Perfume for sale! Tree Hugger or Fresh Bread

There are legends of people who don't wear deodorant, because others assure them that their natural scent is so enticing, deodorant or cologne would only corrupt it.

My dad used to say fresh alfalfa was my mom's natural smell, and his expression clearly showed that he thought it was the best scent in the world. He made rabbit fare sound romantic!

I recalled this the other morning while lying in bed. My hair smelled really bad. I had spritzed myself with perfume the evening before, and the perfume had mixed with natural oils and big city particulates in my hair, making my crowning glory malodorous. I'm surprised my husband didn't move to the couch during the night.

My husband has a good scent. I joke about finding his sweet spot, behind his ear or on his neck beneath his whiskers. I'm pretty sure he could go a good three days without a shower and not offend me.

However, my scent comes from whatever Mother Nature decides to slap on me as soon as I step out the door after my shower. If there is even the slightest breeze, heat, humidity, pollution or dirt around, I end up smelling like dust, exhaust fumes and wet, decaying leaves. My skin and hair just soak it up! I suppose it's nature's way of claiming me, but no matter how romantic being an outdoor girl sounds, it certainly reeks! Even my expensive perfumes are whipped into submission by my inherent tree-hugging wild woman.

Maybe I should only hug Eucalyptus or Cedar trees from now on?

My husband, chivalrous as he is, actually told me recently that I smelled good - late in the day, too - but I'm pretty sure that was only because I had skipped my usual make-up routine, and he was grasping for something to compliment.

Fresh alfalfa? I'd be happy just to smell like stale cheerios!  I don't smell like anything fresh unless I've just pulled a loaf of bread from the oven.

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.

Summer's dream derailed and reclaimed (a little)

This summer has not exactly gone to plan. It started out much busier than we all would have liked, a continuation of the crazy school and sports year. And the kids got sick. Again and again. My youngest daughter is sick yet again. Because of the illness, I broke my long-standing summer rule that the kids must go outside and get exercise before any screen can be turned on. So the young ones fell into a bad habit of stumbling out of bed only to grab food to munch before one screen or another. And I fell into a bad habit of allowing it; it distracted them from their stomach virus symptoms and thus reduced whining considerably.

My eldest son reminded me of summers not so long ago, when the TV couldn't be turned on before a a certain time, when I made my kids play in the early morning sunshine after eating their breakfast at a table either within or out of doors.

He reminded me of this mainly because his younger brother adores video games, had the worst of the stomach bug and thus started playing video games at around 6 am daily. My oldest was pointing out the inequality, but it made me realize: boy, had my standards suffered!

So, after illness grew tired of toying with us, I jumped back on the better parenting bandwagon and forced all my children to play tennis and/or soccer with me in the back yard, and I got great exercise, too - was a superb role model of healthy habits, if I do say so.

We weren't quite living up to the ideal of the old, hot days. In my defense, though, there were less of them to haul outside in past summers; there was less complaining, less fussing at each other, and less resistance period.

Truly, I've tried this summer under persistently hostile circumstances that could turn Lord of the Flies at any moment!

Believe me, some days I have yearned to throw in the towel and take an eight hour nap until their father comes home, but I've done my time. I've played looooong stretches of poker with the kids during which I rejoiced with dancing, clapping and singing when my chips were finally gone. I've offered repeated games of mini pool, and then listened to my kids fight for the chance to play me first, nearly coming to blows with cue sticks and tiny, hard balls. I've read for hours and hours, and I have even forced my oldest daughter to read to me so that I could doze off and regain strength to face a few more hours of sibling warfare.

(Why don't my kids like each other? For years I made them watch all those PBS children's shows about loving your neighbor, being respectful and kind, using your creativity and helping your parents. And what did it get me? Children who fight with each other any time I force a shutdown of screens.)

Despite the initial busyness, I was grateful for my children's company after a rough first year at home with no little ones during the day. I felt like I had rediscovered my meaning in reading, playing, and laughing with them.

Then illness and infighting derailed us.

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

I feel sorry for my city kids. I've felt this before. Earlier in the summer I was telling them about Paca's (my dad) rules for his kids about when we could start swimming in the creek (not before May) and about when we were to get out of the water for a break (when our lips turned blue). That creek was incredibly cold, but the stretch of it that ran under the culverts of Warf Road was all ours, a little slice of gurgling paradise beneath tall, broad-leaved trees. I reminisced about the rope swing, too - I miss it all still!

My kids don't have a creek or a rope swing. They don't get to run down a long lane and climb the bluff on Mr. Spann's property, or hike between his slow-moving cows to the blackberry patch. There are no nearby woods for them to explore, in which they can build forts from dead limbs or sit silently observing wildlife.

And I feel sorry for them. They don't have what I had, and I wish they did.

I tell myself that they have other things that come with being in the city - city pools with tall, twisting slides, more visits with friends, public parks, theme parks - but in my heart I think these are poor replacements for nature.

I wonder if they would agree?

Last week I took them out to recapture summer. We went to a riparian reserve in the city and saw dozens of bunnies and dragonflies, long-legged egrets and herons, and some beautiful, overgrown trees. And there was a cooling desert breeze that blessed our presence among nature's bounty.

And I saw them dig for "dinosaur bones" in a huge shaded sandbox. Even my 13 year old joined in, pitching sand over his shoulder as he cheerfully helped the little kids with their discovery. I smiled.

This is what it's all about, I thought.



Next, I'll write about how our family took a beautiful, if sometimes exasperating, hike to a lovely creek in the Arizona wilderness.

The Wise Men Found Him in a Manger; But He May be Found Anywhere - by Daniel Hylton

Over the centuries, there have been many discussions, questions, and even arguments about the Three Wise Men who attended the birth of Christ, such as; did they actually attend His birth, or did they arrive as many as two years after that event, when He was a child?  Who were they?  Whence did they come?  How did they know about the advent of Christ?  Were they Persian, Babylonian, or Zoroastrian astronomers, perhaps?  And if Zoroastrian - did Zoroaster himself learn of the prophecy of the coming of Christ from the Hebrew prophet Daniel, as some believe?  Or were the Three Wise Men Chinese, as the Chinese - and many others - claim?

And, in modern times, the arguments continue - did the Three Wise Men even exist, or is the whole tale just a Christian fable?

Well, I frankly don't care.  In fact, for the purpose of this post, I will not address any of the traditions, questions, or doubts that attend the tale of the Three Wise Men. For; I know in my heart that they lived and that they saw the Christ Child.  And that is what matters to me.

They came from somewhere to the east, in that vast landscape of Asia that stretches from the Middle East to the Pacific Ocean.  It had been understood by most of the eastern cultures for several, perhaps many, centuries that the King of the Universe would someday come down and be born upon earth, as a man, specifically, as a Jew.  They knew that a special never-before-seen star was to herald his birth. The Three, like generations of wise men before them, diligently watched the sky for the sign of the advent of the King, hoping against hope that they, in their generation, would be the ones fortunate enough to witness the marvelous event.

And one day - or night - there it was.

Unique, bright, like nothing else in the heavens, it hung low in the western sky.

They had no doubt of its significance.

Their hearts bursting, their minds alive with anticipation, the Three loaded up their camels, gathered their servants, accumulated supplies for a long journey, and set out toward the west, following the Star, seeking a King.  And, at the end of two years, they found Him.  Astounded and awed by their immense good fortune, they presented their gifts, worshiped Him, and then, being warned by an angel of God of Herod's deadly animus toward the new-born King, they avoided the Israelite usurper and "went home by another way."

But they took with them an amazing gift; they had seen the King of Kings, born upon earth as a man.

Now, Jesus Christ is variously described as the Son of God, the Son of Humanity, a prophet, a kind and gentle Teacher, a Healer, the Savior.  And He is, of course, all of those things and more.

But I see Him, first and foremost, as the Wise Men saw Him - the King of all.

I was raised by Godly parents, good Christian people who taught me to live by His teachings.  I read the Bible completely through as a young man, many parts of it I read more than once and studied much of it diligently.  I even memorized at one time or another several passages of scripture.  Even so, I never had that deeper experience to which so many spiritual folk bear witness.

For me, for much of my life, belief was based not so much upon spiritual experience as it was upon intellectual reasoning.  It was faith founded upon the pragmatic underpinnings of knowledge and of all that I had learned about the various belief systems of humanity.

In the year 1986 I found myself living in an extremely rural part of Tennessee with a wife and four young children, and I experienced a startling, and rather abrupt comprehension that being a parent was not just about providing food, shelter, and clothing.  I needed to understand the meaning of human existence if I was to impart anything meaningful to my three daughters and my son.

So I set to work, educating myself on the subject of the Great Question; Why Are We Here? Learning what I could of every theory about the existence of life on earth - and I mean every theory - I eventually dismissed all of them except the Bible.  But all my dismissals, at the time, were based solely on rational thought, and upon those things which I had discovered of each theory or religion, not on any particular spiritual experience.

Understand: I am not touting myself as an authority on anything, especially religion.  I do not care what anyone else chooses to believe, and I long ago passed the point where any human can claim influence with me as it concerns the most basic questions of existence.

By late summer of 1987, I had decided in a rather cold intellectual sense that Jesus Christ was the answer, and that His teachings were the way to understanding.  So, I read the New Testament once again, this time as if I was reading it for the first time, without any preconceived notion of what any of it meant.  And I found that it satisfied, in a purely logical sense, all my questions.

But I wanted more.  I wanted empirical evidence of my Maker.

Then I happened upon a very old book called Deeper Experiences of Famous Christians.  Admittedly I was skeptical of many of the things expounded inside that book; nonetheless, after reading it, I craved an experience of my own - a personal meeting with God.

To that end, I made my way one day out across the field behind the house, down through the hollow and into the forest beyond.  Searching through the woods, I found a small clearing with a large rock jutting from the ground near its center like an altar.  I knelt and prayed.  After praying for some time, it occurred to me that, rather than yammering in God's ear; it would benefit me more to listen.

So, I listened.  And I heard - nothing.

After that day, and for every single day thereafter, in all kinds of weather, every evening after work, I went faithfully into the woods to that little clearing, knelt down, and told God simply; I am here.

Nothing.  Ever.  Nothing.  I never heard His voice.  There was never any kind of sign.

Through all those days, while awaiting a sign from the heavens, I read the New Testament again.  And yet again.  I spent an hour every day alone in the forest, listening.  Days turned into weeks, weeks became months.  After eight months of this, summer had cooled into autumn, autumn became winter, winter turned into yet another spring.  And I had had no experience.

I grew discouraged.  Discouragement eventually devolved into a sort of rebellious anger.  But, in fact, something had happened to me over this time period which had nothing to do with my earlier studies.  Nor was it related to any experience.  It was, in a very real way, miraculous.  The words of Jesus had passed through my eyes, worked their way through my brain, and had settled in my heart.

I knew now, without any doubt, that I was a created being.  I knew that God created me.  And I knew that Jesus Christ was His Son.  I knew now the reason I - or any of us - exist.

So, then - I wondered rather petulantly - why didn't He speak to me?

One fine spring evening in 1988, I had finished my supper and was about to make my way, once again, into the woods behind the house.  But as I went out the front door and onto the porch, the rebellious anger erupted.  

I am done with this, I thought.  It is pointless.  He will never speak to me.

Turning the other way, I abandoned any thought of going to my "altar" and I tromped down the lane toward the bridge over the creek.  As I walked on, and on, through the dappled sunlight that cast long shadows across the lane, my dark mood gradually lifted and after a while I began to quietly laugh at myself.  Who did I think I was, anyway?  In the great scheme of things, I would barely qualify as a worm; likely something even less.  Why then would The Almighty feel compelled to speak to me?  He would not, of course.  For in a vast universe of humble servants, I suddenly realized, I was among the humblest; perhaps the humblest of all.

I stopped on the bridge, gazed down into the sparkling stream, and smiled to myself.  The dark mood, its attendant anger, and the weight of needing to hear the Voice of God were gone.  As was the need for an experience.

I was abruptly and rather acutely aware of the warm spring evening and all the life it contained within it, all of it a testimony to the Creator of life.  Birds chirped in the thickets, wildflowers burst through the ground along the creek, the heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air.  The earth itself was bearing witness to its Maker.

Never again would I need to go into the forest, find an altar, seek a sign.  Every day of being alive was in and of itself an experience, a sign.  Nothing else was - or would ever be - necessary.  At last content, I turned toward the house.

And then, right then; when I expected - and needed - it least, He was there.

Right there.

With me, on the bridge.

Did I see Him?  No.  Did I hear an audible Voice?  No.

Yet He was there.  And He was there for me.

I have never related the details of that moment to anyone; nor will I ever do so.  It is meaningful only to me, is highly personal, and it can have no bearing whatsoever on anyone else in their striving after God.

Over the years, I have referred to it privately as my Three Wise Men Moment.  For in that moment, upon that bridge, I, far less wise than they, far less clever, far less deserving, was given a great gift that has sustained me throughout my life.

I often find myself distracted by the cares of this life: the need to make money, the frustration with the contemporary state of politics, the anger over man's inhumanity to his fellow man that is daily seen, the worry over this or that or some other thing. And I more often than not forget that which matters most - that which, in fact, alone truly matters; living a life that pleases the King.

I lose my way.

So then, every so often, I must push the world aside and go back in time to that moment on the bridge, to touch that moment, to remember it and its meaning.  To remember what really matters.

Then, my priorities properly restored, my mind and my heart lifted, my feet back upon the right path, then, and only then, can I get on with my life "by another way."

Merry Christmas.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

We all need some manure in our lives

Stomping manure is not my favorite exercise, but it had to be done, and I was the girl for the job.

Last Friday I spent a great deal of time dancing on top of manure as if at a grape-crushing party. Of course, I didn't do it in my bare feet. That would be some kind of pedicure! I did it in an old pair of sneakers that are very likely to end up in the garbage can by the curb in the near future.

Why did I develop this intimate relationship with animal waste? I was putting in a winter lawn. And considering that I gave up on my summer lawn last winter - because I believe with all my heart that bermuda grass is what grows in hell - putting in fresh grass was quite the exciting if exhausting venture.

I scalped the demon grass by hand where it persisted in several patches across the yard despite the fact that I have neglected it for months. I used a hard rake to scrape up the disaffected soil. I spread seed and fertilizer as my Yorkie attacked my manual spreader, making the seed dump out in piles that I later hand-tossed. The flexible rake was then used to spread my seed and fertilizer more evenly.

Then came the manure, five bags of it. I knew pretty quick that a. I was dang tired already as I hugged the smelly bags and tried to distribute them evenly, and b. that I didn't have nearly enough excrement to go around my big yard. I tried my best with what I had, shaking out clumps of manure and the occasional wood chip and large rock. In the end my paltry if incredibly stinky supply of manure was not enough to keep the birds away from my seed.

So that afternoon after a shower that couldn't possibly make me feel clean, I purchased more manure, 15 bags of it exactly, to dump on my yard, keeping the birds, our neighbors and our neighborhood's roaming cats away.

My darling husband and son lugged the heavy bags into the yard, spacing them out nicely. And that evening I cut open the bags with my demoted kitchen scissors and dragged them in a snake pattern across small areas. Again I grabbed my soft rake and spread that manure out beautifully. As I spotted large miscreant clumps, I stomped on them mightily and repeatedly, figuring that if my arms could be so weary with this labor of yard love, then my legs might as well be, too.

It was my first time attempting a winter lawn. Would all my work be for naught?

This whole week I have watched my yard between deep waterings, waiting for some sign of new life. And this whole week I have been struggling with a loss of hope in other, more vital areas of my life. I needed to see the little blades of rye grass in an almost spiritual way. I needed some symbol of hope, some payoff for all my imperfect but valiant efforts.

And yesterday I saw them, appearing overnight it seemed, sage green, delicate sprouts. Gorgeous and very welcome they were! My hope was renewed with them. My heart swelled with pride for my work. I showed them to my kids and man excitedly, gratefully. I paroled the perimeter of my yard with my Yorkie, bending down to peer sideways into new, tiny life.

For days I had stared at a yard full of manure anxiously, seeing only that seed had not, and possibly would not, sprout. And now? Fulfillment of promise.

My yard is a lesson in life, I think. At least I got something deeper from it. As I reflected on my relief and joy in a new lawn yesterday, I realized that we human beings need seeds of a good life planted, too, by God, our parents, our teachers and other role models, and we definitely need the fertilizer of compassion, education, experience, and good relationships. But we also need manure, those often stinky and sticky situations, those many challenging and often unexpected times, that occasional or frequent interior turmoil. We need those things even if they obscure the seed and the fertilizer for a while, because in the end we spring up fuller and taller and stronger than we were before. We become resilient.

And we appreciate the little things in life, like a winter lawn, even more.

Short, mostly unedited: Gratitude

This morning at my children's school, the wind suddenly picked up, rushing toward me...well, like a movie moment.

I lifted my face and watched the trees, and I was suddenly very grateful. It never fails that a strong wind reminds me of the presence of God the Holy Spirit. And so I thought, Thank you Father for my life, for my health, for Matthew my husband, and Berto, Analisa, Gabriella and Daniel Samuel our children...even though I am having trouble being happy right now, I am still so very grateful...

Thank you for everything. Please keep doing what you're doing. And help me be happy.

When I reflect a bit, I am awed by the fact that I get to know my children - four beautiful, kind, talented, intelligent children. Maybe I'm amazed, in the words of Paul McCartney. I hear their praises often. I'm not surprised by the admiration they receive, even though they behave better for others usually, but I am struck by the great gift of having had a part in bringing them into this world, a not unsubstantial part. Nevertheless, when people stop me to tell their impressions of my children, I want to say simply, it's God. I try, but he made them what they are. I have a part in it, but I would not do it nearly so well devoid of his grace and guidance or lacking the courage to keep going and working at motherhood even when I think I am not doing it well at all, that I'll never learn how to be a truly great, on-task mother.

I want to complain about the incessant work of a larger family sometimes. I want to ask my husband and children if they realize what I do, if they notice, if the kids will ever listen about putting things back where they belong instead of leaving them littered about our home. If they're thankful. I want to cry, Look at me! I'm doing a lot for you here! But I also want to shut my mouth, to not say it, to not demand the recognition. Shouldn't I appreciate what others do, too? Anyway, when it is demanded, it is always given grudgingly, and these tasks are my job, even when they spread into the evening hours as they perpetually do.

So, thank God for my vigor, that I can do every day what needs to be done. I am very grateful.

And there are great little things that bring me joy right now. For instance, the smell my tomato plant's leaves leave on my hands after I have pulled them between my fingers. They started as a mushy tomato on my counter, a tiny vine curled in its heart. I sliced it open and submerged it and its juices in my rose planter. And now, look, it has grown so tall in a few weeks!

Similarly, I took a moldy, sprouting sweet potato several weeks ago and buried the whole thing in an empty planter. It grew wildly within a few days, so much so that we wondered if it would take over our house, climbing up the stucco columns to eventually smother the whole structure.

I have trimmed it since, but its vines seem to prefer to trail the earth anyway.

These plants, as well as my red roses, make me happy, simple pleasures, because I seem fated to kill green things. Yet here I am succeeding, and I love to stroke my living greenery, grateful that I have made things grow through my care.

My own life has grown tremendously through my efforts and with the presence and love of others since I became a wife and mother. It's growing still, swelling with blessings and experiences and lessons learned after countless mistakes and a few frightening, startling intervals. I cannot fail to be grateful for it.

Sometimes I just need a little reminder, like feeling a refreshing wind pick up on a cool September morning.

England Anthology: Of All the Trees I've Known Before...

My friend Holly wanted to have her picture taken in art havens and historical spots while in England. I loved those, too, but I also wanted to pose with trees.

I went all over England hugging trees. It wasn't planned really, but I fell in love - not with one but with several of them. Being a bonafide tree hugger and whisperer, I haven't really noticed that my whispering or hugging makes a difference to them, but perhaps that's because, except for a few special trees in my life, I tend to love and leave them.

I couldn't really get my arms around this burly guy, but immune as I am to most forms of self-inflicted embarrassment, I tried. He was on the beautiful grounds at Leed's Castle. I had a terrible virus that day. I feel sorry for any human who came along after me to hug him. I'm sure there were several.

These trees seemed a bit delicate, like elven trees. I didn't embrace them. But this picture? I'm no photographer, but I am in love with this image for some reason, technically good or not. There were a fair amount of people touring the castle grounds that day, but this memory takes me to the English countryside all by myself, soaking in the peaceful sounds of nature, possibly taking a nap in the sunshine, and waking up to play with wild rabbits.

There were other trees that had a superb sense of place in a different sense, city dwellers. They were a little bit like Londoners, though: aloof.

 

Big Ben artfully obscured - by the tree, not the photographer

 

The three guardians of Westminster Abbey

The below tree was in Bath. That alone was reason enough to hug it under its towering canopy. I was ebullient that day, savoring the passing moments, fully cognizant of my good fortune, appreciative of my glorious surroundings.

 

It was perhaps the friendliest-looking tree in arguably the loveliest spot, Royal Victoria Park with views of the majestic Royal Crescent. I would live there if at all possible.

 

 

And speaking of the Royal Crescent in Bath, Somerset, there was a very old magnolia tree adorning the front of the Royal Crescent Hotel and Spa.

 

 

I could not afford to stay there, but I could admire the tree.

 

Another tree of Bath, simultaneously down to earth and majestic

 

Ah, the simple and priceless joys of nature.

 

 



A Little Touch of God

Many people have talked about the sunsets here in Phoenix. My general practitioner, who has lived in or traveled to many different places, told me once that she has never seen any to rival them, not even in Hawaii. I was surprised, but later I read an article in the local newspaper that validated that statement as it attempted to explain the regular, beautiful phenomenon. Is it the mountains? The particulates in the atmosphere? The kinds of clouds we have here? The smog? I admit that many a time I have driven west in the evening and have myself wondered at the sunset, admired the dynamic strands of color spreading out from the orb resting on the shoulder of South Mountain.

One evening this past week I had the opportunity to witness a 10-year sunset. I was watching my kids play with neighbors in the front yard, but my restless eye was also wandering to a hummingbird nest in the lower branches of our giant eucalyptus tree. Though I am madly in love with that hummingbird mama, watching her through binoculars several times a day and worrying when she's away, I was soon distracted from her astonishingly still form by the western sky.

I got up and kept saying to the kids as I walked around and stared, "Look at that beautiful sunset! Can you believe that sunset? It's amazing."

But apparently they could believe it, for they paid it little mind, glancing up for only a second when I spoke. I didn't understand their nonchalance. The sun had erupted brilliantly and its flames magnified each moment. The colors didn't appear to diminish as night approached. It lingered for ten years as I watched in awe, suspended in time.

And something my parish priest said about sacraments came back to me as I felt the unusually cool wind of May on my skin and faced a majestic sky. As an example about the difference between big "S" sacraments and sacraments with a little "s", he said he might go fishing early in the morning with a friend on a lake, and as the sun rose over the lake, he could be so affected by the beauty of it that it would be for him a profound moment with God, a sacrament with a little "s". For his buddy, however, it could be just another sunrise on just another morning as he waited impatiently for a bite on his line.

That ten-year sunset was for me a sacrament. It pulled me into its mystery on an unimpressive, dusty neighborhood street amid the noise of children at play. I thanked God for the chance to experience it, just as I had thanked God for a cool, breezy May in Phoenix, and just as I had thanked him profusely several times for the hummingbird nest in our tree.

Phoenix is rich in spectacular sunsets, just as our lives are rich in little sacraments, if we are present enough to be aware of and grateful for them.

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.


 

A Post in Pictures: Something about a creek...

Sometimes you get to reclaim a little of your childhood thousands of miles from where you grew up.

In order to do so this past Sunday, Matthew had to drive our van down a dirt road that felt like a rollercoaster from the early 1900s with people regularly pitched off the wooden slats to their serious injury a few dozen feet below. (I stroked my van and apologized, and she sits in the driveway stewing still, caked with mud all over her rear end.)

Holly and Chip, our hiker friends - the cool ones - are very intrepid, but when we finally parked the van 11 miles and 35 minutes later off the road and peered over the edge of the parking allotment at our trail, Matthew and I felt a little squeamish. But if our kids and Holly's pug, Buster, were raring to go, then so were we!


Pic by Holly

The hike led down toward Sycamore Creek near the Verde River, and once we had navigated the sharp descent with our children, digesting the fact that it would surely be the devil's road on the way back up, we came quite quickly to the first swimming hole. There was a thin rope, looped at the end, dangling from a small branch over placid water.

"Hey, a rope swing!" someone said excitedly.

"We'll have to try it on the way out," said Chip.

Our hike had barely begun, so we ventured on until we came to another accessible part of the river, and the kids all dipped their hats in the water and tipped them back on their heads, letting the cool drip down their necks. Little white butterflies fluttered around us, and larger members of their family, more colorful, drew near. Brilliant blue dragonflies zipped past and played about the water. We found a huge watermelon vine trailing the ground; someone must have dropped their seeds, because watermelon is certainly not native. But the smell on that path through the woods was a native aroma. It was delicious, all exotic spice, probably from the creosote. I breathed deeply, wishing I could capture the fragrance to rub into some grilled meat next time we barbequed.

Both families left directions in the cars, so we were lucky to find our swimming hole at all. We were sure we had lost the creek after crossing it twice and losing all sound of running water. So Chip and my boy Berto decided to scout it out ahead while the rest of us turned back, dispirited. The guys came running and shouting for us to halt in our cowardly retreat. They'd found the place, and it was right below a beautiful red rock with caves and multiple crevices.

"I hope you aren't fooling us, Chip," I said as we followed them on the silent, dusty trail.

"It's right ahead."

And sure enough, we turned a corner, and there it was in its splendor, worth the heat and the sweat and the uncertainty.

Chip, our resident adventurer, decided that we needed to go out on a ledge to ideally enjoy our packed lunch. So we clambered up behind him, helping our six children along, the remaining adults crawling quickly over a narrow lip of the rock after them. There we settled on a red rock precipice for  our meal, the adults and older kids hung their legs above the water and created a human fence to prevent the little ones from falling. Matthew dropped a carrot in the pool below, and presently Berto cried, "Look, a lobster!" It was a crawdad. He had grabbed the veggie and was ambling along the rocks with his prize.

It was all shade at first in our precarious dining space, but presently the sun broke above us. It was time for a swim.

There's a country song called Something About a Truck from Kip Moore with this verse that goes:

Something about a creek around 2 am
After a few of those beers, you wanna dive right in
You don't need no clothes, just hang em on a limb!
Something about a creek around 2 am

I hear that verse when Matthew is playing his country music, and I say to him, "That man has never been in a creek at 2 am. At 2 pm it's cold! If you wanted to go skinny dippin in a creek at 2 am, I'd say, 'You first!' and push you right in." Still, he's the only one who could persuade me, but it would definitely take a couple craft beers. (I'm selective but a light weight.)

And how right I am. We started wading out in the water, and I felt like my body was going to seize up. Meanwhile Chip was trying to catch crawdads by letting them clamp down on his finger. Holly submerged quickly and wisely kept most of her body under. Then Chip swam all the way across the pool to explore a cave. Matthew didn't want to swim; his lean body has no fat to protect him against the chill. I was dying for a swim; it'd been so long. After a short breast stroke, however, my hollers of misery were echoing off the red rock. Matthew snapped a picture after my dip:

Chip heard me shrieking from the cave and asked what was wrong. "Nothing...she's just cold!" Holly called to him.

Something about a creek around 2 am, my foot...though maybe with a proper bathing suit or no clothes it's better. My plastered and dripping jean shorts and T-shirt weren't helping.

Eventually, I found my courage, and getting down in the cold, I stayed down. I had a good swim while Holly, a great and once competitive swimmer, volunteered to water taxi the kids on her back to the cave, and Matthew stood still and alone in a little shaded bay of his own and lured fish with bits of carrot...until they got wise to him.

As we swam bits of white fluff from the cottonwood trees drifted continually by on the breeze, dragonflies lined up on a floating twig, small fish approached our toes and birds skimmed the water with their beaks to catch lunch.

It was a beautiful spot, in hues of blue and green and red, and the jolting drive and hot hike were nothing to the adventure of a good swimming hole, but eventually it was time to face the road again.

On the hike out we passed groups of young people in bikinis and swimming trunks, the young men hauling coolers of beer between them, looking sure of a good time (something about a creek...).

Just as we were getting dry, we jumped back in to play on the rope swing at the first swimming hole. We got muddy and wet, and our toes sank into the sediment on the bottom, sending big clouds of dirt spreading across the water. But I have a soft spot for rope swings, and so does Chip, apparently. I reminisced about the thick barge rope over our creek in Tennessee, how we could sit in its large loop. He talked about childhood summers in Pennsylvania, canoe trips and expeditions to find the best rope swing each year.

Memories such as those and these must be made. You have to grab adventure by the horns, no matter how tiresome it is to pack lunches and water, lather four kids with sunscreen, and see the mess of a van you rode home on. My city kids, so thrilled to explore caves and watch crawdads and fling themselves into water from a rope swing, need a lot more time in the God-given country. And where better than Arizona?

Gone Fishing

Saturday was free fishing day at all the urban lakes, so I persuaded my man to take our kids angling.

While her big brother, sister, Mama and Papa fished in turns,  Ella held a worm she named Batman in her hands. He stretched himself, compacted and wriggled and almost fell out of her hands. She asked me if I wanted to hold him, but I declined, petting his smooth body with one finger.

A fish jumped out of the water, and she cried, "I'm glad that fish didn't jump out and eat Batman!"

The fishing was tough. We didn't catch a thing except memories, though we got to the park early after picking up the bait.

Matthew asked Daniel and Ella if they wanted to hold the bait, and then he dropped them gently into their hands. Daniel dumped the squirming creatures immediately. Batman was one of the fattest worms Ella got to hold, and she held him and powdered him with moist earth until our patience with the catfish had worn out.

"Can I keep him?" she asked as we packed up.

"No," I said gently.

"We are not keeping a worm as a pet," said Papa less gently.

We released him in the flower pot at home against my better judgment. It didn't turn out so well for Batman and his friends in this blasted heat. They're fertilizer now. Ella doesn't know.

_

I bet my brother Nate wouldn't go fishing with me again. For the memories.

Once we were at a pond or lake just outside Clarksville, Tennessee, and Natie laid his pole out on the ground to straighten his line and adjust the bait on his hook. My parents had told me several times to be alert, but I came by and tripped over his line, sinking the hook into his finger. His shout of pain brought my dad running. Nate got the barb out quickly, but it didn't save me from a well deserved rebuke for my chronic clumsiness.

Years later we were at one of many lakes near our campsite at my grandfather's gold claim in Idaho. Nate was baiting my line and advising me on technique. Be patient. Reel in slowly. If you feel a bite, don't jerk the line; tug gently so you don't sink the hook too deeply.

But I over do everything, so when I felt a bite I jerked my pole as if the ground had suddenly pitched beneath me, calling for Natie to come as I reeled it in. The fish was a skinny, short thing flapping about. Nate dug for that hook valiantly, but I had snagged it good.

"Hillary, I told you not to jerk on the line!"

I babbled apologies, feeling terrible for the little fish. Finally he gave up, found a fist-sized rock.

"Turn around," he told me. "I'm going to have to put it out of its misery."

Poor Nate, such a sissy for a sister! I cried as I turned away. I heard the stone hitting the earth, and when I looked back at my brother, his face was grim but the line was cut. The tiny catch was thrown back in the lake, not the intended Catch and Release.

_

Fishing is a patience game and can be as frustrating as a round of golf. You like the idea of it until you're 15 over. What you need is experience and a good arm. My son Berto beamed and looked toward us every time he cast on Saturday, and the line whipped through the air far out into the lake. My husband and I beamed back and gave him thumbs up, but though his bobber found the water where the fish had been jumping, he got no bites. He needs more fishing.

I wish he could train at the elbow of his great-uncles on my dad's side. They are all excellent fishermen and hunters. They are always going on grand outdoor adventures, bringing home photos of themselves smiling and holding up their prizes or kneeling by them, clutching antlers in both hands. They post them on Facebook and make their friends jealous.

Me? I stink. The most pleasure I have ever had fishing was in a stream up by Horseshoe Bend, Idaho. I found a sweet spot on a large stone in the middle of the slow current. There I sat alone with the summer breeze, in the water up to my knees and ample shade from the trees above me. I don't believe I was really trying, and I doubt there was anything but minnows nipping at my boots. The serenity of the setting, however, could have kept me there all day with nary a flirtation.

_

The draw of the bite and the hope for a "Big one" will get you out the door and on the road to nowhere before dawn. The more you go fishing, I'll wager, the more you think Next time! or Bigger yet. But what I love best about fishing is the conversation with nature and the bonding with family (Right, Natie?).

That's why I hope we get at least our oldest two fishing licenses this year. Oh, to have the chance to say often, as a fact of life, "Sorry, we can't. Goin fishing."

There's nothing I like better than a snake...except a Tornado

My friend invited our family to go hiking with hers and added as an incentive, "It's rattlesnake season!"

Incentive? you ask. INCENTIVE? Well, it should never....unless like my friend and me, instead of running away from danger, you creep near for a good looksey. Post-hike, I took a lot of flack for oogling that rattlesnake last spring. People I love and trust, persons of good sense, made the perhaps justified assumption that I was temporarily insane or permanently stupid. All I will say in my defense is this: you just don't know how you'll react to a poisonous snake until you see one (though I really do recommend backing away...Quickly!)

Usually, I am no crocodile hunter. Sure, I might keep a pet tarantula if the rest of the family would consent, but I flee cockroaches. My brother-in-law told me horror stories of centipedes that gave me an absolute paranoia. Every night I diligently check my bed for scorpions. I would never play catch with a javelina, and I don't believe I would ever stoop to pat a Gila monster on the head; if I did a photo of me with a Gila monster in a venomous steel grip on my appendage would be circulated with a caption that read, And this is why you don't play with wild animals! Daredevil, I'm not. No thrill-seeker. So why did I suddenly turn snake charmer? I suppose it is this: put me out in nature and, confronted with the unusual or the dangerously beautiful, I feel inclined to do the darndest things on the spur of the moment.

This impulsiveness is why I am currently fascinated by the show Storm Chasers. These crazy meteorologists stand outside their vehicles oohing and ahing at a twister 10 feet away when most people would be hunkered down with hands on head, eyes squeezed shut and praying.

I have asked my husband if he would consider chasing with me when the kids are grown. Nope! He doesn't think we'd get along. I'd probably be the Reed Timmer of our team, using exclamations like, "It's beautiful! A beast! Look at that rotation!" followed by, "Let's get in the path of this thing!" as I push hard for the intercept of the mile-wide funnel, risking my face getting cut up by my shattered vehicle's window. He'd be the more practical Joel Taylor, weighing the risk of loss of limb or life for a one-time shot. The only difference is, my husband would win the battle of wills.

Like snakes, I have found tornadoes fascinating since my childhood in Tennessee when my family would march down the rickety basement steps as soon as the reception went out on the TV amid the anchors' talk about watches and warnings. That vast cellar, lit by one weak, dusty bulb, had all the welcoming atmosphere of Mordor and could have harbored Shelob in its recesses. Maybe that's why we were each allotted a favorite stuffed animal before the descent. Nevertheless, the adrenaline was rushing as eyes scanned the shadows and the tiny rectangular window and ears strained to distinguish something greater in the whistle of the wind.

Living now in the Southwest, the closest I'll likely get to a twister is by twirling the Tiny Tornado maker on my desk. It was my man's first gift to me as romance blossomed. It cures some of my funnel-lust...it and watching Storm Chasers.

My enthusiasm is tempered each time the show reminds me that tornadoes, in all their ferocious beauty, have the power to do great harm to human beings. The meteorologists and scientists point out time and again the huge emotional swing of being on an adrenaline high while getting a great shot and salvaging data, and then minutes later coming to towns that have just been hit by nature's awesome monster. It's a wake-up call. They have to help the shell-shocked and injured.

Snakes are like tornadoes - dangerous, best viewed from a safe distance. Unlike twisters, however, I am quite likely to encounter them in these parts. Next hike I plan to give them a wide berth. After all, that's why rattlesnakes have their own special warning systems. Just like funnel-generating super cells.

Nature, good and Technology, bad

I love my backyard. The grass, I know, is getting too tall, and the one shade tree is shedding bark that it will never grow again because it's slowly dying of some viral or fungal infection. Yet, the grass is green and the tree is too, mostly. There is a healthy pomegranate in its pot and a few other hardy plants in the border, and between the branches of the African Sumac tree, the sun rises each morning as we sit outside a little after 6 am.

In the desert that is when you want to be outside - very early morning. By 7:30 or 8 am I gather up my paper and the remnants of my breakfast from the patio table, call my children, and retreat inside. Shortly after, I close the blinds and curtains against the heat to save on the air conditioning bill. But until then, I enjoy the newspaper, real paper in my hands, spread out before me at my white patio table. I eat homemade bread and tea or toast with cocoa, dipping the golden wheat bread into the milky brown of the hot drink that I have, fair weather or foul. My children steal some toast and dip it too long in the communal cocoa, and then they run off to play, shedding shoes in defiance of the army ants when I'm not looking.

This most honored summer morning ritual has been marred this year, however, by my intelligent eldest son who sits and sulks in one of the patio chairs at my side. Worse than the silent sulking, he eventually launches a speech about how there's nothing to do outside, his sisters won't play the games he wants, and he should just be allowed to go inside and play video games (at 7 in the morning) while his siblings get their exercise.

I tried suggesting things he could play, even offering to pitch him some baseballs. I tried telling him to kick a soccer ball with his little brother, run from fence end to fence end. I even hinted that he could just sit and read a book. My suggestions were all discarded, and he wore me down with pleas for video games and whines about our backyard until, sadly, I let him go inside to turn on the TV to amuse himself nearly every morning.

Last summer was different. I played energetic games with my kids, took them for bike rides out front, and pitched balls to them in the yard. This year, I had outpatient surgery and couldn't do any of that. I still enjoyed going outside with them; I just couldn't participate in the games. My three youngest barely missed my involvement, but my eldest found an excuse for boredom in my sedentary preoccupation with the newspaper.

Eventually, it was going to come to a head, because I believe in nature, in the health-giving, calming...well, nature of it. Technology, on the other hand, is getting on my nerves more and more, eating up people's time and money and robbing them of real interaction with their fellow human beings, God and Mother Nature. (Ironic that I have a blog.)

Of course, there are people like me in every age. Technology is evil! It'll ruin our lives, take over our existence. Destroy the health and minds of our children! It should be no shock that we are still around. After all we spend a good deal of time outside; we're a healthy stock.

A few mornings ago the storm came. My daughters chose to do a puzzle instead of begging for TV upon their arrival indoors, and when I told my impatient son he should come help them, he came only to pester everyone to hurry up so they could watch something. My tirade came like water rushing through sand bags, and it flooded the plain of discontent with fearsome force. It blindsided my son.

It went something like this: If you are already so addicted to technology (ie video games, television) at nine, just imagine how you'll be when you can have your own smartphone or iPad someday or whatever crazy device is invented in the future that can read your mind and suck your energy! There are people who can't look up at those talking to them because they have to stare at their phones. Do you know how many older people I've heard complain that their niece or grandson won't even look them in the eye during a conversation because they're texting? It's rude. Parents ignore their kids or let them play on their phones when they're barely three-years-old! People don't just interact anymore. If they hear their friend make a joke, they say, "haha...that's great! Let me post it on Facebook." They go to dinner or a movie or have a thought, and they have to update their status. They can't go camping without their cellphones. They don't go outside and enjoy nature because it stretches their technological umbilical cord too far! They can't even sit quietly in a dark room and talk to God without the light from their phone providing its addictive glow! And they watch TV while playing games on their phones - ridiculous!

I looped back through those critical indictments about three more times with subtle variations. My son got more and more upset, but you must believe that I proceeded because I'm worried. I want my boy to enjoy exercise, find joy in fresh air, actually speak face-to-face with family and friends, be thrilled by new scenery - and not the new scenery in his friend's Facebook pictures from that beach vacation or some weird simulation that takes you on a walking tour through the French countryside without ever leaving your armchair. Real natural scenery. Smartphones are not Man's best friend despite what people may have bought. Trees are. And blue skies, clear water, rolling hills, grassy fields, the scent of fresh flowers or hay, animals.....and people.

My son retorted that I should yell at him after he starts doing all those things I categorically condemned. I protested that by then it would be too late; he would be an adult and stuck in his ways. I told him I am worried for him. I believe in the Green Hour. I believe in and dearly love my son and want him to be healthy in body, mind and spirit. There is no app for that.

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

 

Since that conversation a couple weeks ago when I high-dived off the deep end, my eldest boy has been playing outside in the mornings - playing tennis and tag with his siblings and trying to catch lizards on the fence before asking for TV and video games at a more reasonable hour. Yesterday, he critiqued and condemned his sisters' carefully gathered bouquet of cicada skins and ran in the long grass despite the biting ants and played with his little brother.

Looking back, I realize perhaps I went overboard with my deluge of obsessive worry, but I will do a great deal to get my son outside, make him look around, entice him to run and play like a child, and convince him that his own thoughts and reflections in a quiet room are more enlightening than a flashlight app.

And I say to you whom I may have offended, to you who adore and anticipate every technological advance, that I do realize it is all about balance and order. Technology is not evil.

But nature is prettier.

Don't Try to Force Your Man Out of Doors, Nakey

On Sunday my Man refused to sit on the back patio with the magic combo of our children, me, the newspaper, and breakfast. Just awake, he peeked out the sliding glass door to alert us to his presence. As he examined all the green, blue and brown of the outdoor realm with supreme disinterest, I became desperate for his company just this once. It was surprisingly nice out at that early hour, but my pleas and tricks were to no avail; he even tried to switch my allegiance by telling me CBS Sunday Morning was on. Really! I knew I didn't marry a nature-seeker, but sometimes it drives me wild all the song and dance I have to do just to lure him outside.

When I defected to the inside for coffee, I threatened. "If you don't learn to come sit outside on the patio with me by the time we're an old married couple, I'm going to put a cardboard cutout of you out there...or, better yet, I'll stuff an old man doll and stick it in a rocker on the front porch for company."

"Sounds like a plan."

Rotten old man.

The war of natures escalated when he discovered while grilling our lunch that the children and I had scattered bird seed all over the yard while he slept.

"I don't want all those stupid birds in my yard!" he cried. "They're going to poop all over everything and perch on the roof waiting for the next big seed party."

Other than the risk that our backyard could turn into a bad Hitchcock movie, I didn't see his point.

"So? They're part of nature."

"So, I even found some seed on my white table that I cleaned off."

"Your table? Yeah, right! When do you ever sit at that table?"

"Fine then. I'll leave them to poop all over your table and won't bother to clean it up next time."

"No...well...thank you," I amended. "But I'm the one who cleans those tables most of the time anyway," I added, still nettled. "And you're just scared of nature! Ha!"

That did not go over well, especially when our eldest son cried, "Yeah!" Matthew does not tolerate insubordination from offspring. We backpedaled and tried to mumble how we just wanted his company outside sometimes to sit and play, but it was too late.

Matthew and I finally made up that afternoon the way all exhausted parents do: over a nap. When we woke up, the kids, robbed of more television, had nothing better to do than look out the windows. Soon afterward they started telling us excitedly about all the birds in the backyard (the little rats even counted them for accurate reporting). I giggled nervously as my husband turned his smug gaze on me.

"Ix-nay on the ird-bays," I growled at the kids. "Nobody needs to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cooking french toast and bacon for dinner that night, I passed by my husband and made smooching noises instead of actually kissing his lips. I didn't want to get too close to the frying pan.

"So that's how you two kiss when you're cooking," said Berto, our eldest. "It sounds like what you do when you're nakey."

Instantly, I went on the defensive.

"Listen, Berto," I said, waving my spatula and trying to keep it matter-of-fact. "If you walk in on Papa and Mama when we're like that, it's your fault. That'll teach you that you should always knock."

"I think he said, 'what you do with Nike'," corrected my Man, enunciating slowly and giving me a look as he referred to our pet hamster.

"Yeah," said Berto, confused. "That's what I said - Nike. The kissy noises you make at Nike."

"Oh." I went back to minding my french toast. "Well, then, just scratch that and...uh...ignore it."

Parks, Trees and Love Carvings

As I panted and limped, climbed, slid and jumped on the play forts, I felt like the lame gazelle attracting the murderous attention of the lioness. There were two other people to chase, but I was picked on every time; I was an easy, too tempting target - caught again and again. My children thought it was great fun to have Mama joining playground tag, and even the four-year-old took advantage when my knee gave out.


But never mind. I enjoyed the exercise. I enjoyed feeling like a child, racing to the bottom of a slide ahead of my toddler or scaling the faux rock wall after him. I enjoyed trying to avoid my children's outstretched arms, though I failed miserably, but I did not enjoy being chased. I have a horror of being chased. It feels like the harder I push, the slower I go, so the only option is to turn and face my pursuer with palms out and giggle in a high, unnatural pitch like a crazy idiot. The hope is then that they'll back away slowly, shaking their heads. That doesn't work with my kids. They know Mama's a little strange and it no longer scares them. So they tag me, the little rapscallions, and I am forced to try to catch them - the more luck to me!

Despite my disappointing performance in playground tag and regardless of the heat, I relished being at the park with my children recently. I'm still, I must protest, a country girl at heart, and there are a few special parks in this city where if you turn your back to the road, you feel as if you might actually be somewhere far removed from concrete and artificial light (except for the jungle gyms, basketball and volleyball courts, of course) because of all the wide expanses of green, the little hills and the shade trees.

After tag and swing time, we went to watch my eldest ride his skateboard down a dirt hill, and we all tried this form of dry sledding - bottoms and feet on the slightly curved board as we barreled down, digging the wheels into the dirt with our weight. My son's wheels got all mucked up; he refused to let us ride more, so I invited the kids to sit with me beneath a giant eucalyptus. I leaned my back into the trunk, world's away from the city but within walking distance, and began to rest, perchance to dream.

A while later when I was standing and examining my friend, the tree, and wondering whether it was in fact a eucalyptus (the bark was right, the leaves were not), my son approached and said, "This would be a good tree for carving your name."

"There are names here. See." I pointed.

At least, I assumed they were names. They could have been bad words, but I like to think not. It's bad enough that those abound on the play equipment.

Then I thought about how I have always wanted to carve "H loves M" into a tree. I'm pretty sure my Man would scoff at the idea rather than be flattered, but what he wouldn't know wouldn't hurt him. Briefly, I fingered the car keys in my purse. Would they do the job, I wondered? It might require more labor on my part with no pocket knife. As I pondered this I recalled how as a teenager, my dad pointed out an expanse of forest near the now defunct Cougar Mountain Lodge on the road to Cascade, Idaho. He told how he had carved his and mom's names into a tree there when they were dating. Dad, Mom and I spent some little time trying to find the wooden edifice to Dad's ardor. All those years ago Dad could have added an addendum, "twenty-seven years and still going strong". Alas, we didn't find the old fellow, and the testament to young love was surely faded by then, anyway.

I zipped the purse back up. Today was not the day to scratch at this maybe eucalyptus in this city park. Was it really likely I'd come back years from now, tell the tale of a harrowing game of playground tag, and show the carving to my children or grandchildren? Besides, I didn't want to cause any harm to the bark of my friend in the heat of summer, and I didn't want to get caught by a parks and rec employee. I took my kids back to the playground, and we played in our little country haven until it was time to head back home in the city.