Between the Lines

A Widow's Collection of Inspirational Scenes

2011-11-10T22:28:00.000-08:00

These are all photos I've taken since my husband died in 2009. I know that he is always with me, but I feel closest to him when I am outdoors in the Cathedral of Nature. Many places claim to be "God's Country:" here are a few I've found in Idaho, Utah, Oregon and Montana. Sometimes, it's in my own back yard, if I look close enough.

Only God Can Make A Tree

2011-10-20T14:09:00.000-07:00

Trees

(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

~ Joyce Kilmer

Got Your Nikon Charged? It's Time To Shoot Autumn's Stunning Color

2011-09-29T15:51:00.000-07:00

Soft September sunlight can transform an average scene into one of enchantment. This Virginia Creeper gracefully making its way across the top of a chain-link fence illustrates my point. This is prime time to photograph nature's beauty. I like to use back-lighting to accent fall's subtle hues.

I Know Why The Wild Bird Sings

2011-05-09T14:25:00.000-07:00

One morning last week as I was sipping my first cup of tea, I noticed a pair of birds of prey putting on quite a performance just off my deck. As they danced in the wind, I was reminded of a true experience I call "My Bird Story." I'll tell it to you now, on this Mother's Day.

I had a four-decade-long crush on my late husband, Roger. The thought of losing him was unbearable to me all those years. When we were first married, I worried he would be drafted and sent to Vietnam. My big, handsome hunk was definitely a 1-A prime candidate for cannon fodder.

One evening after watching the mounting daily death toll from that sad war on the evening news, I had an inspiration. "If I die before you," I said to Roger, "I'll come back as a mourning dove, and every time you hear that bird's call, that will be me, saying I’m here and I love you."

Roger thought about that for a minute, then said, "If I go first, I'll come back as a red-tailed hawk. You'll see me most often on the wing. Every time you do, it'll be me, saying hi." As I looked at him a bit disappointed, he quickly added, "And I'm here, and I love you." We both laughed.

We never forgot that conversation. During thousands of miles I rode behind Roger on his Harley, sometimes a hawk would suddenly rise from a field and fly over our heads. Roger would always reach back, squeeze my leg and nod at the bird to make sure I saw it, too. That's the joy of being on a motorcycle; we would have missed it in a car.

Similarly through the years whenever we heard a mourning-dove call, I'd give him a hug or at least eye contact to reaffirm our everlasting love. Our "afterlife-bird promises" were a secret pact we never shared with anyone.

One horrible day in May 2009, Roger fatally crashed on his Harley. The night he died, I had left the hospital to come home, exhausted. About 9 PM, Roger’s sister called and said he was gone.

Daylight was fading as I walked out onto our deck to absorb this news. My action startled a big bird sitting in the top of the closest tree to our house, just 10 feet away from the deck railing I was leaning on. With a lot of loud flapping, a magnificent Bald Eagle arose from the tree top.

In a glorious display of graceful strength, its wings making a "whoop, whoosh" sound, the giant bird flew upriver, eventually disappearing around the bend. Rays of warm, peachy light from the setting sun reflected off billowing clouds on the horizon. The glow bounced back up from the river below to illuminate the bird's wings in a surrealistic, stunning scene.

I knew this was an all-out display of God's glory just for my benefit. I had absolutely no doubt about that.

Dazed and drained by the day’s sorrow, I stood in awe, watching this nation's symbol of freedom until it was out of sight.

I spoke to Roger, who was now free, no longer lingering between life and death in the sad hospital bed where I'd last seen him. "Wow, Hon," I said. "You really outdid yourself. That was very impressive."

I didn't bother to try to try to figure out how Roger was going to hear my words, but I knew he would as I smiled and continued to speak to the love of my life. This became a habit I continue to this day.

"I should have known you'd want to ride into Heaven on something bigger than a hawk," I told him. Turning away, waves of tears crashed through my fragile facade, falling from my face into my hands.

Hunting for my Kleenex box, I sobbed in earnest, unable to stop the growing alarm in my head that was screaming the saddest of all my unwanted thoughts: "Now I am alone." I turned the knob and stepped blindly into the rest of my life. It was suddenly dark.

Two years later as I write this on a cool but bright-green spring evening, I am comforted by the soft cooing of a mourning dove. He is right outside my window.

Have An Extraordinary Easter Day Full Of Love

2011-04-24T02:47:00.000-07:00

People Are Often Unreasonable and Self-Centered

2011-04-21T14:56:00.000-07:00

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered; Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; Succeed anyway. If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway. What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway. The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you’ve got anyway. You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God; It was never between you and them anyway.

--- Mother Theresa

I Am Waking Up From Winter Hibernation

2011-04-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

My Head is in the Clouds Quite Often These Days

2011-03-06T18:03:00.000-08:00

We Are Creating the Coal That Fires This Oven

2011-02-23T22:07:00.000-08:00

Get yourself a cup of coffee and let's talk shop. I heard an interesting interview last week on NPR's Morning Edition, which I'm sharing here for the benefit of my coworkers, the "legions of unpaid bloggers."

In it, we are described as a bunch of "showoffs," which, at heart I suppose we are. I know I am, at least. My blog is pretty much all about me. In my last post I included 40 pictures of myself, so that's pretty clear evidence of my egocentricity.

Speaking of photos, check out this one I took of my old Sadie dog as she lie curled up against the cold this morning.

I share this here for your enjoyment. If you leave a comment saying you like it, then I will be happy. It's just that simple. I live for feedback; it's at the heart of why I do this.

What is your altruistic purpose for blogging? It seems like all bloggers basically write about their own lives. Is there anything wrong with that?

Not in my opinion. The world needs more entertainment, especially if it's free. Having a feeling of being connected with others is healthy, too. It's good for the soul to remember we're not alone in the world. It sure has helped me.

My fellow bloggers, have you ever asked yourselves, "Why am I doing this?" Then read this interesting insight from writer David Carr, whose blog has attracted nearly 300,000 followers.

February 15, 2011 - RENEE MONTAGNE, host: The sale of the Huffington Post to AOL for $315 million made at least one person very rich - actually, probably a couple of people. But that huge purchase price has led many of its legions of unpaid bloggers to wonder, what about us?

David Carr is the salaried media columnist at The New York Times, but he's written about and experienced the phenomenon of unpaid content and he's here to talk to us a little bit about this deal.

Mr. DAVID CARR (Media Columnist, The New York Times): Good morning.

MONTAGNE: You titled the piece that you wrote in The New York Times yesterday "A Nation of Serfs," meaning what? Meaning people on property that's not their own?

Mr. CARR: Yeah. When you talk about people who provide platforms - be it Facebook or Twitter or LinkedIn or Koora - they own the interface and the technology. Huffington Post is a little different deal because they are a news platform, but again, a lot of people work for them in unpaid ways.

And as we all we all Twitter away and type away and update our Facebooks, we're creating the coal that sort of fires this oven and creates these values, but they continue to own the lands.

MONTAGNE: Right. And there's somebody at the top who benefits mightily in that kind of old-fashioned, capitalistic way.

Mr. CARR: Well, let's be honest, it's always been .. it's nobody ever got rich - well, very few people ever got rich writing. What's unusual about the era that we live in is not that content comes cheaply. You know, writing beats working, so I'm going to choose it every single time.

But the fact that it seems to be dropping to a price of zero - if you look even beyond the social networks and The Huffington Post - content farms like Demand Media, where they're employing professional journalists, but they're being paid at the rate of $10 or $15 or $20 a story. As content doubles every year - becomes more and more ubiquitous - the price of it is bound to go down, as is the compensation.

MONTAGNE: Well, the way you describe though, the charm of being able to write for free, it's very much an opportunity to use your wit with an audience.

Mr. CARR: Oh, it's a great place for showoffs, there's no doubt about it. Those of us who write for a living, we're among the first and early adapters of Twitter, along with technical people. And it's not as if we get nothing in return. We're able to promote our work, much of what I Twitter about.

Sometimes I, you know, write about my commute home to New Jersey on the bus, but other times I'm promoting my work or the work of others. I've been rewarded with almost 300,000 followers, and those people are a kind of social and business asset. I can't really put a number on them, but there's some value in that.

MONTAGNE: And just one other thing about this sale. I wonder even though it doesn't change what the agreement was with the Huffington Post, that is, we get an audience and you get our talent for nothing. It's maybe one thing to write for the Huffington Post and another to write for this, you know, gigantic entity, AOL.

Mr. CARR: Yeah, you're talking a big corporate blob that's worth $2.2 billion in terms of market capitalization. And while I'm sure people are interested in accessing an audience, you'd have to think that a lot of people at the Huffington Post were somewhat politically motivated to contribute to the civic common and what they felt were progressive and additive ways. It feels a little different when you're sending that copy to a big gigantic media conglomerate, at least I think so.

MONTAGNE: David, thanks very much for joining us.
Mr. CARR: Oh, an absolute pleasure, Renee.

Copyright © 2011 National Public Radio®. All rights reserved.
http://www.npr.org/2011/02/15/133759724/is-writing-online-without-pay-worth-it

On Finding My Look After 60 Years of Searching

2011-02-17T17:42:00.000-08:00

"To grow old and wise, you first must be young and stupid."

Following 40 years of marriage, I lost my husband in the spring of 2009 on the same day my mother died. As the fallout of that emotional nuclear blast continues to settle, the full impact of the result -- an unexpected and unprecedented personal freedom -- is beginning to dawn on me.

My reactions -- enormous grief, shock, despair, worry, regret, faith, hope and at times, even joy -- have given me much to think about. It's all got to come out somewhere, so I figure it might as well be on my blog.

I'm aware that the one glaring attribute lacking from my posts has been humor. I do have a sense of one somewhere, but it's been hard to find in the last couple of years. I was going to say it's been buried, but thought better of using that term. (See? It's in there somewhere. Maybe it's "black humor," but it's funny, no?)

When one of my readers commented on a recent particularly poignant post, "I should know better than to read you at work," it gave me pause. "Jeeze," I thought. "I am going to totally bum out and lose my entire audience if I don't get a grip on this grief thing."

So I vowed to try to find my funny bone again. Truth is, I'm tired of being sad all the time, too -- and that's an understatement, believe me.

Perhaps I've reached the point of Maximum Grief Endurance (MGE). I've noticed on TV shows about treating people with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), that therapy includes completely bombarding them with exposure to the very fear that's driving them crazy. The theory is that the human mind simply cannot sustain an extreme level of terror for an infinite period of time. What seems like a cruel treatment actually appears to work.

This always makes me wonder if I rode, let's say, Cedar Point Park's Magnum XL-200 ("the extreme coaster ride by which all others are measured") 200 times, by my 199th trip, I'd just be sitting there expressionlessly, bored. Maybe that's why it's called the XL-200. http://www.cedarpoint.com/public/park/rides/coasters/index.cfm (In my youth I lived near Cedar Point, and it's a blast, by the way.)

The faithful among my so-called followers will notice this is my first post of 2011. That's because it's not easy for me to come up with an upbeat idea. I doubt if I'll ever be as wildly crazy-funny as Murr Brewster, whose "Murrmurrs" blog is one of my favorites, http://murrbrewster.blogspot.com/ -- at least not if I continue to maintain sobriety. (However, when one is "under the influence," as they say, one is inclined to think one is funnier than one actually is, isn't one?)

So to start off with, I thought I'd entertain you with the above evidence of my life-long search for "my look." This staggering display of my failure to feel comfortable with my hairstyle rivals Hilary Clinton's obviously similar misgivings about her appearance as First Lady. For years I tried to blame this on my DNA. Here's a picture of my grandma in her youth, which seemed to explain everything about my hair. I only knew her to have fairly straight, gray hair, so I was shocked when I saw this picture. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to ask her how she felt about her unruly locks when she was young. I've been told her hair was a deep auburn color that was very pretty, but I'll bet she had her moments when she wished for "normal," straight hair. I've definitely had mine, especially back when everyone wanted to look like Cher, including me.

Now that I'm not trying to please anyone with my looks anymore, I simply don't do anything with my hair, except keep it very short so I don't have to mess with it. I love getting up in the morning and not even having to look at it. To quote one of my heroes, Joan Rivers, "Age is freedom."

Right on, Joanie.

Maybe next time, we can discuss my weight or my unpopular smoking habit. Or maybe not. Let's just not get too hasty, here, shall we? Oh, and MGE is a made-up diagnosis, but it's pretty real to me.

Mine is the Sunlight, Mine is the Morning

2010-11-27T02:57:00.000-08:00

Sun and River, simply stunning at 6 A.M. and 7 below.

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s re-creation of the new day

http://www.yusufislam.com/lifeline/15

My Flag's Flying Today For All Vets

2010-11-10T10:09:00.000-08:00

I'm making a conscious effort these days to resist looking back at my life with regret. It's impossible, of course, to go back and change anything, so what's the point?

On this Veteran's Day, however, there is something on my mind I'd definitely do differently, if I could. I wish I'd spent more time talking to my dad.

Isn't it remarkable how our perspective of life changes with our age? When my dad passed away at 64, not once did it enter my mind that he was "too young." It just seemed like he got old and died, like people do, end of story. Now, his death seems almost tragically premature. He wasn't much older than I am.

He was a quiet guy; it was hard to get him to talk about his WWII days and I never persisted questioning him out of respect, I suppose. But how I would love to know what was going through his mind on the night of June 5, 1944, the eve of the D-Day Invasion.

I inherited my dad's uniform, shown above, after my mom passed away last year. With it came a treasure of his WWII memorabilia, such as flight logs, photos, and his "short snorter." My dad took this small black-and-white photo of one of his crew mates, Cpl. Howard Bell, posing on a destroyed German bomber at their Chateaudun base.

A pilot in the 94th Troop Carrier Squadron, Dad was preparing to fly a huge, black-and-white-striped, unarmed cargo plane across the English Channel to Nazi-occupied France. The weather had been terrible, but everyone wanted the invasion to get underway. They were tired of waiting.

That's my dad inside his C-47 in the other old photo, helping men of the 101st Airborne board on the eve of D-Day. The paratroopers were heavily weighed down with all their gear. This shows a lot about Dad's character; the other pilot is just standing there in his life vest, waiting, his back to the photographer.

Once over his designated drop zone above Normandy, Dad had to turn on a green light, the signal for about 40 men of the 101st Airborne to jump out of the plane into the darkness, smoke, flak and deafening noise of battle. I know their safety had to have weighed heavily on my father's heart that night -- and for the rest of his life.

Those are the guys my father could hardly talk about in later years, except to say, "They were the brave ones, not me," sometimes adding, teary-eyed, "those poor suckers."

My dad did not drop them in the wrong place, from what I've been told. There was just so much "heavy ack," smoke, and confusion that the men were clearly jumping into "the mouth of Hell."

Most combat veterans I've known downplay their own wartime service. They point to pictures of long, neat lines of white headstones and say, "I didn't do anything; they did." You know, probably even if I'd had more time with him, Dad wasn't going to go there with me, ever.

So if you ever hear some guy in the back of a bar bragging about being in combat in some foreign war zone, I'll bet he's lying just to impress his buddies.

Real combat vets, at least all the ones I've known, not only don't flaunt it, they hardly ever bring it up. It's not something they want to dwell on.

This is their one day of the year, though, to be reminded of their bravery and service. If you see a vet today, just smile and say, "Thanks." That's probably good enough; we don't want to cause discomfort.

But tonight, just take a second to ask God to bless and protect them all. They've earned it.

Can You Hear The Trees Laughing?

2010-11-06T17:59:00.000-07:00

Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is bliss, taste it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.

~ Mother Teresa ~

Working in my office this morning, I thought I heard children playing. Going outside to look, I spotted Sunny and River in a back eddy below. Recent rains have brought the water level up again, and those two were celebrating.

It's true laughter is contagious. Sunny, always the instigator of happiness, was tickling River as they swirled 'round and 'round, bouncing off rocks and giggling brightly.

All their fun had River's row of nearest neighbors, the normally dull Conifers, almost shining in delight. On this side of the river, a small but boisterous group of Deciduous broke into a riot of hilarity.

Before long I was smiling, too; it was impossible to do otherwise. It's weird how that works; it felt as if my heart was being lifted as well.

Maybe it was the motion of raising my camera that caught River's eye, but for some reason, just then she looked up and gave me the biggest, brightest wink I've ever seen.

I nodded back at her, grinning in acknowledgment. I took a few pictures, then stood there awhile, trying to decipher River's message. "Look at me!" I think she was saying. "I can twinkle again! Am I lovely?"

Oh, ab-sol-tute-ly, I tell her after Sunny moves on and we're alone again in the dark. River, girlfriend, you definitely got your groove back this morning. I have a lovely photograph. So tell me: Were you wearing real diamonds?

Now, as I write to you, there are tears in my eyes again. This time, though, they're not from sadness, but in gratitude for the beauty and glory of His love.

Fighting Darkness Is So Wearisome

2010-11-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

My recent neglect of you, dear readers, does not reflect a lack of desire to write here. My voice-mail is full, bills lie unopened, emails, unread. The dishes are done, but that's about all I can manage.

Trying to keep my son alive has taken all my energy lately. I've never written much about him for several reasons. I try to respect his privacy, since he is a grown man of 35 and not a little kid.

But I've not voiced my feelings about him here primarily because that, my friends, is when the bullet hits the bone for this writer. It's seemed a bit hard to approach the topic, too: "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true that I lost my husband and my mom last year on the same day -- but wait! It gets worse!"

Here's the deal: My son suffers from Type I Diabetes, juvenile onset. His health has been steadily declining for quite a while now. Before my husband died, it had become so worrisome that we urged him to move back home with us. So he did.

He has lived in my basement now for more than two years. He doesn't work. In fact, he makes little effort to do anything at all.

I've found him in insulin shock and near death more times than I care to recall. So far, I have been able to get some Karo syrup down him or call 911 in time to save him.

But I am beginning to feel so worn down by the weight of it all. The anxiety compounds my grief.

I have to fight the urge to give into negativity every day. Jack Daniels beckons, but I will not go there. I know it wouldn't help. In fact, it would only make things worse, and I gave up on self-destruction a while back.

Bottom line: I know I can't change my son; only he can do that. This situation with him, however, has evolved into a full-blown crisis that must end soon. I simply can't take it anymore.

So I've made some tough decisions and planned some big changes. Don't worry; they will be positive for us both.

It's so hard for a mom to unmom herself, even if it's for the better. Telling you about it strengthens my resolve.

It's not going to be easy, but then, nothing really worth doing ever is, is it? Rolling over and dying, now that would be easy.

In my dream we're on the sinking Titanic when I hear someone yell, "Women and children on the lifeboats first!"

I may be an old woman, but I'm still a woman, and someone who's 35, I'm pretty sure, is no longer a child. These are my thoughts as I run for a lifeboat but then I hear another voice: "It's every man for himself!"

Wait a minute. That is just so wrong! We're all in this together, aren't we?

Turning back, I see my son and grab his hand, holding tight. "Let's go!" I yell at him. "We've got to keep going forward!"

A sea of darkness swells ahead of us as I scream again, "'It's going to be all right!" I'm not sure if he can hear me, but I will not let go of his hand.

Leaning into the wind, I pull with everything I've got.
Then comes the light of another day. I wake up and keep trying. It's all I can do.

This Thing We Call Life

2010-10-17T22:10:00.000-07:00

I had planned to write this post about special dogs we've loved over the years, but it seems too tough of a topic for today. Here's the photos, but the story's different. I want to tell you a story about a good friend from my teen years named Dawn. She and I have kept in touch with for many years.

She's a widow now too, and has been a valuable source of support. I didn't make it to our 40th high-school reunion in 2009, but we did manage to get together one day for lunch last summer. Isn't it funny how, even if they look quite different, when you see someone again after several years, once they start talking, all the time falls away? When I'm with Dawn, it's 1967 again, or so it seems. Her parents lived right behind mine and we were in the same grade at school, so we couldn't have avoided each other even if we'd tried. It was a good thing we hit it off right away after I was involuntarily transplanted to Boise in the eighth grade.

After being no-bosom buddies (yuck, yuck) all through school, we went our separate ways after college. We each married handsome young men, and I remained in Boise while she moved to a remote Alaskan fishing village with her husband to teach Eskimo children.

Teaching in Alaska's extreme conditions was a popular move for young couples with education degrees in the 1970's. It paid very well. The oil pipeline was under construction then, too, so we had several friends who left Idaho for the Far North to make big money.

Such pilgrimages are still going on, since Idaho hasn't had an economic boom since its last gold rush and that was quite some time ago. No one seems to come back and say they hated their Alaskan experience and Dawn and her husband were no exception. They loved living among the Eskimos and ended up staying about ten years.The minimalist lifestyle of the natives afforded few luxuries. Their traditional sources of food and clothing were whale, seal, fox and fish. This proved to be adequate, Dawn said, but she constantly craved a fresh green salad.

No fresh produce could be flown into their village due to the extremely cold temperatures. So Dawn decided to try to bring two heads of iceberg lettuce home from a trip to Fairbanks. To protect them from freezing, she stuffed them up in her coat, planning to keep them warm there for the entire flight. This vision of my skinny friend with two heads of lettuce crammed up her coat is amusing in itself, but it gets better. As she tried to negotiate her way to her seat, while jockeying the ton of other stuff from town, she was mortified when both heads of lettuce escaped and rolled down the aisle like a pair of pale-green bowling balls.

Dawn turned red with embarrassment (she does that easily), but quickly learned in that part of the country, no one bats an eye at the sight of two heads of lettuce coming at them down an airplane aisle. The produce was simply scooped up and politely returned by another traveler. Here you go; no problem, ma'am. She wondered later if everyone else on the plane was also cradling lettuce in their coats.

My friend had two babies, Emily and Jessica, while living in their Arctic home. This seemed a little nuts to me at the time, but Dawn's always been quite a trooper, especially when it comes to the Great Outdoors. Now that I think about it, she still is. A little nuts, that is.

Another time, she took her little girls on a rare trip to the city. Emily was about four years old and Jessica, two. They had no TV at home, so the girls had never seen a movie (VCRs hadn't been invented yet). So off they went to see a Disney classic on the big screen. Dawn wasn't into watching the movie as much as she was seeing her kids' reactions as they laughed and clapped through the childrens' film.

When it was over and the lights came on, Dawn prepared to leave. When she looked to see if she had both girls, she was surprised to see Emily still sitting in her seat, weeping. My friend was shocked. It had been a happy movie with a great ending, she thought. "Why are you crying?" she asked little Emily, who was the very picture of despair, tears rolling down her cheeks. "B-b-b-because it's ov, ov, o-ver," Emily blubbered, letting loose wioth a full-blown wail. "You're crying because it's over?" Dawn asked, adding, "Oh Honey, we'll do this again sometime." All parents tell their kids that when they're trying to get them out of a place if they don't want to leave. It works for a few years, but as they get older, children begin to realize there's a catch to this thing we call life: You can't go back, you can only go forward. You can revisit special places or look at pictures of past times, but the experiences, exactly as you had them, can never truly be relived.

I've been thinking about this since last month when I wrote about our dog, Hoo, and promised a follow-up. Looking through pictures of the 16 years Hoo enriched our lives, I was reminded of so much happiness I had with my late husband.

Sometimes I think I'd rather recall the times when we weren't getting along so well. It's easier. Don't get me wrong. I'm very grateful for my 40 years with my husband. "You should be glad for what you had," says my best friend, who is divorced. "I always wanted a marriage like yours, but I never had it," she reminds me when I get down.

"I know," I reply. "I am glad." Lately, though, I've been thinking about Emily in the theater. I can totally relate to the reason for her tears when the lights came on.

There's only one difference: I do my crying in the dark.

Never Fear; I'm Still Here

2010-10-12T16:19:00.000-07:00

Sunny came by yesterday afternoon and kissed River, giving her a radiant glow. It helped make up for River's lack of sparkling current this time of year. Her bony shoulders are exposed, too, and her underbelly is growing fuzz in her low-water season.

Greedy birds of prey dive-bomb her shallow pools, feasting on stranded fish. River is glad, however, that no rock-crushers have shown up to grind away at her shores this fall. There is a limit to the indignities she can endure while she is laid off from work.

I grew melancholy looking at photos of Hoo, so that project has been shelved for now. I am getting in firewood and doing all necessary preparations folks must make for winter in this part of the country.

Living a stone's throw away from the Canadian border makes one wary of the approaching change of weather.

I'm glad I don't also have to contend with hoards of Canadians illegally crossing into North Idaho in search of work. God save the Queen.

Sunny was in a hurry to leave, as her hours have been cut, too. Before she left, though, she kissed Bric on the forehead. He was unaware of his beauty, but I saw it, and share it with you here.

Don't forget about me, give up on me, or quit praying for me, and I'll do the same for you. Let's carry on, then, shall we?

The Legendary Hoobert Heever

2010-09-23T04:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not a dog snob. For the first 30 years of our marriage, we never had the money to buy an AKC dog, so a series of lovable mutts shared our lives. Probably the most memorable and clearly my favorite was a black-and-white, natural-born comedian named Hoo.

That's her above, laughing. Behind her is a our Golden Retriever, a pound puppy we named "Wuzzy." As a wee doggie, she looked like a little bear, so her name came from the nursery rhyme, "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.." She went by "Wuz" most of the time.

We got Hoo for free from a neighbor who owned her mother, a purebred German Shepherd. Her father was unknown. A half-shepherd sounded good, so we brought home the sweetest of 10 little pups.

How a dog gets its name at our house is usually left up to fate. In Hoo's case, it happened when another neighbor came over to see our new puppy. "And this is who?" he asked politely, picking her up. In a light-bulb moment, I answered, "Yes, this is Hoo." Having one dog named Wuz and another named Hoo had potential for being very funny, I remember thinking.

Hoo didn't know who she was yet when she first came to live with us. As she grew, our hopes of owning a dog that looked like a German Shepherd began to fade. It wasn't long before her personality began to emerge as well. Hoobie was a nut. You could tell just by looking at her. She received her full name, Hoobert Heever Henderson, from something I read one day in a Reader's Digest. It was a short story about the first-ever live radio broadcast of a presidential address to the nation. It marked the end of the golden era for newspapers, which had long enjoyed a media monopoly as the sole source of news coverage.

President Herbert Hoover was standing by as the broadcast was about to begin. The announcer, incredibly nervous and daunted by his historic task, ceremoniously cleared his throat. In a high-pitched, quivering voice, he then effectively ended his broadcasting career by leaning to the mike and saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, HOOBERT HEEVER."

I've always imagined this epic blunder having been followed by an audible gasp of horror from all the people in the radio station control room. I've also pondered the possibility that if hundred of thousands were listening to their radios at that moment, the announcer's huge faux pas may have caused a tsunami of collective gasps that rolled across America, eventually sending out a global "OMG!" Perhaps the massive intake of breath created an atmospheric change, a moment of shock so intense it was like a "shot heard 'round the world."

But that's just speculation. The Reader's Digest article didn't say whatever happened to the poor guy. I hope he didn't go out and jump off a building. The country was in the Great Depression, after all.

Humiliation of this scale must have been hard to handle. Hopefully he found another job in a field where stage fright couldn't sabotage him. Perhaps he turned to Demon Rum and became a bum, like many men down on their luck in those days.

Hoo knows? Yes, she does but she'd never tell. Hoo's tail must be continued, for she lived to be 16 years old and her legendary antics were many. Stay tuned, then. More Hoo is coming for you.

I Do Believe It's True

2010-09-17T00:48:00.000-07:00

Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo.
I do believe it,
I do believe it's true.

It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park;
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo.

You can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold,
And the animals will love it
If you do.
[From: http://www.metrolyrics.com/at-the-zoo-p-simon-1967-lyrics-simon-and-garfunkel.html ]

It had been many years since I'd been to a zoo. My intense empathy and compassion for animals has always tainted my zoo visits in the past, so I quit going.

For my seven-year-old granddaughter's sake, however, I decided to go with her to the Portland Zoo recently.

I really disliked the bat cave, flat-out refused to go near the snake building, complained about paying $5 for a bottle of water, and got totally pooped out after a few hours.

I took these photos for you before heading back to the car to wait for the kids.

All in all, for me, it was a fairly fun trip to the zoo; I saw nothing that made me unbearably sad.

Like men incarcerated at San Quentin, the zoo animals appeared to suffer mostly from boredom and of course, lack of room to roam. Fat and lazy describes most of the creatures I saw. But, are they happy? Or are such feelings exclusive to humans?

The confined animals would be far worse off if they were free, I suppose. Life in the wild is dangerous and dinner times are far apart.

But, do you think they would chose to run or fly free -- even if it meant being sometimes hungry or afraid -- if they could?

I do. I do believe it's true.

Them Two Sure Was Good Ol' Gals

2010-08-31T11:47:00.000-07:00

These two women, identified only as Minnie and Daisy, lived in Dixie, Idaho, around 1903. They were most likely "camp followers," as female opportunists were called who traveled to remote mining areas to seek their fortune.

Adventuresome girls, like merchants and many business entrepreneurs, made a lot of money supplying needs of prospectors like this odd-ball character at left.

Minnie and Daisy were cashing in on the last of the Old West gold rushes, the Thunder Mountain gold strike of 1898.
Located deep in Idaho's extremely remote and nearly inaccessible interior, the diggings nevertheless attracted thousands of men at the turn of the 19th Century.

Tiny Dixie remains today the last trace of civilization for travelers heading into the rugged back country. Beyond its few homes, cafe and store, the road ends and the going gets much tougher.

I've long been interested in the lives of women who came West a hundred or more years ago. I think I'd have preferred to cast my lot with the likes of Minnie and Daisy than to have been isolated with a no-fun husband on a homestead bearing children every-other year.

I probably would have balked about halfway through the trip if I'd allowed myself to be talked into going West on a wagon. I can imagine thinking, "This totally sucks;" getting madder and madder.

I can relate to an account of a fed-up woman who finally lost it on her way to the Oregon Territory in 1847. Sounds like a full-blown, pissed-off female snit fit:

"This morning one company moved on except one family. The woman got mad and would not budge nor let the children go. He had his cattle hitched on for three hours while coaxing her to go, but she would not stir. I told my husband the circumstances, and he and Adam Polk and Mr. Kimble went and took each one a young one and crammed them in the wagon and her husband drove off and left her sitting. She got up, took the back track and traveled out of sight, cut across, and overtook her husband.

"Meantime, he sent his boy back to camp after a horse that he had left and when she come up to her husband, he says, "Did you meet John?" "Yes," was the reply, "and I picked up a stone and knocked out his brains." Her husband then went back to ascertain the truth, and while he was gone, she set one of their wagons on fire, which was loaded with their goods. The cover burnt off and some valuable articles were lost. He saw flames and came running, and put it out, and then he mustered spunk enough to give her a good flogging." ("Women's Diaries of the Westward Journey," by Lillian Schlissel, copyright 1982, Schocken Books, New York.) http://www.amazon.com/Diaries-Westward-Journey-Lillian-Schlissel/dp/0805211764/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1283631296&sr=1-1

As a veteran of many heated discussions with my late husband in our nearly 40 years, I think this woman had decided she was done with this marriage. She had to have known when she'd crossed the line where her husband was sure to become enraged. (I think it was probably when she lit the wagon on fire, don't you?)

I knew where that line was in my marriage and trust me, I always backed off of it. Every relationship has its loaded emotional nuclear warheads that, once fired, pretty much signal the end of the partnership.

I've always wondered what happened to this couple but of course there's no way of knowing. Maybe when she finally got out West, the woman dumped her old man and ran off to San Francisco.

That's what I'd have done, especially after being "flogged." Figuring anything would be better than that, I'd have hooked up with some good old girls like Minnie and Daisy, made a bunch of money and perhaps even had a few good times along the way.

Maybe that's because I've come to realize the enormous value in having at least one really good girlfriend in my life. The support and companionship of your own gender is priceless.

We all need to vent to someone we can trust sometimes. It keeps us from torching the wagons.

How I Passed A Cardiac Stress Test

2010-08-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

Here's a photo of what's left of my big, pretty Dodge Ram after my son nearly had a head-on collision with a motor home.

This happened while he was taking my granddaughter home to her mother's. Yes, OMG, he had Anna with him.

No one was hurt in the wreck. That's the good part.

My late husband and I bought this truck brand new five years ago and I had just finished paying it off. Now it's totaled. Ironic, yes?

I found this recent near-tragedy quite emotionally troubling, having lost my husband in a motorcycle crash just last year. You know it's bad when you have to remind yourself, "Just breathe."

The often-heard phrase from friends, "It could have been much worse," meant to comfort me, is the very idea that makes me weak in the knees to contemplate.

Thank God no one was hurt. Absolutely grateful for that, I am, indeed.

I'm also relieved I didn't have a stroke or heart attack when I found out about it. I did have a giant panic attack of sorts when my son called to say, in trembling voice, "Mom, I've been in a wreck." Hearing that totally freaked me out so bad I very nearly fainted, which freaked me out even further. Panic attacks feed on themselves, have you ever noticed?

I've seen people in the movies faint upon receiving bad news but had never really experienced that extreme-shock reaction in real life. It's like your brain just goes, "Nope. I am not hearing this, I am definitely not dealing with this, and I am out of here, right now." It's a weird sensation. It felt like my heart stopped, but of course, it didn't.

I have advised my son, should such an unfortunate incident ever happen again, to please begin such phone conversations by saying, "Mom, we're alright, but ..."

So now I am looking to buy another vehicle, which is one more thing I've never done without my husband. Sometimes I wish so badly that I could just call him up and have him tell me what to do.

That ain't happenin', though, so I'll just have to wing it once again and delve bravely into the strange world of "man stuff."

Last year at about this time I was pondering getting in my firewood supply for the winter, which had always been another one of my husband's domain. Followup: Red fir is my choice as No. 1, followed by Tamarack. A blend of the two makes a nice mix in my particular stove. No more Birch for me, however; burns too hot and causes creosote in the stove pipe. The darn bark is unruly, too.

Live and learn. Roll with the punches. Such are the cliches I live by these days.

Could an angel on a Harley have been there to intervene? Well, actually, I thought that was fairly obvious. Of course he was.

Accepting What I Cannot Change

2010-08-06T13:35:00.000-07:00

"He that outlives a wife whom he has long loved, sees himself disjoined from the only mind that has the same hopes, and fears, and interest; from the only companion with whom he has shared much good and evil; and with whom he could set his mind at liberty, to retrace the past or anticipate the future. The continuity of being is lacerated; the settled course of sentiment and action is stopped; and life stands suspended and motionless."

--- Samuel Johnson (1709-84), English author

Seems like some things never change. Other times, it's obvious that nothing will ever be the same in my life.

There is a huge division now in my concept of time: Before Roger died and after Roger died. To even say the phrase, "Roger died," out loud sends a jolt of something close to panic into the pit of my stomach. Oh my gosh, what am I going to do?

Part of my mind subversively clings to the delusion that Roger's just away at work. For the last six years of his life, my husband worked in Russia on a six-week-off, six-week-on rotation.

I got used to him being gone half the time. But reality bites me right in the butt when I see his things untouched, just as he left them more than a year ago. Now they're gathering dust.

I can't change the facts, so I have no choice but to carry on, as I must. But don't worry about me, dear readers. There is no easy way up this steep, dark path for anyone who's ever walked it.

If it's a just matter of hanging in there for several more months before it begins to smooth out, as I suspect, then in there I shall hang. If, in a year from now, however, I feel like nothing's changed, then we will have to seriously discuss a Plan of Action.
I was startled when someone said to me recently, "Maybe the best is yet to come." That was a totally foreign thought to my mind. Really? Not just better, but maybe, the best? Of my whole life?
Anything's possible with God. Of that, at least, I am certain.

Old Photos, Windows to the Past

2010-07-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

I love old photos; I always have. Aware of my fondness for pictures from the past, people give them to me. I have lots of them.

Sometimes I know who the people are in the pictures, sometimes not. I like to examine everything in an old photo with a magnifying glass. I pretend I was there.

This is a picture of a guy named Sumner Stonebraker standing on his head on his brother's front porch in Stites, Idaho, in about 1903. The Stonebrakers operated a pack train hauling supplies and mail into Idaho gold miners.

I made a little slide show of some of the best of these rare pictures for YouTube, which I just added here for you to watch. It's interesting, I think, even if you don't care as much about Idaho history as I do.

It's a well-known fact in the newspaper trade that editors become historians when they retire. It's just natural.
Even while I was still working on newspapers, I always had a sense of recording history.

I love to go to a library and spend all afternoon reading really old newspapers on microfilm. The stories in them are usually hilariously slanted by today's journalistic standards. Early newspaper publishers were usually guilty of shameless "boosterism" when writing about their newly formed little towns.

This old photo is of my grandmother in a canoe in about 1919. I love the way she's trailing her hand in the water; it shows her serenity at that moment. It makes me glad to know she was happy then.

That's her younger brother, my great-uncle, to the right of her. I can't tell who the two other people are because they're too out of focus, but it doesn't matter.

I love the picture just the way it is. Aside from adding a little tint of color, I did nothing to enhance it. It has the ethereal feel of a soft watercolor painting, I think. It's almost Impressionistic, in a way, but maybe it's just the era and how my grandma was dressed. Whoever took it may have felt it wasn't a very good picture. I'm just glad it didn't get thrown away, and that now, it's mine.

I love to scan and share these windows to the past. I hope you like them, too. I'll post more when I can.

A Sunny Day, a Lake, and a Little Girl

2010-07-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

Lake Pend O'reille (pronounced "Pond'-er-ay") is near my home in the Idaho Panhandle. A natural lake, it was formed by glaciers long ago. Encircled by mountain peaks and deep-green forests, it's Idaho's largest lake and in my opinion, its most beautiful.

You can boat all day on Lake Pend Oreille and still not see all of its surface area of 148 square miles. It is 65 miles long, and 1,150 feet deep in some regions, making it the fifth-deepest lake in the United States. If you find this incredibly interesting, here's a link to learn more: http://www.visitidaho.org/thingstodo/view-attraction.aspx?id=30620.

I'm very fortunate to have a good friend who owns a cabin on the eastern shore of Lake Pend O'reille. I took this photo last week from the second-story deck of her perfect hide-away after a full day of playing in the sun in the crystal-clear lake water. My son, granddaughter, friend, our dogs and I swam, rode in a canoe, snorkeled, built a fire after dark and in general had a wonderful time.

It was while riding back to the cabin behind my son on a four-wheeler, with Bric running happily alongside, that I had the odd realization that I actually felt happy. Wide-grinning, childish, light-hearted happy.

I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be so glad to be alive. I was happy that I hadn't missed that day. I cherished it, very conscious of being in the moment..

Maybe it was my impish, high-spirited granddaughter, Anna, who broke my long-running gloomy spell. She is a joy, to be sure; she brightens up the world around her. I'm not sure if she's aware of her positive effect on me.

I'm reminded of a good movie from a few years ago entitled, "As Good As It Gets," starring Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. There's a scene in a fancy restaurant when Helen realizes she is very under-dressed, and she's mad at Jack for taking her there without telling her what to wear. She demands that he give her a nice compliment to make up for it.

Jack thinks for a minute, and then says, "You make me want to be a better person." Helen melts, of course. She cries a little, because that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to her, she tells him.

I'm not sure if Anna, who will be only seven next month, could really grasp the meaning of such a profound statement yet. She might say something like, "But Nana, you're not a bad person!" Then I'd have to try to explain, which I really can't, at least not in a young child's perspective.

But one day I will say to her, "Anna. you've always made me want to be a better person." And I'll hug her and say "thank you," and let her know that because of her, I am.

We Like Dog Days Around Here

2010-07-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because it's so cold here for much of the rest of the year that I love July and August in North Idaho. Hot weather is a thing to treasure around here -- at least until we finally get sick of it. I don't know why they call it "Dog Days," unless it refers to just wanting to lay around in the shade and pant a lot. I like hot weather, as long as I can get to some water. Here's Bric and his mom, Sadie, playing in the sprinkler yesterday. They were deliriously happy doggies. It can get stinking hot here, however. On the day of my son's wedding, for example, when I was hosting the reception for 150 people in my yard, it was 105 degrees; I kid you not. I just wanted everyone to go away so I could lay in the shade and pant. I sweat a lot more on my face now that I'm in my dotage. It seems to just pour off of me from my hairline. I have to wear a bandanna around my forehead to soak up the sweat or it runs into my eyes, which really smarts. Then it pools up in my crow's feet, which is so not cute.

But alas, my cute days are behind me, I'm afraid. However, my granddaughter just keeps getting more adorable every day, in my possibly slanted but actually quite accurate opinion. She is also a little ham; I shot this quick picture of her yesterday with no set up or preparation after she'd been swimming. She's six going on 16, I'm afraid. Lately, Lady Gaga has replaced Miley Cyrus as her current favorite girl singer. I was not even sure who Lady Gaga is, then when I did see her on TV, I wondered if she's a drag queen. You never know these days. For now, it's lovely to just be able to sit back, be a grandma and admire my beautiful granddaugther. I don't have to fret about her future. I might not even be here when she's 16, but even if I am, I'll still just be her Nana. Translation: I don't do discipline anymore. I am, on the other hand, chocked-full of sage advice on an unlimited number of topics, should she ever need any. Anna's going to be a knock-out in another decade, though, that much seems fairly obvious. We all take credit. Every female relative she's got, including me, looks at Anna and thinks, "She's so pretty .. wow, she's a mini me!"

Happy Independence Day

2010-07-03T23:16:00.000-07:00

I shot this scene several years ago on a farm just outside of Canby, Oregon. It was during the first President George Bush's mercifully brief but largely ineffective Gulf War. I can't even remember what the catch phrase for that one was, but I think it was Desert Storm.

I've always wondered if this farming family had someone away on active duty back then. It was after the days of displaying gold stars in your window and prior to tying yellow-ribbons on your mailbox to signify a family member was away in wartime service.

I come from a veteran-proud family, dating all the way back to the Civil War. My deepest respect goes to my grandpa, who served as a foot soldier in the American Expeditionary Force of WWI in the trenches of France.

One night in the Argonne Forest in September of 1918, he failed to hear the warning whistle and did not wake up in time to get on his gas mask quickly enough as an insidious, creeping cloud of low-lying chlorine gas wafted over him. He kept a tiny diary that describes it.

All was not quiet yet on the Western Front when my grandpa was there by any means. I have a brass table lamp he made out of an artillery shell from the war. It's one of my treasures now, but what a depressing daily reminder that must have been for him.

The "war to end all wars" finally did come to an end at 11 A.M. on 11/11 of that year. My grandpa served fewer than six months "Over There," but the debilitating effects of that time on his life would be forever felt by my family.

He suffered terribly from "shell shock," which we now might call a severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PSTD). I can remember my dad saying that whenever a car backfired, my grandpa would dive under a table.

Poor guy. I never knew him outside of the V.A. hospital in New York where he spent the final 38 years of his life confined to a psych ward, described in medical records as "psychotic" and "totally incompetent."

I wonder how he felt about 4th of July fireworks? Probably was not a big fan. Neither am I.

Combat vets who've survived vicious, incredibly loud exploding barrages of big-gun shelling must find traditional night-time Independence Day fireworks extravaganzas as something to endure, not enjoy. Who'd want to relive that kind of hellish terror?

Hopefully, since my generation of combat veterans came along from the Vietnam War, who generally brooked no bullshit about anything, the myth that bloody battlefield combat is anything to be glorified might have begun to be dispelled.

Francis Scott Key's soaring national anthem about "bombs bursting in air" is an example of how brutal warfare was propagandized as being an attractive thing for young men to do in past centuries. After all, if they'd known the truth, who'd have signed up to go?

I once read that prior to WWII, among the plethora of horrific sounds that assaulted their ears during raging battles, the thing that veterans hated hearing the most were the terrified screams of hundreds of horses and mules being injured and killed. I'd have to say that would have bothered me quite a bit, too.

Thank God we don't also have a national tradition of people in pairs running around in horse suits making awful horse-screaming sounds and then falling down in fake agony to look forward to this weekend, along with the bursting-bomb instant-replay effects. .

The whole idea of setting off a bunch of highly explosive materials in July, in the dark, has always struck me as a bit insane for several reasons. Around here, it's often tinder-dry at this time of year. There have been a few spectacular, undesired side effects due to a little town's over-zealous efforts to put on a huge firework display. This year it's fairly green yet, so hopefully firefighters can relax a bit.

The 4th of July certainly ranks No. 1 as the most-despised day of the year for my German Shepherd dogs, who always shiver and pant underfoot all evening during fireworks. Despite their formidable reputation as a breed favored for military service, my three would have never made it as Dogs of War.

Perhaps early conditioning is the key, but I was always too preoccupied with teaching strict housebreaking and no-chewing rules to think of also exposing them to loud bangs. Seems kind of counterproductive anyway, since the only loud bangs my puppies ever heard were of a disciplinary nature. It was the sound of the things I threw at them hitting the wall behind their heads when I caught them squatting to pee in the living room.

Phooey on fireworks? Were I still writing this as a newspaper column, I could expect some letters to the editor in a few days decrying my anti-fireworks stance as un-American.

Baloney. I simply think that recreating battlefield sounds and sights of deadly nighttime bombing attacks is cruelly insensitive to the nerves of combat vets, very troubling to the well-being of dogs, a huge fire hazard and frankly, just a stupid way to celebrate Independence Day. It's left over from a bygone era. Let it go, people!

I mean, how many times can you say in unison with a crowd of other people laying on their backs in the dark on blankets in a football field, "Ewwww," followed by, "Ahhhh"? It gets old pretty fast -- or maybe it's just me that's getting old.

At any rate, I'll bet my grandpa would have agreed.

For Brother Steve - Semper Fi