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
Thursday, June 30, 2011
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
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
