A Post in Pictures: the cliffs of Britain and a river in Idaho

When I traveled to England with my friend Holly in April 2015, one of the last excursions we took was to the White Cliffs of Dover. There we hiked from a near sea level visitor's center and gift shop up the cliff trail past many sheep to a bright little tea room in a charming old lighthouse. On the way to and from that lighthouse my knee-high boots picked up a thick layer of the white dust from the cliffs and rested in it for some time, too, as we chatted with friendly Britons and watched some wild ponies in a hollow. Months after we returned home, I pulled out those boots to wear again as the fall weather grew cooler in Arizona and, lo and behold, the dust of Britain was still on them.

My shoes knew where I had been, and they carried crystalline memories. I almost didn't brush off those boots, but I figured I'd just be tracking Dover everywhere.

Recently, new suede Puma tennis shoes of mine picked up memories as my family and I hiked and climbed a little way along the Payette River in Idaho.

We went to Idaho to see family and saw more family in that state than my children even knew we had - the appearance of some of those dear relatives completely unexpected. 

Then, on a day when we didn't have much planned and I was begging my husband to be serendipitous, we drove up past Black Canyon Dam, searching for a place to experience some Idaho country. We pulled off the road at a spot where we practically slid down a slope of dry pine needles to river rocks, and there my kids and I scrambled all over the place, watching the intermittent white water and listening to its rhythm. On a huge sloped boulder, I laid down on my belly in the sunshine, slowly sliding down toward the white sand at its base, that same light sand that is now embedded in my shoes.

I may not brush off these shoes. Sometimes you have to go home again to realize it's home. I lived in Idaho for most of my teenage years - camping, fishing, spending holidays and ordinary days with relatives - but I don't believe I really appreciated it til I brought my own little family back with me.

With these dusty sneakers, I can carry home with me wherever I go.

And I believe my tall brown boots still have a bit of Dover on them, too.

A Creek Runs Through It

A creek is my favorite body of water. It has a sense of adventure, but unlike a river, it doesn't wander anywhere too far, too dangerous, or too unfamiliar. It is not massive and impersonal like a lake nor small and muddy like a pond. Though it lacks the awesome majesty of the ocean, it has its own sacred rhythm beneath trees and bluffs.

I had a wonderful childhood, and a creek ran through it. I loved that creek at least as well as I loved the woods behind my childhood home.

But now my own family lives in a huge, sprawling city in the desert with a big, arid backyard.

Every so often I ask my husband if we can take our children to play in a creek.

Matthew needs warning. He appreciates nature, but he doesn't feel the need to visit its wilder places too often, and he certainly does not appreciate the condition of the roads that lead there. So weeks in advance I told him I wanted to visit Clear Creek and hike West Clear Creek Trail.

However, on the Thursday before we were to go hiking I had a truly horrendous day with the kids (and they with me, to be fair). Due to exposure to apocalyptic levels of whining, squabbling, shrieking and nagging that day, my adventure and nature-seeking spirit was quelled. I told my man I no longer felt like going; the best thing I could hope for was to sleep in on that Saturday for a very long time, my head buried in his shoulder.

But when we awoke very late the next morning, the adventuress in me had reemerged. I researched anew the directions to the creek and - ever so nonchalantly - acted like plans for the hike had never wavered. My forbearing husband didn't even object when we set out at noon in the 100+ heat.

We had a pleasant drive north until we abandoned normal byways and took a forest road less traveled. As our poor minivan pitched and heaved on the rocky, gutted, narrow dirt track, I was reminded again, as my hands squeezed the armrests, that my sense of adventure only goes so far. I felt an immense gratitude for my stalwart partner in life's escapades, for he drives far more fearlessly and calmly than I do under duress!

Frustration, thwarted plans and occasional feelings of being hopelessly lost or misdirected must accompany any adventure, I think, and we had our share.

Apparently, signs on roads or paths are undesirable in nature.

The forest road seemed to go on for much longer than was implied in the directions. We turned off at a likely and quite pretty spot only to find we were not at the trail head yet. When we finally found the hiking trail, parked and set out in relief, we soon discovered that it was not as "clear" as we would have liked.

There were many footpaths that deserted the trail to head toward the nearest pool of water. They looked like they could have been part of the trail that was supposed to cross the creek several times, but they dead-ended at precisely where there seemed to be a small crowd of people sharing a large swimming hole and perching on coolers. When we asked the patrons of such spots about West Clear Creek trail, we were met with confused faces.

And so we backtracked and took the high, dry ground (marked by pink ribbons) that seemed to eschew the water, and upon the advice of a young man with a backpack and a puppy who seemed to have some wilderness sense, we followed it until it befriended that stream once more and we came to a wide, pristine hole beneath some red rocks. Another family of four was there, enjoying the less frequented places.

It was at this swimming hole that I shed frustration and felt joy while watching my children revel in the water, enjoying nature giddily. They splashed around and fought the current and scrambled up slippery rocks and waded through deep narrow places in the stream, laughing, and I was right behind them, reliving my childhood and drinking from the fountain of youth in the only and best way.

Wading in the creek was an exhilarating experience for me. The water was not the expected frigidity that I had always encountered in the creek of my childhood or in many streams since. Perhaps it was the desert sun and its dry, crackling heat playing on the surface, for though the water was decidedly chilly against my legs, it was invigoratingly so.

We left the kind family who shared space and conversation so generously with us, and I urged my family farther along the trail. We saw a little grotto and crossed the stream once more before coming to a secluded spot with a tiny waterfall. Here our kids tested their strength against the current where it ran no more than a foot deep and two feet wide but surged with concentrated power. This was my husband's favorite spot.

There we also lost the trail, and, anyhow, Gabriella and the other kids were anxious to return to the magical swimming hole. Matthew was anxious to head home, but I whispered to the kids as we kicked up red clay from the path onto our wet shoes and legs that I hoped we would have more time to swim and play.

The large red rock that jutted out into the water over the swimming hole was a perfect place from which to launch yourself into the deep water below. At least, this was what the dad of the other family told me, as they were leaving, when I mentioned it was hot on the trail. He didn't seem the fearful type with his shoulder length black hair, square face and broad upper body, so I doubt he would have understood my hesitation to make such a leap. Berto and Ana? They jumped off that huge red rock repeatedly.

And this is what I did:

My little guy waits for Mama to take the plunge

I sat and looked and looked again. I couldn't quite get past thinking of exactly what would happen if I pushed off that rock into the water.

That's always my issue. I think too much.

Matthew told me to do it; we needed to go! And all the while he waited for the photo op of me overcoming my fear. Berto and Ana went from the rock to the water with words of encouragement for me, my own coaching and cheering squad. So many times, I inched forward, swallowing thoughts and hesitation, only to fall back on my heels. I watched my children be fearless but couldn't seem to catch the brave bug as they dove past me.

Have you ever said a prayer to the Holy Spirit for something you know is silly? Well, I prayed for courage to jump off that rock, because somehow it meant a great deal to me to be brave at this creek in this small way and to have the memory of it.

Matthew had put back on his socks and shoes and gathered up our stuff. His phone was tucked away in his pocket without the moment with his wife he'd waited semi-patiently for, and the kids were moving away from me.

Standing resolutely, Matthew announced,  "Alright, let's go!"

And I jumped without knowing I had made the decision. I hit the cool water and struggled up in the dark, green shadows, sputtering when I reached air.

I felt as happy as I have felt in some time.

"I did it!" I cried, elated, as I did a victory lap in that beautiful, deep water.

And Berto and Ana congratulated me exuberantly.

*******

Only later did I see the carnage on my side of our poor van. Long, wicked scratches ran along the whole length of it, scratches obtained by passing within inches of other vehicles on an uneven, exceptionally narrow forest dirt road bordered by brush.

Adventure always costs a little something, I guess. But my darling Matthew didn't complain.

A favorite Uncle

I was a cute little squirt but a brat sometimes, too

When my family lived in Tennessee, we didn't often see relatives, no regular Sunday visits with grandparents, no holiday gatherings, no large birthday celebrations. Most of our extended family lived in Idaho where my parents grew up, first met, married and welcomed all four of their children.

I loved growing up in Tennessee, but I acknowledge that more time with the many aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents would have been welcome and enriching. However, I also have very vivid memories of the rare, happy occasions when we did have visitors to that 98 acre farm in Tennessee.

Lately, I have been thinking of the good times we had when my Uncle Art, with whom my mother was very close growing up, came to see us and of the special, simple memory I have of my uncle's kindness to me.

Uncle Art's family lived in Florida, and they came up one summer over Independence Day to celebrate with us.

For the most part I remember running around with my cousins - often down the lane to the creek, sometimes in the field, hula-hooping and playing in the huge yard and sloped driveway.

I also remember that I was somewhat of a brat at that stage in my life, a not uncommon ailment of children in general but of the youngest child in particular. Honestly, I was probably past somewhat and fully in the territory of awful.

The memories may not be wholly accurate, but I seem to recall the night of the 4th of July very well. Dad and Uncle Art shot off fireworks from the yard into the field, and Dad did his best to corral our large Labrador Reuben to keep him from chasing after them and burning his mouth when they plummeted and he tried to retrieve them.

We kids watched the fireworks, but we were frenetic, running back and forth between the house - where there was probably food - and the side yard where our parents sat in lawn chairs beneath a starry but now smoking sky.

Now every spring and summer in Tennessee we had to encounter a bunch of creatures, some not very pleasant to look upon. One of those creatures that I hated the most was the slug. They would slime their way across our front porch in hordes it seemed. Though some salt poured on generously would solve the problem, it was a cruel and revolting solution - possibly more disgusting than the large, squishy, slippery slugs themselves.

On that night I was coming out of the house barefoot in a rush, and, though I would typically navigate around them in horror, I stepped on a large slug full force before I knew it.

I began caterwauling, bemoaning my terrible fate on such a beautiful, celebratory night. I shrieked my way around the side of the house where I attempted to tell the adults of my horrendous circumstances and the thick smear of slime which I could even still feel on the bottom of my foot. My parents had very little patience with me, I think; a slug is a slug, and that's the shakes when you go barefoot on a warm, humid night in the South. But I was beside myself with the horror of it all, inconsolable.

My Uncle Art was the one adult who had pity on me. He took me on his lap gently, hugged me and spoke soothingly to remind me that a slug really is just a slug, another thing of the world. He probably assured me that my foot would surely not fall off, that I would survive this night, and that I should watch the splendid fireworks over the field to distract myself. I don't know exactly what he said or what he did to calm me, but I do remember feeling loved and comforted and cared for. My hope for a fun night was renewed.

It's such a little thing, I know, but I still remember what my Uncle Art did for me when I had the misfortune to step on a slug. And I remember very well that though I had not perhaps really seen Uncle Art before that summer and didn't see him again for many, many years after, I took a shine to him very quickly, and he has remained one of my favorite uncles to this day.

Our serendipitous October morning

Serendipity, I'm all about it.

This morning I took my kids to a gas station after my oldest daughter's orthodontist's appointment. We went to a brand spanking new gas station. I know it doesn't sound all that exciting, but it was something else, believe me.

I felt like going for a Starbucks coffee. It often happens with me in the fall; I have to be careful not to let money pour out of my ears. There's a Starbucks by the gas station I normally partonize, but the kids wanted to go to the new gas station by the orthodontist's. I pulled in, and everything was so lovely and new, bright and sleek. No gang signs carved into the touchscreens. No faded signs advertising donuts and cheap coffee and huge sodas. Even the pavement seemed to shine in all its freshly-poured splendor, untested yet by the Phoenix heat still oppressing us in the afternoons. And as I filled up the tank, I thought, I can get a coffee here much cheaper, and they have donuts for the kids, too. We can go in.

I don't take my kids into gas stations unless we're on a trip and have to use the potty or their Papa is agreeing to a quick snack or fast food lunch. Going into a gas station instead of doing a drive-by is therefore exotic, associated as it is with road trip adventures and alluring towns like El Paso, Texas and Gallup, New Mexico. There was that one time in Wakiki, too, when we stopped at the gas station for breakfast, because it was the only place with available parking.

So gas station = adventure in our books.

And I'm telling you, this station was sleek inside as well. Even I was ridiculously attracted to the donut and muffin display cases, the coffee bar, and the wide, non-sticky aisles. My kids ran around in a fit of excitement as I valiantly tried to corral them, and an older gentleman laughingly said to me, "You would think it's a theme park!"

I got a big cup of pumpkin spice coffee and snagged an accompanying pumpkin spice creamer. The kids joyfully scanned the pastries and picked out large, filled ones. We topped off a huge cup with coma levels of a sugary drink combo for Berto, my teenager, who had decided to stay home and play video games, missing all the fun.

When I paid, the attendant commented, too, on how much fun my kids had had, and I laughed and said, "I never bring them into the gas station. It's like Disneyland!"

It wasn't yet nine in the morning when we left clutching our pastry bags and syrupy drinks, happily walking out into the still cool October air, and I thought, It's going to be a great day!

Serendipity.

You gotta love it.

A Post in Pictures: Superstitious

I found our camera. Nothing is free, they say, so in exchange, I have lost my will to write. Therefore I present to you a true post in pictures - all those photographs I took on our Christmas Eve hike in the Superstition Mountains to Weaver's Needle on the Peralta Trail.

Sunshine on a tree's shoulders makes me happy.

An aloe shoot towers above saguaros



We shimmied through this miniature slot canyon...

And peeked through these rocks on the other side

Saguaros framed by red rocks? Truly beautiful.


 

Ella Belle, Birthday Girl, and the Grandma Thingy (how her Mama needed it!)

A roller skating rink is where people go to experience all the joys of by-gone, dangerous childhood. You know, the childhood their grandparents told them about right after the old folks got done snickering at their grandkids for wearing knee pads and helmets to ride a trike on the sidewalk. Where else in this modern world can a kid go and speed around on wheels with clearly terrified or insane peers without a parent shoving a helmet on their heads? Where else can big kids and adults go to take out smaller people without so much as a by your leave or a why aren't you wearing pads then? All the roller rink needs to be really nostalgic fun is a few rusted tin cans with sharp lids for a match of kick/roll the can and a selection of spinning hub caps to throw in ultimate, take-out-a-sibling roller blade Frisbee.

Gabriella requested that we go to a rink for her birthday. I was a bit surprised, because she has never truly skated in her life. Santa brought her skates a couple years ago, but it turned out being hard work for the rest of us. We had to pull her around the living room between us as if she were a mobile queen; it was the only way she'd use them.

She wrote a letter before we went out for her birthday activity. The gist of it was something like this:

Dear Mama and Dada, Thanks for letting me go to Skate---- for my birthday, and thank you for not making me use the grandma thingy. Love, Gabriella

Oh, you're using the grandma thingy, alright, I thought as I smiled at her lovely little face. That was what I thought until we got to the rink and saw how much they charged people to have an illusion of safety. It was $5 a skate buddy to "help you balance" and increase your chances of survival, and that after a whopping $6 a person just to walk in the deathtrap! Add the skate rentals for a family of six, and Matthew and I had decided that no one needed a skate buddy; we'd probably survive with barely a broken tailbone, busted kneecap and couple fractured wrists between the lot of us.

It didn't take long for me to feel disillusioned and bitter, however, as I crawled along the concrete wall with Ella at .01 miles an hour, watching Matthew attempt to pull along four-year-old Daniel who very much resembled a terrified, floppy-limbed rag doll with no control over its fate. Ana and Berto, on roller blades, were the only ones having a decent time.

I got off the rink with Daniel and tried to teach him to skate on the carpeted area where he fell on his bum with less fear, and Berto came over to encourage and help. Ella was soon off the rink, too, complaining that she was already tired, but the pinched, anxious look in her eyes and frowning mouth gave her away. Meanwhile, I was nervously contemplating getting back on the rink with all the crazies, picturing myself falling forward and skidding wildly into some unsuspecting kid as I took at least one of my own poor children down with me. I paled and cowered at the thought. Then I got angry. Who were these people to charge $5 for the right to keep all your limbs intact, to keep your children safe during a daredevil activity for which you had already paid more than you deemed reasonable? It would be like the county fair charging you to lock the metal lap bar on the roller coaster!

So I charged up (well, carefully rolled) to the skate-rental desk and told them flatly that we were there for our sweet girl's 7th birthday and meant to have a good time if it killed us, but we thought it would be the demise of at least three of us if we did not get a Skate Buddy grandma thingy right away! Then I offered to turn in my skates and pay the difference to get the limb-saving contraption constructed of PVC pipes. The nice young girl looked in my eyes and saw the desperation that could quickly boil over into full-blown hysteria, and she offered me a skate buddy, no charge.

Aha! I went over to Ella, triumphant, only to discover that she far preferred the assistance of her 10-year-old sis, Ana, who had already taken her round the rink and shown her how to safely slow down by crouching gently without using your fingers to scrape the wall in terror as Mama had done.

So Matthew took Danny Sam out with the Buddy, and I went out to try my feet at freedom. Instead of going .01 mph, I went a terrifying .015 mph, and the horrible realization struck me that I was a total wimp who began to hyperventilate when she couldn't touch the wall. I tried to slow down and help some poor kids who biffed it, but I could only choke out an, "Are you alright...alright...alright?" as I skidded slowly away backwards, forgetting my skates had brakes.

When Berto, developing blisters from his blades, sat out with Daniel, my man Matthew came to claim me for a slow dance on the skate floor. No doubt he hoped to recreate one of our first dates when he took me skating and held my hand the whole time, pulling me towards him and being rewarded with a big smile. Fat chance! He tried to make it a modestly-paced dance, but he went too fast for me, who had to swallow multiple butterflies that were flittering up from her stomach. Though it pained me to see him skate away - a little too rapidly and gratefully, if you ask me - I released the love of my life in a panic and hurriedly flung myself at the one I was really longing for: the sweet, sweet wall.

No one wanted to skate with Mama anymore. Daniel didn't even want to go out with me and the "buddy", so he took it out with Papa, and then I took turns taking it out alone when he was resting. Apparently, my hunchbacked form was embarrassing, but though my Ella was too mortified to be seen with the grandma thingy, I certainly was not. I saw Berto shake his head at me as I passed him, so I smiled broadly, pointed a finger at my boy as if to say, This lap's for you, son, and waved exuberantly.

In the end everything worked out. Ella skated sometimes with Papa but more often with Ana. Daniel skated with Berto but more often with Papa. And I was free to be a complete coward. At the end of our little family outing, the only injuries sustained were a couple nasty blisters on Berto's feet.

I don't know what Ella will remember about her 7th birthday excursion, but I'll remember how she skated with her big sister several times and how Ana was so patient with her, going slowly when she wished to go fast, her brown hair whipping out behind her. I'll remember Berto being the great big brother he always is to Ella and Daniel on such occasions even though his feet marred the experience for him. I'll remember how we all skated together for the first time on Ella Boo's birthday and how my kids learned not to trust Mama when death/skating is on the line!

And though it made me lonely for our younger years, I'll think often of how darn sexy my tall, lean man looked zipping around the rink with his million-dollar smile, sometimes pushing Ella or Daniel and sometimes racing Ana or Berto as they tried their best to keep up with him.

Little House Virtues, and On the Banks of Watson Lake

 

 

Every so often I am reminded of what I knew daily as a child, and I feel sorry for my kids, poor little city kids. I regret that they don't experience the freedom of growing up in the country. True, they don't know what they're missing, but I do: the alluring sights, smells and sounds of abundant nature just outside your door; the ever-changing adventure of creek, field and forest; and the whole brave world of trouble country kids can get into that seems far more wild and wholesome than what can be found in the city.

 

I miss the country badly at times...

 

Can you tell I'm reading the Little House series again to my daughter Ana? In its chapters she senses she's missing out on something grand, a strange freedom, and we mull this over together; my daughter is a natural-born country girl, like me.

 

Right now we are reading On the Banks of Plum Creek, and more than the crazy, beautiful tales of a truly rural life told in the simple but eerily elegant prose of Laura Ingalls Wilder, I am enjoying all the nuggets of wisdom woven yet again into her tales of prairie life. Here are a few excerpts I have admired this time:

 

"Well," he said at last. "I hardly know what to do, Laura. You see, I trusted you. It is hard to know what to do with a person you can't trust. But do you know what people have to do to anyone they can't trust?

 

"Wh-at?" Laura quavered.

 

"They have to watch him," said Pa.

 

And, as true for adults as it is for children, this from Ma Ingalls:

 

"Once you begin being naughty, it is easier to go on and on, and sooner or later something dreadful happens."

 

And this beautifully sums up the spirit of Christmas:

 

And then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

 

Whenever anyone was unselfish that was Santa Claus.

 

Every child should read these tales, I think, to discover a world so different but so vibrant without technological trappings.

 

 

*********************************

 

 

My man has been a city guy all his life, so what do I do to drag him into nature?

Every little bit I make a request to drive into the country on a long weekend or for a holiday...my birthday, say. I give him fair warning of my desire for fresh air, and, usually, he accommodates.

 

This last time we went to Watson Lake near Prescott, Arizona. It has strange granite dells crowded on it shores.

  

 

We stopped at a playground on the way that had a play fire truck with the names of the 19 firefighters who lost their lives in the Yarnell Hill fire on June 30th, 2013. I thought that was a beautiful idea for a memorial - many of those men were dads - though my little ones didn't understand what it meant or who it commemorated.

 

Then we parked above the lake and hiked down to take our lunch on a big rock in the blustery wind. We saw some people propelling down a precipice nearby, and I remarked, "I'm not the adventure sport sort, but that's one thing I would do gladly: rock climbing."

 

Shoot! I was bound to eat those words.

 

My kids were rock climbing, alright. They were descending to the water to stare in wonder at all the tadpoles, tiny fish and crawdads. It's times like these when they show their city greenness. Yet we all gawked at the beautiful and iridescent blue dragonflies of various sizes that whizzed through the air above our heads and danced over the water at our feet. My son Berto tried to catch a fish in his palms and would have done it, too, if he had gotten past the slippery skin against his fingers. My daughter Ana gently scooped up tadpoles, and then set them free. All my children leapt across boulders and crossed narrow log bridges on their exploration.

And I, that lady who claimed she would scale rocks for pleasure - big rocks, and uphill all the way! - paused in trepidation at a two-foot gap between some slanted granite behemoths. The water flowing between was three inches deep at least. My husband and long-legged oldest children, Berto and Ana, jumped across effortlessly, but every time I tensed for the leap, I lost my nerve. I could just see my knees and fingertips scraping down the scaly surface of the rock before I sprained my ankle in the perilous, crawdad-infested shallows at the bottom.

 

Berto said, "Look, Mom. It's easy. You just jump."

 

Just jump. Now!" said Matthew again and again, but he waited in vain, because I was a yellow-bellied chicken.

 

When I finally spread my legs and sprang, prepared to die in my dare-devil ways, you'd assume the fear was conquered, but I couldn't go back.

 

"It's easier back," said Matthew. "The rock slants down this way."

 

No difference. The mental hurdles stalled me. If I could ever control my unbridled imagination, I would be darn near a superhero.

 

Matthew gave up on me, and it took pressure off. A few minutes later, I jumped back.

 

But to save face, I've decided that every time I tell that story I'm going to increase the length between those boulders and the depth of the water by several feet. Pretty soon I will have jumped 20 feet between the cliffs of insanity over a churning abyss.

 

On our way back up to the parking lot, following white dots painted on rock to mark the way for wayward hikers, we saw a toad. I can't remember when I last saw an amphibian; I kid you not. He was a tiny little guy and the color of the dells, a perfect fit in his environment.

Later, we drove to a dock and took a walk up a path. Though we saw masses of wildflowers and crowds of butterflies, we lost the sense of being in the country as the parking lot filled with canoe-laden pickup trucks, and the meandering path wound below a highway. But we did get to see some geese. I thought the gaggle was going to gang up on us and steal our remaining food. They followed us so closely.

But they just tried to intimidate us with their glassy stares and noisy honks.

It was a simple, short afternoon in the country, not nearly as solitary or unpredictable as the Minnesota prairie, but it was memorable and fed our appetite for more wild adventures. Who knows? I might even...someday, if the kids are lucky...convince my man to take us camping.

Now, wouldn't that be a hoot.

Just don't ask me to jump any big rocks on the way to the campsite.

Virginia Snapshots

In June I returned to the South for the first time in fifteen years. My husband and children had never been east of the Mississippi. We visited my sister's family in Virginia, hoofed it around Washington, D.C., and wandered through Gettysburg National Military Park in Pennsylvania. These are a few of the memorable moments I had in that beautiful state of Virginia that belonged to so many of our nation's forefathers. I love the South. I was sure that I would hate coming back home.


Tree-lined lanes, avenues and back roads? Virginia has tree-lined highways like nothing out here in the West. The sun pierces the branches, and the effect is psychedelic, blinding. I'm used to constant shine, never-changing on our roads at home. It was hard to stare down these kaleidoscope highways, narrow, two-lane byways with no shoulders, only vibrant, verdant vegetation and brilliant wildflowers crowding the pavement and the sentinel trees bending the light above.

It was on the drive from the airport that I expected my kids and man felt like Dorothy: "Todo, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

~

I went with my sister to the church to keep her company as she prepared for a wedding Mass. But I didn't feel I should attend the service, so after sitting in the narthex to hear the homily make sense out of the Sunday readings' non-nuptial themes, I quietly went outdoors. In my tall heels and dress I past the shed, hoping to catch some rabbits, and hiked up the hill beyond toward a patch of woods.

The closer I got to the symphony of insects greeting me from the trees, the more I drifted back home to Tennessee as if I were walking toward my childhood with each spike in the dirt of my silly heels. I gazed into the black-eyed susans and cattails and all the exuberant plant life off the lawn, so familiar, breathing in deeply, and listened to the exotic sound of creatures, and I felt homesick, knowing I was home again and would have to leave it.

On the trek back to the church I surprised two rabbits in the grass not four yards from the door. They stood still as statues with stiff ears when I halted my approach, one lying and one sitting up. We were at an impasse: I wanted to watch them and they wanted to escape my notice. With my next step the one lying down bounded away toward the main road, and his friend hopped a few feet off into the lawn. I sat on the bench, very quietly, and when he had observed me from a safe distance, he grew bold, a curious little fellow, and began to hop a slow zig-zag across the stone before the building, getting ever so much closer each time to my perch. Every little bit he stopped and twitched his nose, flicked his ears and pawed the ground with his front feet. I started to get nervous when he was a mere three feet away, afraid he would use those muscular back legs to jump into my lap, so I stood, and he was off after his buddy. I remembered why rabbits were, and still are, my favorite creatures. He made my Sunday; I told my husband all about him when we got back to the house.

~

"Here, try this," my sister said, handing me a glass of wine, "and tell me what you think."

I wondered why she was watching me so intently, and then I tried it. Suddenly, instantaneously, I had visions of vines behind Mr. Hayes' house in White Bluff, TN, and then saw my siblings and I picking and eating small round fruit on the lane near the creek of our childhood home, by a gate into the field.

"It's like liquid childhood," I said fervently. "What is it?"

"It's muscadine wine. Remember the grapes we used to pick and eat when we were kids?"

I remembered. I also remembered our dad's good friend, Bill Cole, used to make his own elderberry and muscadine wine and bring it to my parents' Christmas party each year. So this was what it tasted like! And this was the reason the adults were laughing so much by the end of the evening. Vinca and I drank through at least two bottles while I was there. Matthew hated it, but it doesn't get better than liquid childhood, and Vinca has her sis' sincere, heartfelt gratitude for finding it already bottled.

~

Small towns, southern hospitality.

My husband and I took a walk by ourselves. As we strolled hand in hand down the quaint lovely streets, people waved and greeted us genially from the windows of their slow-moving vehicles; older folks called out salutations to us from their front porches or from the opposite sidewalk; and everywhere we went, obvious strangers to town, residents treated us like old, seldom-seen friends. We were not in the West anymore, that big sky and lonely hearts country, nor were we in the huge, indifferent city we call home.

~

I had the chance to take all the younger kids to the town park a few times. It wasn't manicured like ones in the city, and the water fountain drained at your feet, but it was a charming playground with nice equipment and great views down Main Street.

The first time we went, I suggested we could all stroll down Main, and my niece said we could get smoothies. I was open to it, an aunt who had not been good about sending birthday money and who rarely had the opportunity to treat my nephews and niece. Plus, I had their assurance it wasn't far. We came to the historic train depot. "Just down here," they said, turning right on another street. I had assumed the smoothies were to be had on Main, but they told me, "Not much farther."

Ah, the humidity hadn't gotten to me before, and the heat had felt like nothing, but as the walk lengthened with my four kids and my nephew PJ and niece Danni as my caravan, I began to feel that this smoothie shop they raved about was a mythical oasis in the humid heat; we would walk for miles - our clothes permanently moist and our mouths dry - and never find it.

But at last! After a few dozen miles, the tiny shop appeared; we got our cold, fruity drinks and took a shortcut home, taking breaks to sip, sit and stare at traffic.

~

I can't hold my liquor; that can be embarrassing unless you're with family.

For a double date Vinca, brother-in-law Dave, Matthew and I went to Barboursville Winery for a wine tasting. The vineyards are beautiful, and the ruins of the Governor's mansion are romantic.

But I had never done a wine tasting before. The tiny stemware has a splash at a time of each new wine, but it adds up. A quarter of the way through, I was giggly. Half way through, and I was rolling my head side to side and trying to smooch my husband as I swung toward him. I became the entertainment on our elegant date. At the end of the tasting, the rest of them deposited me at a table in a safe corner while they roamed the gift shop. I lay my head on my arm, and in a moment saw my sister coming toward me, bearing gifts of artisan cheese, crackers and honey to shore me up for our jog down to the ruins.

The four of us sat under a great tree outside the remains of the octagonal dining/ballroom of the Barbour family and chatted, joking that Dave and Matthew are pretty similar: so even-keeled like their mother-in-law, they could have married almost anyone and done alright. However, Vinca and I, more like our dad, found two of the few, if only, men who could put up with us and our hereditary temperament.

It was a great date, the first for Matthew and me in many months. That we got to spend it in the company of Dave and Vinca was awesome.

~

I saw Marcus B.; that five-year-old mischievous boy I used to watch while my sister worked has grown into a Marine with a wife. He claims to have a bad temper (it runs in the family), and I'm sure he does. But I found him to be the same lovable, smiley guy with a heart of gold like his mom. His wife Jen is a good match for him, and though it cost them some trouble to get to Virginia from where he is stationed in NC, I was honored and very grateful to get to meet the smart, down-to-earth and stable girl he fell in love with.

He brought up the fact, of which I am so proud, that I taught him to tie his shoes when he was a little tyke and, apparently, didn't teach him the right way. Everyone who sees him wrangle his laces says they've never seen anyone tie them like that, and Matthew quickly agreed, "It's messed up, isn't it?" For the life of me, I don't get what's wrong with how I tie my shoes or teach others to tie theirs, but I've surely made him unique like his Aunt Hillary, a true gift, and I trust he is properly grateful.

~

It had taken me so long to get back to the South, the region for which I have an affinity, I dreaded coming back to the desert. I had finally grown to like it, but now I would be dreaming of Virginia highways and history and charming southern manners. Seeing the stately brick homes with their spacious green lawns, porches and abundant wildflowers in my mind's eye, I would scorn the low ranch houses and xeriscaping of our southwestern home.

It didn't happen. We returned to Arizona and settled right back in between the saguaros and Palo Verde trees, watching the haboobs blow in. I married a New Mexico man, and we're home. Our babies were born here.

But I miss my family back east in Texas and Virginia and England. We began in Idaho and Tennessee and have scattered like tree bark in a dust storm. Our children are not growing up together, don't experience the craziness of regular holiday gatherings of cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. The visits are few and far between, and will likely remain so, but the memories sustain us.

A Post in Pictures: Monuments to Independence

I've only been to the Mall in Washington D.C. twice. My brother Nate worked at the Pentagon during his Air Force years, and he took me around the nation's capitol when I was 19. I wore high, spiky heels. My brother told everyone, "She's just like my mother - wears heels everywhere!" But I was cursing those shoes with some salty language in my head, smiling through the pain as I ogled park benches. I went again this year with my sister Vinca's family, 15 years after my last visit. I wore wedge heels, which apparently men hate, but they were a lot more comfortable. Eight hours walking did them in, though, and a strap snapped the next day in protest of the excessive labor.

D.C. is really quite pretty and pristine (well...not the politics). Around the Mall, all these impressive, blocky federal buildings house various departments of state. We passed the Holocaust Museum. Vinca and I wished to go in...but not with the younger kids. When they're older we'll go, I hope.

Feet hitting the green in my sexy wedge heels, the first thing I saw was the Capitol Building and all the various museums in the Smithsonian metropolis. After paying a sack of gold and several greenbacks for a meal of hot dogs, fries and chips, we entered what I thought was the Museum of Natural History. I was a bit down in the mouth when I discovered I was in The Museum of American History. Imagine, then, the thrill that my sis Vinca, Matthew and I got when we entered a dark corridor and saw in the soft lighting behind protective glass the very American flag that inspired Francis Scot Key to write the Star-Spangled Banner. If that will not make your patriotic heart swell, I don't know what will. (Sorry, pictures were prohibited, so just imagine. Oh, say can you see!)

There was this, too, in the History of the American Presidency room, and I just could not believe my eyes or my luck. It is the trunk in which George Washington preserved the papers from the Constitutional Convention:

And this drum and black crepe used during Lincoln's funeral:

In another room we discovered the USS Philadelphia, a gunboat built and sunk in 1776 during the Revolutionary War:

We spent too long in that museum, everyone telling me to STOP trying to read every single sign and to forego the temptation of beating appreciation of wonders into my children's  heads. Someone mentioned the Civil War room on the way out, and I cried, "Oohh, where was that?!" They all replied, "Come along, come along," being anxious to scurry toward Natural History, because, well, there's dinosaurs and gemstones in them there halls, you know.

The dinosaurs are impressive, and the gemstones shiny. The crowds around Hope Diamond are insane; everyone wants a peek at a legend that's mostly invented. And just when you think you're ready to leave, down the hall you find the mummies and their treasures. Then, after a long, long foray in the gift shop, you finally escape into the fresh, humid air.

Just across the way is the Smithsonian Castle, the oldest Museum that houses the crypt of British scientist James Smithson whose wealth was bequeathed to the US at Washington for the "increase and diffusion of knowledge among men". It's a mystery why he did this, having never been to the United States (except posthumously). Perhaps he thought we were a bunch of uncouth hardheads in need of some culture. At any rate, we're grateful.

After the men took the kids into the Air and Space Museum, and Vinca and I enjoyed some sisterly bonding time in a rainy garden, it was time to see the monuments.

The Washington Memorial has been closed both times I've visited the Mall. I don't remember what the deal was 15 years ago, but this June it was obscured by scaffolding again. It's marble was damaged during the East Coast earthquake in 2011, creating chinks in the structure. It still manages to be beautiful with its geometric trappings, that great obelisk erected in memory of our first great president. Maybe someday I'll be able to go up its height.

The WWII memorial, finally built but long overdue, is expansive. The states each have their own column between the magnificent sculptures for the Pacific and Atlantic campaigns:

 On our way to the Lincoln Memorial, we saw this sly creature:

A fox on the Washington Mall? Crazy! We paused in amazement, but just after we left this young fella caught a fat squirrel and flipped it up into the air a few times before my sensitive daughter's innocent eyes. I had already deserted the area, and so my sister was left the task of consoling Ana and reminding her of the circle of life.

Finally, we walked toward the man I had waited all day to see. I was thrilled to approach his incredible, Ancient-Greece inspired monument once more, but sick of the hike in strange territory, Ella and Danny, my youngest two, opted to spend time with Uncle Dave at the bottom of the steep and numerous steps instead of seeing Lincoln.

I am ashamed to say that in that temple I forgot what my brother had taught me all those years ago. Like any obnoxious tourist, I called across the space for my kids and their cousins to smile for the camera, recalling too late what was due out of respect when I saw the sign pleading for hushed voices. Lincoln seemed unperturbed, but I will remember next time that silence is sacred and possible in this raucous, over-stimulated world. After all, my sister Vinca did not forget.

Maybe it was magic of the day. Maybe it was the company of family I see too seldom (my own fault). Maybe it was the creeping fatigue and the gnawing hunger not quite satisfied by pricey hot dogs eaten hours before, or my insane and specific craving for chocolate and cookie, but outside the Lincoln Memorial, I had the best chocolate chip cookie I have ever eaten in my entire life. My husband purchased savories and sweets across the road at a snack rotunda for us all, dodging tourist buses. The cookies were in little sealed plastic packages, so I am quite sure that if I knew the brand I could find them again, but I am also certain that they could never taste the same as they did that day in D.C.. They were blissfully delicious. I do not exaggerate.

Mindful of my earlier mistake, however, I gathered everyone's snacks back into the bag as we headed down the trail to the Vietnam War Memorial. Vinca and I talked to the kids about the importance of silence in such a place. 15 years ago, my brother had done the same for me.

"Be quiet, Hillary!" he had said. "You don't talk here."

As we walked quietly my niece Danni and daughter Ana began to pick the clover off the path and place it gently by the wall. What should I do? I wasn't sure it was appropriate, but they were doing it with such sincerity - wanting to do something, to leave a little of their love at a memorial of which they could not fully understand the significance. I let them do it. (Later, my sister Vinca would tell a good friend of hers, a Vietnam vet, about their gesture. He teared up, so I cannot feel it was wrong to show that love even if it was not proper etiquette.)

It's a long black wall, and at its base are pictures, flags and mementos. There are coins, too, each with meaning. The significance is this, my brother-in-law Dave believes: a penny if you knew the person, a nickel if you served with them, and a quarter if you were there when they died. After we left the wall, Dave and Matthew spoke in awe of how they had seen lying against the black surface a picture of two young service men. In front of it was a quarter.

A Post in pictures: Gettysburg, 150th anniversary

I cannot believe that little over a week ago I was standing on the Gettysburg Battlefield, feeling overwhelmed by all the markers and monuments, struggling to align the layout of the land before me with the battle scenes I'd seen portrayed in a movie starring Martin Sheen and Jeff Daniels. 150 years after the defeat of Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia at that site during the Civil War, my family and I were looking across hallowed ground. The only thing that was lacking was the presence of Dad. Both my sister Vinca and I had looked forward to Dad being there. I cried bitterly when I found out he couldn't come. A great admirer of Robert E. Lee and hugely knowledgeable about that war, he would have had no problem seeing the events of those early July days of 1863 play out in his mind's eye against the backdrop.

Thanks to Vinca and my brother-in-law Dave, also a Civil War buff, and to my forbearing husband Matthew, the children and I got to be there for the 150th anniversary. I had dreamed about it, never thinking it would happen. Considering that I kept all the adults, and the dog, up late the night before with my typical once-a-month-crazy blowout, and that we spent eight hours walking D.C. just two days earlier, it's a miracle it came to pass.

Blurry-eyed and irritable in the morning, lugging food for an army - albeit a pampered one, we herded seven children into two vehicles later than hoped and made the drive to Pennsylvania from where? Northern Virginia. Three hours later, we ate our picnic lunch in the parking lot and hiked up to the Visitor's Center.

Now please understand: my youngest child, Danny, believes he is still a baby AND my indispensable third arm. So....failing to bring a stroller from Arizona to my sis' home and having learnt a painful lesson from hauling my miraculous appendage around in D.C., Vinca and I negotiated with a park ranger to haul my whining preschooler around in a wheelchair. Being a true gentleman, he was open to our strange plan as long as one of us rode with him (yeah!). I just had to leave my driver's license as collateral to prevent my wild retreat from the Center with the chair as loot. As I was making sure of the terms of what the friendly park ranger called a "red-neck solution, ma'am", my man walked up and squashed the transaction, calling it ridiculous. I groaned.

The park ranger asked my husband, "Which one is yours? Which ones are yours?" pointing between me and Vinca and our entourage of children.

"Do I have to claim any of them?" responded Matthew, and the ranger, Vinca and I just laughed it up, seeing the wisdom of that reply. Ah, love and family!

Disappointed but determined and deciding to come back to the Museum later, we hiked a trail through beautiful greenery to Cemetery Ridge, the Union position. The smell of honeysuckle accosted us, and my nephew PJ and I were just about to snag some and suck the juice out when Dave reminded us that we could be fined a few hundred bucks for messing around with nature in a National Park. Damn! It was like my childhood was floating on the air, teasing me. Even the little purple flowers by the path reminded me of my home in Tennessee. But soon we were out of the trees and crossing a busy road and the memorials began to spring up everywhere.

Everyone has the moment when it hits them, just where they are, just what happened there. My moment came on Cemetery Ridge after trying but mostly failing to interpret the signs about Confederate and Union positions and encounters. I began to wander behind my brother Dave amid the cannon, and he pointed this out to me:

It's a memorial to mark where Confederate General Lewis Armistead fell on July 3rd. Part of Pickett's charge, his brigade got farther than any other into Union lines. Before the war he had been great friends with Union General Winfield Scott Hancock, who was also at Gettysburg. Both were wounded. Armistead died.

We had to return to the car, make the good hike back down, because you can't walk the whole park in one day. If you're like me, you'd like to try, and if you could, you would read each and every monument, memorial and marker along the way. But your friends and family would probably desert you, and you'd have to break federal rules and live off National Park land for a week or so.

In the car we stopped first at the Pennsylvania Monument. It is gorgeous and enormous:

I thought I lost most of my kids there, because I lost my head and didn't keep track of them. Berto was filming and narrating the sights on the camera for his Paca (my dad), and it turns out my man had taken the younger ones up the precarious, tightly winding stairs to the top as I bellowed for my family all around statues of Lincoln and Union generals. We finally reunited, and I took my turn up to the parapet. Here's one of the views of the battlefield from the top:

Later as we all made pilgrimages to and from the restrooms, I caught my nephew PJ drawing a scale model of the monument. I was amazed! It was beautifully detailed and to my eyes looked perfect. I wanted to ask him if I could have it, but it seemed wrong to covet his hard work. Still, if he felt like giving me such a thing for Christmas, I wouldn't say no. I'd frame it for my home and point out his signature to visitors.

We later made a stop at the farm of a free black man whose fences and other property were dismantled by federal forces to use for defenses. He filed for damages in excess of $1,000. He was compensated 10 bucks or so - a lucky one. Most farmers got nothing in compensation from the government.

Here are some of the many monuments to bravery and sacrifice on the Union side of the enormous field:


Major General George Meade

We drove through the still small town of Gettysburg to get to the Confederate side. And this is where Matthew and Dave had their moments.


You drive down a paved road through pretty, serene landscape. It is so quiet, the gentle whisper of the leaves so peaceful, it is hard to imagine anxious men waiting beneath those trees to march toward their fate.

When we got out of the cars to wander and found ourselves staring back over the field to Cemetery Ridge and all the Union monuments, Matthew said, "It just hit me. This is eerie."

It was.

I waited a while beside the Volunteer State's monument for my sister so that we, a couple gals raised in the green hills of Tennessee, could pose by it:

Here are a couple others, each to commemorate the actions and loss of men in those days of July 1863:

North Carolina's

Finally, we drove up the road to the one monument you can see clearly from Cemetery Ridge, and my brother Dave had his moment. Only he did what none of the rest of us had thought to do: he called Dad to tell him where he was and to share the moment before the memorial to General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia:

Just down a trail from it is the spot where Lee rode before his weary men after their defeat and declared, "It is all my fault."

Afterward, we passed marker after marker, out of time, and I wished I could have spent a moment - or several minutes - with each of them. I tried to read the state's names and the general's positions as we headed up the hill to Little Round Top where brutal fighting took place, where the 20th Maine under Col. Chamberlain held their ground at all costs, becoming instrumental in the Union victory:

Then we realized Vinca had left her backpack somewhere, and I was shocked, because I'm supposed to do stuff like that. Still, it was my fault; she forgot it while posing with me in front of Tennessee's memorial.

While the men went looking for it, Vinca and I took the kids to the Museum. I had several moments there, mostly angry, irritated ones, because I was trying to look at every single object and read every single placard, but my five-year-old was scared by the dim lighting, images and weaponry. The museum zig-zagged forever, each new corner bringing something you know you can't leave without seeing - even if you're child is telling you how she hates it.

But Vinca in that museum still managed to have her moment. I found her in tears after coming back from scouting a restroom for my five-year-old. I thought my kids had really done it then! I tried to pry what was wrong from her, but Vinca just wanted everyone to leave her alone for a bit.

Later she told me about it. She found a display in which there was a small personal Bible. An infantry soldier had it in his pocket during the battle, and a bullet or shattered shell went plum through it, leaving a gaping hole. The soldier died, and the museum had the Bible along with many of his personal effects on display. It suddenly hit her, she said, the sheer number of deaths and the ramifications of that immense loss of life.

A wise man, one who many of us greatly admire, gave a speech at Gettysburg after the battle. Abraham Lincoln said it was far beyond our ability to hallow that ground. The men who died there did that. All those monuments and memorials we had the great privilege to see, though beautiful and appropriate, don't add to what those men did 150 years ago, but hopefully they make us ponder their sacrifice and heighten our appreciation for the sacrifice of every single man and woman in service since.

That's what it is all about. We should all be blessed with moments.


If you ever visit Gettysburg, plan to spend a couple days. It is far bigger than you think it is. Camp in the campgrounds nearby or stay in the town after all the anniversary crowds have cleared. I plan on a backpacking trip through it myself someday, reading every single little marker throughout. Anyone want to come along? Matthew? Vinca? Dave? Kids? Anybody? :-)