F O G
so long 2013…
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How cute is our little Schmoo? I think that is nick name no. 100 for him, by the way. Funny how that goes.
My favorite four-year-old is now FIVE! It was a fun filled afternoon of picking him up from school (where he is rather handily learning and singing Chinese), choosing and reading books from the library, watching a movie, making pizza, puzzles, and colossal block towers. Squee!
We hosted a cocktail party with some of our best pals, with much imbibing, laughing, eating, and reminiscing after one GIGANTIC glitch. I went to the store to get ice and those last minute items one always seems to need, and on the way home the poor little Mini went kaput. On Powell Boulevard! During rush hour! Thankfully, I was rescued by Kate and Kimberly, two lovely ladies in a Volkswagen with Montana plates (Are you reading? Please let me buy you that beer!). They stopped to help while others zoomed and honked, even though my hazards were madly blinking. Then, the nice TriMet driver instructed a passel of burly teens to push my car to the safety of the Wendy’s parking lot. The cherry on top? Kate and Kimberly loaded the wagon of all my party goods without a second thought and whisked me home. Oh, fantastically marvelous helping hands of the universe, I LOVE YOU!
As for the Mini, it was the transmission, and it could not be salvaged. Apparently it was a problem particular to 2003, and one that we forestalled by babying it and only driving some 55,000 miles. So now, a bit ahead of schedule, we are getting a new Mini, and our mechanic is getting gently used one in fine condition, save one minor (ahem) detail. It all works out in the end, doesn’t it?
Banana Cardamom Ginger Smoothie
We bought a Vitamix, and it is ON, peeps, ON!
Sometimes I forget what a looker the hubster is.
This photo reminded me in a BIG way.
Her tights had sparkles on them!
The view down the valley to Pagosa Springs from Wolf Creek Pass, an awe-worthy welcome if ever there was. Shortly after our departure, the pass was closed by fire, so who knows what this looks like now. My great hope is that the fire remained at my back, eating up the scores of trees ravaged by insatiable beetles, and did not travel to the more populated areas below.
Rocky Mountain Columbine, Colorado’s State Flower and my favorite as a kid.
A sulfur spring in Pagosa Springs. It bubbled, groaned, belched, and steamed.
Immaculate Heart of Mary Church, Pagosa Springs
Sometimes, I get a notion, a soft whisper of a bug in my ear, “Do this, soon, do not dally. You will not regret it.” In this case, way back in January, “Ride a horse.” I hadn’t done so in at least twenty-five years, one short ride on a dusty dirt road (who knows where or when) under a canopy of trees. The horse was dark brown and belonged to a woman, her hair a match to the horse in a long braid. I remember feeling tall and powerful and in exactly the right place, exhilarated by the response of my timid tongue click, moving from a slow saunter to a rapid trot.
This time, we rode with Third Generation Outfitters (and highly recommend that you do, too, if ever you have the chance), and that’s Jaclyn, our guide extraordinaire. She’s been around horses her whole life and exhibits that fine quality of knowing and truly loving these gorgeous giants. She’s dressing Lonny, a formerly wild Mustang that I just knew would be “mine” for the afternoon.
The hubster and Pistol were fast friends.
Chin straps look a might silly, but they keep hats from flying and horses bolting, a very good thing.
We rode for two hours, in and around the area just below Wolf Creek pass, at the foreground of the topmost photo. It was a perfect day, the wind down to a whisper and the sun bright and warm on our backs. We rode in meadows and on a rocky path that was once the highway, imagining a Model T bumping perilously along. We climbed near the summit and descended through woods thick with grass and wild flowers in full bloom: columbines, serviceberries, strawberries, Oregon grape, wild iris, a smattering of dandelions, and scores more whose names I do not know. There were deer, too, and birds, the hum and buzz of life itself.
All the while, the horses were gentle, sweet, and sure footed, farting and peeing and stealing a leaf or bite of grass when they could. I spent much of my time in admiration, marveling that this creature, with me astride his back, seemed hardly to notice. He gave not a single response to my gentle brushing of his silken neck, my fingers threading through the thick of his mane, or my myriad questions and praise of his fine virtues. A professional, and shy as he was beautiful and strong, I suppose.
Many thanks to Alan and Martha, with us but not pictured. It was a marvelous day!
And speaking of horses, this is my sweet Mom, taking her first ride as a wee thing.
I sit on the back porch, feet up, nibbling cheese. Guilty pleasure that, any variety but goat, the miserable, ever-present tang clinging to my throat, no matter what they say.
It is heavy with heat and this scramble on the keyboard a break from lying prostrate with a book propped on my chest. Though the reading could be better. I vacillate between two lesser books that also happen to be the favorites of people dear to me. I hate that, hate that I see their earnest faces and kind eyes in the midst of my dislike. And now, an invocation of whatever spirit will make my next read so wholly captivating that I read until my eyes ache and pulse quickens.
A trio of hummingbirds competes for our garden, and I marvel at the fierceness, the fantastic fluttered wing spirals and wild chirps of battle.
A crow breaks a cracker in the bird bath, some snack gleaned elsewhere and slowly savored here. She is quiet and delicate in her work, and I marvel at the fact that she does it all without hands. Her onyx feathers gleam, and she watches me, coyly perhaps. We are friends but not that kind, not yet, her penetrating eyes intent on me as I speak to her, of her beauty, mucky messes, and occasional early wake-up calls. She’s finished eating and scratches her head with her left foot, even considers a bath, lightly splashing with her beak, no matter the diminutive size of the vessel in relation to her body.
A squirrel is five feet away from her, hoovering every last remnant the finches and sparrows and jays messily toss out of the feeder, some silent agreement, perhaps. Another claws madly in a wild dash up the neighbor’s sequoia.
Paris is stretched on the concrete of the patio, five feet from me, wholly unaware of the life that surrounds her, pretending she is some Egyptian, I think, so regal is her posture.
I hear the bushtits flit about and a robin chirp in the distance. Children rough house nearby and the steady thrum of traffic drones in the distance, though sometimes I cannot hear it and am elsewhere, some fine elysian field, where all that I love lasts and there is no rush to capture it for another hour.
Happy Birthday, Allison!