little flowers poking their heads out of the ground and birdies singing. As for summer, I don't own a bathing suit, and who wants to see all that skin anyway? Trust me--you don't want to see mine. Give me a raging blizzard and a couple feet of snow any day.
OK, I love to write, so a blog is perfect for me. Today does mark something of a milestone. I picked up the 5,000th cigarette butt in my "collection." It should be noted here that my grandson, Jonathan, helped me. And he was a BIG help. Unlike the gloves (59) I'm not really saving the butts I pick up. Yuck. Too stinky! Everyone who carelessly tosses their cigarette butts to the curb, sidewalk edge, parking lot or grassy area should have "The world is my ashtray" tattooed across their forehead. Maybe I am sadistic. An explanation of my love for trash pickin' as I call it, will have to wait for another time.
The days are getting longer, I think that's iris trying to break ground out front and the Estes Park News reported that the Mountain Bluebird has returned. It's April 1st. That means it's 264 days until Winter.
Always,
Winter
Probably the next thing I need to explain is my title--Always Winter. That's easy. Never Summer was already taken. Stopping to think about it, Always Winter is better than Never Summer anyway, because even if it is Never Summer, it could also be spring or fall besides Winter. Not that I dislike spring or fall; Winter is just better. Well, OK, I do dislike spring, but not fall. Fall means Winter is on the way. Always Winter, in my mind, would be the height of seasonal glory. I'm not sadistic like the White Witch in Narnia who declared that it must be always Winter and never Christmas. Christmas is part of why Winter is the most beloved of all seasons. I don't get all gushy over longer days, pretty little flowers poking their heads out of the ground and birdies singing. As for summer, I don't own a bathing suit, and who wants to see all that skin anyway? Trust me--you don't want to see mine. Give me a raging blizzard and a couple feet of snow any day.
OK, I love to write, so a blog is perfect for me. Today does mark something of a milestone. I picked up the 5,000th cigarette butt in my "collection." It should be noted here that my grandson, Jonathan, helped me. And he was a BIG help. Unlike the gloves (59) I'm not really saving the butts I pick up. Yuck. Too stinky! Everyone who carelessly tosses their cigarette butts to the curb, sidewalk edge, parking lot or grassy area should have "The world is my ashtray" tattooed across their forehead. Maybe I am sadistic. An explanation of my love for trash pickin' as I call it, will have to wait for another time.
The days are getting longer, I think that's iris trying to break ground out front and the Estes Park News reported that the Mountain Bluebird has returned. It's April 1st. That means it's 264 days until Winter.
Always,
Winter
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
