Live Your Dream ~ That's My Theme

With thanks and a tip of the hat to blogging friend Kirk Jusko, [He doesn't post his picture, so I can't either.] for the title, it occurs to me that really is one of my strong life themes. I want everyone to land on their dreams and achieve them. I've had some lofty dreams of my own and on the odd occasion, I've found myself existing in my dream just as I dreamed it. Maybe I should have bought that bracelet for myself, or at least a matching one. I wonder if the catalog . . . . maybe . . .

I lean toward being generous and pretty engaged/engaging, so if I find out that you have a dream, likely I'll cheer for you at some point. If your kid wants to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, I'll walk her around the neighborhood, sit with her in front of the store, buy some cookies myself and take her to lunch to celebrate after the sale. If you need a 12-step program, I'll take you there and stay with you. If you want a meal or a drink, I love providing those things maybe more than any other. I'm not shy about asking others to support you, either. If I watch you chase your dream and fail to reach it, I'll love you and keep hoping. If I watch you chase your dream and grab it, I'll holler right out loud.

Those who come here often, know the Badger had an important two-stage race last weekend. Not for the first time, I asked other bloggers to join me in some collaborative effort to cheer the man on with words - show our support and humor and admiration. I was pleased and touched once again to see the work of those who commented "I'm in!" Bloggers are creative, of course, but I never cease to be amazed at the generosity we show one another.

It is not for me to tell you all about the two-day race and how it was the most difficult thing he has ever done on a bicycle. It's not my deal to tell you about the dead rattlers and what the weather and road gradient were like. It isn't my job to explain that he found the experience transcendent. Click on the link and read the last few posts of his good blog. You'll get the picture! I will share the words I'd never heard him utter before. As he stepped out of the car for the pre-race course test, he e-mailed, "I don't know if I can do it." I wasn't sure whether to e-mail this: ;~} or this: "How serious are you, since I can't see your face?" He was serious. He didn't know if he could propel that Cervelo up those hills.

No, my job is to present the works of my wonderful blogging friends. Here you are, Badger, applauded and encouraged from spots all across the globe and blogosphere. In absolutely no order whatsoever, behold the offerings. Congratulations on your first place, you climbing old mountain goat. Transcend and do it again! Ride on and live your dream!

I used the offerings as stand-alone poems this time. One will see why! Each was that good.

From my dear friend Rachel Fenton, a published author in Auckland, New Zealand, comes wonderful poetry she constructed using some of the language from my prompt in the original post:

His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3. A hound
with an orange saddle and handmade wheels.
Encircled: the heart monitored, wrist bound
by Garmin to give data, feed the needs he feels.

Erin O'Brien - yes, we all know she's Hot in Cleveland! - also a published author, rang in again:

The weather sure did make it hard
he did not end the Boulevard.
But upon the Callville Stage he stood
wearing proud a winner's hood.

He needs no introduction to you, Badge, but you knew friend Tag would play. His offering was dropped into my e-mail account, so this is the first public viewing:

Dead rattlers on the road
where Badger dares to fly
on wings of sinew and steel,
pushing to the summit
toward verging indigo sky.

All right, here we go. She hails from Sugarhouse, Salt Lake City, Utah. She is a poet, a fact recognized by many, many bloggers and readers. She is classy and sassy. She is Kassie. Her offering follows. I bow:

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
of Badger Morehouse with passion clear.
On a fine day in May he took his Cervelo R3
down to the floor of dry Death Valley.

Who remembers his spokes and tooth low gear?
Who remembers the miles he’s logged this year?
He says to friend, Les, “I’ll attack upslope,
I’ll ride with the wind, chase the ringer and hope.

Hang a bottle of water off of a tree,
one on the land, and two that I’ll see
on the opposite side of the valley.
Ready to ride, chains over the cogs,
I’ll attack the headwind and slide through bogs.”

Then he sees decayed asphalt and muffles a cry,
stands up out of his saddle and lets fly
a clatter of swearwords aimed at the sky.
His wheelness illness is evident now;
he’s careened with something left by a cow.

A paceline perfectly is formed,
under his slicker, his heart is warmed.
He’s mastered the switchback, he’s leading the pack;
he thinks of the past and takes a look back,
remembers the shot in his upper left thigh;
thinks of his death, of how he could die -
a punch in the kidneys by a teen upside down?

“I’m third in the nation,” he says with a frown.
I’ll not pass on in a way that is lame,
I want a sure victory, I must win this game.”

So laying a finger aside of his nose,
(Oh no, I’ve muddled, I’m in the wrong prose).
Let’s see, where were we, we’re talking of Jim
and how he cycles on more than a whim,
but now his heart is much like a wheel;

He won’t let go, his ambition is real.
His derailleurs will never derail his dream;
he’ll win this race, or so it would seem
to one who is waiting at his door,
with words that will echo forevermore!

For borne on the night-wind of the past,
through all their history, to the last,
in his hour of darkness and peril and need,
stands one without malice, corruption or greed.

Her heart will waken, she’ll welcome him home,
she’ll hand him the print-out of our collaborative poem.
He’s bound to listen and then he will hear
the resounding love of his cheerleader dear -
a love he can count on as simple as cycling -
it’s Leslie who’s waiting to announce, “You’re my King!"

And what does anyone have to say about that?

I didn't write any poetry this time. I'm not good with it. But I know it when I read it! My written offerings this time were my post, the endless e-mails as he traveled, prepared, and awaited the results. The Andy Griffith Show was my white noise - the episode where Thelma Lou's "dog" of a cousin, Mary Grace, comes to town and dazzles Gomer Pyle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It comforts me when I pace while absentmindedly getting dinner organized. I got an e-mail. "Outskirts of Las Vegas." I sent one back. "Would you like me to organize a parade, come out there and carry you, the Prius and your mighty steed into the city on my shoulder so you can bow and wave?" "Oh, no," came the reply. "That won't be necessary." He's modest, too! Enthusiastic, but modest.

In my ears right now: This is fun music. I was 22 years old.

Something that charmed me: This entire endeavor charmed me. The outcome charmed me. The 60-year-old dreamer charmed me. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one.

Photo credits: Good folks, I ask indulgence. I had to go a lot of places to get the pics. I'm going to take a flyer here, hoping that if you visit here to read, it means you've got a soft spot for me and you'll forgive me just this one time. Please. I don't mean to steal or offend.

OK, Who Wants to Have Some Fun? Join Me!

Perhaps the most fun I've had in my blogging life has been organizing collaborative efforts to produce fan poetry and virtual parties. Friend Kass has turned her hand to poetry collaboration that makes me drop my jaw. Both she and friend Tag have become brilliant at composing poetry by using words from the Comments section of their blogs, and they can make poetry from nothing, to my amazement. I'm not a poet or even poetic. I'm not that good. Or maybe it's just not what I want to do. But I'm a woman who knows how to tell a story and how to have a good time and how to ask for help, all while connecting with others, which - to me - is the most fun to be had anywhere, any time.

I'm not a cyclist, but I collect them like some people collect Hummel figures or Lladro pieces. I follow their blogs and I speak their language. I know about stage races and criterium races. I understand the categories into which the racers are placed. I get the flavor of the angst when a racer writes, "I worry that my 39x27 gearing might not be low enough for the challenge." I know how and where to buy the best clothing and accessories for the cyclist and I behold the beauty of the lost art of handmade wheels. If I were a churchgoer, I'd worship at the Church of the Big Ring, and all of this is saying something, because my own bicycle experiences and adventures have tended to be unpleasant ones.

I know one of the collected cyclists better and for longer than any of the others. We met in 1968. I know the provenance and the history of his single-minded fascination with the bicycle and racing with it. I know that he was dubbed The Badger by a racer who couldn't shake him back in the day . . . that ferocious tenacity hasn't diminished over 30 years, either. Badger is an appropriate appellation. With this cyclist, I made my bones as an official racing supporter and all-around cheerleader, hander-up of water while running, hander-up of water from a moving vehicle, waiter at the finish line. For this cyclist, I have driven his personal follow vehicle at the Skull Valley race two years in a row, driving 12 feet off of his back wheel for most of the 58 miles (obviously, I had to drive ahead and get out of the car to hand up water). At one memorable race, the cyclists were gathered at the starting line as the promoter was loudly promoting and hollered out, "Could we get a volunteer to drive my van and transport the race officials . . ." I was very surprised to hear my voice exclaim, "I'll do it. I'm experienced, too!" The Badger was pretty startled when I ran to the starting line to say, "I'm driving the Official Vehicle!" I followed him at very close quarters throughout that race, while pulling cyclists out for penalties whenever the official sounded the bullhorn. If it intrigues the reader, I've written many times on this blog about cycling races and one would look for the post label "races".

I won't try to tell you what cycling means to him. He does that very well himself on his own grand cycling blog. [One does not want to miss his fine photography blog, either.] A quick look at his last couple of posts will reveal that he is about to race in the granddaddy of all races, the Mt. Whitney Stage Race. Since the 1980s he has wanted to race this course of more than 50 miles at 10,000 feet of elevation. It finishes on the uphill, which will require him then to descend on some 180-degree switchbacks, but at least not at racing speed. And if all that is just a little too much about cycling, I'm nearly done going on about the race. Although it runs a bit long, the Fly By video will give one a tiny bit of insight into what is required for this endeavor. Simply follow the link and click on "Watch Course Fly-By Video". Drag the button a ways into the video and watch the drops off the sides and the switchbacks! Yes, those are running rivers - at one point he'll race across a bridge. Have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

The first epic race of this season - the dreaded/much anticipated Boulevard Road Race - was causing the Badger some anxiety. I wanted to have some fun and enlisted other bloggers to help me collaborate on a poem or a song or a whatever it turned out to be. The contributions began to pour in and it was wonderful to string snippets of words into a poem, crediting all the bloggers with what they had sent me. The result was a thing of great fun and beauty. His Wi-Fi was so erratic in the motel, he couldn't watch the poem develop on my blog. I read it to him at various stages on the phone and he finally got to take it in deeply when he arrived home. In his own words, the Badger stated it was "one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me." That production was simply a "Rah!" theme for a racing cyclist. I'm feeling playful again, and I have a little more experience than on my maiden voyage. So, who's in? We're going to have some fun!

Once again, I'm not sure what we can cobble together ~ a poem? An ode? I'd love to write a really good/bad country song if enough words are sent my way. It might even find its way to YouTube! So, here it is: all contributions will be accepted and used with joy. Send four rhyming lines, or two, or a repeating chorus or stream of consciousness. It doesn't matter. It will be received with gratitude. We'll need a title! Everyone will be credited. I will not edit, except to correct misspellings. Of course, we want to "Yay!" him to the finish line, but there's another theme I'd like to touch on - the ubiquitous shitty race weekend motel room. Imagine your own worst motel experiences and square them. Typically, these races aren't held in locations where fine lodging is available.

This time, I'm going to provide a few factoids that might help the reader form some thoughts:

• His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3 with an orange saddle and handmade wheels. Encircling his chest will be the heart monitor and on his wrist, the Garmin will give up all the data he needs.
  
  
• He'll be wearing his Paramount racing kit as seen in the photos, black Rapha knee warmers, a Galstudio handmade winter racing cap, a red helmet, red SiDi cycling shoes, Assos jacket and full-fingered gloves. (It's cold at 10,000 feet!)
  
  
• At races he wears a leather bracelet that says "Live Your Dream" on a silver plate and sports a tiny pewter badger.
  
  
• Names of races run this year: Boulevard Road Race (Did not finish - stopped by weather after 45 grueling miles), Callville Stage Race (2nd place in his category), Howard Hughes Ranch Road Race (4th place in his category), UCLA Road Race (17th place, but judged with everyone age 45+), San Diego Omnium (3rd place in his category).



• Crappy motel annoyances: no stopper for the bathtub (the man likes to soak in Epsom salts after riding hard), Wi-Fi that shimmies in and out like a hula dancer, rarely any cell phone signal, coffee-making devices or not, microwave or not, sagging chair seats, holes in the walls, paper-thin walls, insufficient heat or air conditioning, no paper products, no drinking glasses, no pillows.



• He has often commented that he nearly drove the wheels off of his Prius the first three months he owned it from chasing after races.

So, bloggers, let's do it! Certainly make comments on this post, as usual. But please drop your wordy offerings in the e-mail attached to my Blogger Profile. I'll start compiling the goods, and I'm certain we'll come up with a marvelous collaboration . . . . . If anyone wants to see the work-in-progress, let me know and I'll share it by e-mail.

It is a wonderful tech-forward age we live in. As he drove west across Nevada and California, we e-mailed frequently. He always "takes me" to the races. "I'm on the floor of Death Valley now." "If I'd raced that one contest I considered, this course would have broken me in two, now that I've seen it!" His mother and I e-mailed in the same time period, churning about the altitude and climb in this race. He mentioned yesterday his concern that he'll blow out a knee. I often get an e-mail just before the gun goes off - "We're off in 30 seconds!" Or, " *%&#, it's snowing and sticking to the ground here at the start!" I never fail to get the e-mail or phone call at the end of the race: "I think I took second - they haven't posted the results yet." Today will be a long wait. Once he runs the race, he'll have the long, frightening return. Who knows if there will be signal on the mountaintop? Reader, I can attest: it is far better to go to the race, where one can always find some occupation, than to sit home and w-a-i-t.

Yesterday we were communing deeply and he wrote, "I sometimes wonder why I am doing this kind of thing. Not in the sense of not continuing, but what is it that has appeared after all these years driving me to do things that have nothing to do with survival?" I laughed out loud at my desk. I typed a response to the effect that I had some thoughts on the matter, but couldn't possibly put them in good order for presentation on e-mail. That is a conversation that will take an hour. But I - the wordy woman - can encapsulate it! "Because that's just what you are meant to do, Badger." Does anyone besides me enjoy watching ice on fire? Flaming passion tempered by steely, cold consideration? I thank the reader for his or her indulgence today. That man deserves a party! And have I mentioned he is 60 years old?

In my ears right now: Friend Tag reminded me of the Beach Boys yesterday. They're era-appropriate to me and I liked them well enough. Their best known tunes were OK enough. But I prefer their take on things that have nothing to do with surfing or racing cars.

Something that charmed me: One e-mail I got yesterday contained an assessment of the race course, once he'd viewed it, and his ability to ride it. The words startled me because I've never heard him utter anything remotely similar to what he had to say about this course. I paced awhile. Soon came the next e-mail. He was steely. "I'm going to do this!" Well, sure, Badge. That's what you went there for.

According to my watch, he's been pedaling for 38 minutes. I've seen the pictures of the road. I imagine by now he's been up out of the saddle (pedaling while standing up) a time or two . . . . he'll have to do that a lot today and tomorrow.

Little Charmer ~ Not ME, the Rug!

In my last post, I told about the wool megalo-rug that nearly beat me in a dust-up. Rugs come in all shapes and sizes. Some are more charming than others.

In our small carpet cleaning business, we do things as simply and consistently as we can. It makes us efficient. It makes us credible to the customers when both the office and the technicians say the same thing about any situation. David and I are good communicators. Everyone knows everything he needs to know about any subject. Some of our touchstones include explaining pet urine damage the same way to every customer every time, quoting room prices the same to everyone who calls in, and explaining carpet repairs in precisely the same way every single time. But perhaps the most deeply ingrained piece of information we share is our minimum service charge. Each of us could tell that number in our sleep. It's a simple concept. We cannot roll a van with one or two technicians, all of the equipment, all of the cleaning solutions, the cost of the business license, liability insurance, advertising costs . . . for less than a particular dollar amount. In most cases, that minimum charge does not come into play. Most people have their entire homes cleaned at one time, and the cost exceeds the minimum service charge. I never even have to utter those words. But once in awhile, Mrs. Las Vegas only wants one room in her home cleaned and the minimum sounds a little pricey.

When the technicians arrive at a customer's house, their flexibility quotient rises dramatically. Now someone from our company can see the carpet. I've given the estimate over the phone based on the customer's own description of the carpet's condition. But one person's idea of "filthy" is another person's concept of "not too bad".The technicians might recommend a little preconditioning treatment or a rotary scrub, or pet damage restoration. They are free to price these services as they see fit (within a loose framework). David's philosophy is, "They're out there. We're not. They've assessed the carpet and the customer. We have not. Let them secure the job." Sometimes we have to work a little extra to hold the job. "Let me call the office and see if I can offer you a small discount. If the office OKs that, may I get started right away?" I sometimes ask the technician if it is even worth doing the work if the customer is asking to pay an extremely low amount. If the technician says, "No. It's not worth it. This will be trouble forever. They're cheap and demanding.", I tell him to roll up his hoses and roll on down the road.

The (wonderful) flip side of taking money away from a customer in exchange for services is that we also have the ability to give a good customer extra attention. My technicians see every kind of situation every day of life. Single parents struggling, elderly people just trying to get by, an obviously really fine individual who has been laid off three times in a year. The men are quiet when they tell me, "That poor woman, Les. She is living in hard times. I knocked out a couple of rooms of premium service and didn't say anything or ask for more money. She needs help." Or, "Les, that couple were in their 80s and have been in that house since 1965. The carpet was so clean, I don't know why they called us. Maybe they just had a reminder on the calendar they didn't question. I gave them a couple of rooms of Scotchguard for free." We've had days where a woman customer has asked a technician to walk her to her car because of a domestic dispute. Not comfortable for anyone. We help people up from the floor when they've failed to heed our warning, "Be careful stepping from the wet carpet onto the tiles." And one of the commonest "gimmes" is to clean a few small area rugs without charge. When one weighs a $500 cleaning job against 3 minutes of work on the rugs, it just makes good business sense. The kindness is remembered, and the customer will invite us to return in a year. There exists a friendly rivalry between the technicians. They watch each other closely. "How much did you sell today?" It should be no surprise that our best carpet cleaners are also our best salesmen.

A woman called to ask me about cleaning an area rug. She knew more than the average caller. She knew the dimensions of her rug and she knew it was 100% wool. I quickly calculated the square feet and applied our price per square foot. I held this up against our minimum service charge. Yikes! This was going to be an expensive rug cleaning. I started my usual presentation: "For our minimum service charge we could do another rug or perhaps a room of carpet . . . " She doesn't like people coming into her home. Um, OK, the rug could be brought to our office. She took our address and I forgot about her for a week.

Yesterday, I looked out on the deck. A small woman, probably very near my own age, struggled along the breezeway, a very appropriately named passageway here on the second floor. Windsock might also be properly descriptive. She turned the corner and aimed for my door. I greeted her and she commented that we were very hard to find. I don't agree, but then I've come here almost every day for nearly three years. "Well, yes, up on the second floor and on the back of the building," I allowed. She had something with her that she proceeded to unfold for me. It clicked immediately! This was the woman with the tiny wool rug. I inspected it and felt on solid ground, even though I don't clean carpets every day like the homes. It certainly was wool. My good eyes told me the dimenstions she had mentioned were about right. It had some pet hair on it and a few spots that gave me some concern. I quoted her our minimum service charge, knowing she'd already heard me say that dollar figure over the phone a week ago. This number so alarmed the woman she had to take a seat in my office. I let her sit. I let her ponder. "Gee, I was hoping you'd do it for about half that amount." I told her, not unpleasantly, all the reasons I had to charge her the minimum service charge. I reminded her we could come to her home and she'd get more value for her money, but that I could not charge less than the minimum. She left the rug and walked away looking pensive.

On Thursdays, David conducts staff meeting and I am second fiddle. On the other days of the week, I conduct "huddle". "Huddle" means, "at 7:00 sharp, gather in the office, have your work orders and your route sheet in your hand, have a pen, pay attention. She who must be obeyed is about to speak." In huddle, we go through the day's work, team by team, van by van. I tell the men everything I remember about each job or customer. I tell them if a job is simply unremarkable. The homes have come to appreciate huddle, because I possess an uncanny ability to call people for what they are, for reading a situation for what it is, even though I've only participated in one telephone conversation. It is a rare day that someone does not come in and say, "Les, you had that man dead-on. It made me able to work with him better, understanding what kind of person he is." In huddle, we also share our daily stories from our adventures in the big city. It's a safe place to talk, to tell, to ask, to share. Sometimes someone has a need to bite in huddle. That's OK, too. We leave huddle as friends. And better informed. Invariably, before and after huddle there is much good natured milling around, coffee being consumed, "good morning"s, bustle.

Huddle was almost over this morning when Matt noticed it. "What's that on the floor?" I'd nearly forgotten to mention the rug. I grinned. "Oh, it's a handkerchief I booked. The customer brought it in. I need it to be cleaned so she can pick it up." They all stared at it. I like to have fun, too, so I put on a little show. Got a little smarty assed. I picked the rug up and spun it on my hand like Luigi tossing pizza dough. They stared at me. "Is that all there is for this job?" "That's it homes. Just the one little hankie." It got really quiet. "Um, Les, how did you price that out?" I said I'd charged the minimum service charge. "And somebody went for that?" "Well, you're looking at the rug, homes." There was some shuffling of feet and gazing at the floor. "What? What's up?" To a man, they agreed that this rug was one of the size and type they'd clean for free on any job where the customer had been half-way pleasant. It was simply the right thing to do. "Well, let's talk about this, guys. How would it be if I let anyone walk in off the streets and give me things to clean and I gave it to them for free? I don't have the advantage you have. I'm not in their home doing lots of other work and just adding this as a little nicety. I have to insist on the minimum service charge." They averted their gaze and shuffled their feet again. I saw shoulders start to shake. I heard some snickers and someone said, "God damn. She's never cleaned a carpet in her life and she just got the highest paying job we've ever had for a rug if you consider its size." We all cackled. It was Matt who came up with the idea. "Let's put her in a war wagon, send her out ahead of us to knock on the doors of every job for the day. She can sell the jobs and we'll just follow her, cleaning carpet!" I just stuck to the script. We take minimum service charge very seriously here.

Joseph and Justin cleaned the hankie. It had issues. The spots that concerned me were curry, Joseph said. Curry doesn't come out. It's permanent. Joseph has 35 years experience at carpet cleaning. Joseph has celebrity clients in Hollywood. I don't doubt those spots are curry. I don't doubt curry is a permanent stain. How does the reader think I'll deal with the customer? The rug cleaned up beautifully except for the curry spots. What would you do? I already know what I'll do!

In my ears right now: Miss Fiona of Sunnybrook Farm. Yes, I like it!

Something that charmed me: We were driving west on a major boulevard through the city. We'd had a great afternoon together and were chatting, thinking about dinner. We stopped at a traffic light in an older section of the city. Here many small old houses have been turned into business offices - an insurance agency, a florist, etc. One of them, neutral in color (mainly) and otherwise unremarkable, caught my eye. For the upper 20% of the building was given over to a brightly colored, eye-catching promotion. Superimposed over stripes of the red, white and blue was a good likeness of the U.S. president. In large, tidy letters was proclaimed "Obama Pedicure ~ $9.99". What the heezy? I've scratched my head for days. What does the reader suppose might make that pedicure distinctly Obaman?

Savoring

My reentry into my real world is going slowly and easily. Work demands aren't any more than I can handle and I'm behaving like a toad at home. Translation: my duffel bag remains where I placed it when I came home and my jacket still smells beautifully of the campfire smoke. We decided I must be a smoke magnet, for wherever I placed my camp chair, the slight breeze would shift to ensure I got a face full of the gray wispy stuff.

I'm not a photographer, for a variety of reasons. Sometimes this makes me feel a little anxious, as I follow people who are photographers and I'm not anywhere near their standards. I have a little leaning toward competition and I have a strong leaning toward doing things well, so I want to present pictures that are decent. But here's where I've landed: I do some things quite well and some things adequately and some things poorly. And I'm beginning to be OK with that. That is a new attitude for me. The voices in my head (my own is the loudest) scream, "You must do things perfectly!" But I don't have to. The world won't stop if I'm a hack at certain things. My reality won't slam into a block wall if I take on something without needing to grind out every molecule of its essence.

I grew up in a photographer's home. My father is quite accomplished and owned a photography studio for years. I've had a camera pointed at me for all of my life. I know about lenses and filters, f stops and cable releases. I recognize a Rolleiflex when I see one from a distance and I like the smell of chemicals used for developing film (a thing of the past, for the young reader). During my marriage, Ex always handled the camera. He bought me a beautiful Nikon set up that I used a time or two and then it fell to him. There are entire trips to Europe that yielded up not one picture of Ex. He was always behind the camera. And in my most recent years, I have shared life with a fine, truly talented photographer. I've been allowed to be lazy. "Hey, can you capture that over there for me?" I have a good curious mind and I never hesitate to take on new things, so one can only conclude that photography just doesn't grab me in the sense that I yearn to do it. Then there's my attachment to language ~ I prefer to make pictures with my words.

In that spirit, as I work on the side at a longer writing, I will present some "pitchers" I love from my holiday outing. If you want the photographs, and I believe you will, visit Digital Existence.

From our camp, looking toward the dunes, two miles off. There is something I love about that mountain range. My camera equipment and the distance prevent me from capturing it, but those mountains are made from layers of different colors. A small rock was found and presented to me that shows everything going on in those mountains ~ blue, green, magenta and purple.

I do not use the words "I can't." Virtually never. If those words pop out of my face, I immediately say, "That's not what I meant. I meant that I haven't been able to yet." We'd hiked the two easy miles out to the edge of the dunes. We'd traversed several of the individual dunes and circled the base for a mile or two. They undulate and as one hikes on them, one can end up in tricky spots, or challenged by a nearly vertical wall going up or down. He wanted to shoot pictures from the top. We chugged upward and upward. I began to lag. It is one of only a handful of occasions where I have failed to simply follow in his footsteps and arrive at the destination. He hollered over his shoulder, "It's OK, just wait for me there." I did. When he arrived at the peak, I heard "Whoa! Razor's edge here, Les. No place to balance. Sheer drop off." He got his pictures, though his perch was precarious. Yonder comes the Badger, slip sliding away down that last 100 yards I didn't make. Yet.

I am good at puzzles. I had not been a camper long before I was able to identify animal tracks. I am proud to say it was I who figured out that the round paw prints in the sand were cat prints. I was pleased when he exclaimed, "Hey, you're right!" It wasn't so hard, readers. I've been kept by about 50 cats in my life. The big ones have paws similar to the domestic ones. In the photo, you see the cat prints and the bird tracks. They appeared to have been made at the same time. I imagine quite a little drama was played out here in the dunes.

In my ears right now: It's still The Mountain. I recommend it.

Something that charmed me: Cats are scarce in the desert. In all our years in the outdoors, we've only seen their tracks in a handful of locations. We spotted one on the hoof once - only the flanks and back end of it as it loped away from the Jeep trail we rode on. We both tried to make out what we were seeing, because something wasn't right. It wasn't a coyote. Minutes later, the Badger said, "Hey, that has to have been a cat." He was right. It moved that way. This time on the dunes, there were cat tracks in abundance. We followed some of their trails for miles up and down the mounds of sand. There was some evidence that there was at least a pair of them, and possibly a family of three. It made me feel good to think of them and their life in the sun on the dunes. I'm a cat person and a desert person. That's beauty to me.

The Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society

The first morning in our new home, we spotted Lorri Christensen in the back yard as we ate breakfast. I asked why a girl was in our yard and the finer points of duplex living were shared with me. OK, I didn't mind sharing. "Limes, she looks near your age. Why don't you go out and make friends?" I was a child who wouldn't look a parent in the eye and say "no", but I did all right at simply remaining seated, saying nothing. My father knew I could use a little help in the ice breaking department and took me outside. Dad started a conversation I joined within moments. Lorri and Limes became fast friends very quickly.

She showed me around the back yard where her father had installed a swing set complete with slide and seesaw, a sandbox, a spot for a wading pool and a painted-onto-the-black-asphalt-driveway hopscotch course. We talked about the things we liked to do. She had a little pee wee bike upon which she was a hellion in the neighborhood. I said that I was getting a bike this summer. She had Mr. Potato Head and I had Cootie. She owned a ViewMaster, while I claimed a record player and all the Mickey Mouse Club records, including the Davy Crockett theme. She loved a toy accordion and I was proud of the piano Uncle Ralph and Aunt Martha had given me. We liked jumping rope and we loved to Hula Hoop, but the activity that could eat up entire afternoons in the sun was hopscotch.

Lorri asked me that first morning how many hoppy taws I owned. I didn't understand the words. I looked at my dad and he didn't seem to understand, either. Lorri got a little heated, saying, "Hoppy taws - for hopscotch!" We were still drawing a blank. "Wait here!" She huffed off into her side of the duplex. She reappeared, carrying a small flannel bag with a drawstring. From it, she pulled some articles that resembled hockey pucks. These were round, real rubber (not plastic) disks about 2 1/2 to 3 inches in diameter. They were rather flat and they were wildly patterned with swirls and whorls of many colors. Dad and I still didn't understand. I managed to squeak out, "I don't have any of those." She gaped at me. "Well you're going to need some." She stepped up to the hopscotch course with one hoppy taw in her hand. With a small flick of her wrist, she landed it in the square marked "1". She hopped scotch exactly the way that I did, but she used her hoppy taw in place of the rock or crumpled paper or small plastic toy I'd always employed. She moved the hoppy taw along with her hand, by tossing it, or scooted it ahead with her toe, just like the rules of hopscotch required. My father and I caught on pretty quickly to how the hoppy taw was used, but we still didn't understand that it was a requirement where we now lived.

Lorri seated us on the back porch and proceeded to teach us the ropes of hopscotch culture in Sugarhouse, circa 1958. If a girl had no hoppy taw, no other girl would want to play hopscotch with her. If a girl owned one hoppy taw, she was barely alive. Lorri seemed certain that three hoppy taws were the best number to have, and I noticed that she had three. A girl was highly regarded if she had a drawstring bag in which to carry her hoppy taws, but was regarded as a dabbler if she carried them loose in her hands or her lunch box. Dad asked why a girl needed more than one hoppy taw, and Lorri replied that maybe she would switch them each day or use one hoppy taw for "evens" and one for "odds". Maybe one favored hoppy taw would be a girl's good luck charm, or certain ones might be used only for school or only for after school. Then Lorri let us know that girls who carried five or more hoppy taws were just show-offs and usually delayed the games with little rituals of using all their disks in every game. Excessive hoppy taw use was not considered good form. A few minutes with 5-year-old Lorri had put us in the know!

My dad is a practical man. Where did one buy hoppy taws and was Lorri certain three was the correct number and were the drawstring bags purchased along with the hoppy taws? The hoppy taws could be purchased at the mom-and-pop store down a very long block of 6th East. No street crossing was involved in getting there. The hoppy taws cost 10-cents each and no two were alike. One's mother had to make the drawstring bag and that gave Dad and me a little pause, because my mother didn't . . . well, let's get the hoppy taws first. I was given the princely sum of $1. Lorri and I walked that long block to the store with wooden floors and spent a proper amount of time and consideration selecting three hoppy taws sufficiently different from one another to give me legitimacy. There was enough money left in change to buy two bottles of YooHoo which we enjoyed on the long walk back home. Mrs. Christensen had quickly sewed me a drawstring bag while we were on our shopping expedition, and I was in business!

There followed many, many months of hopscotch. We played it at school, we played it at other girls' homes, we hosted tournaments in our own backyard at which we sold lemonade and cookies. I became good at hopscotch because I played it incessantly. I tore chunks out of my bloodied knees from falling on burning asphalt and frozen asphalt alike. I got good at more things than simply navigating a simple course by hopping on one foot. Hopscotch is the first activity I can remember that called upon me to strategize, to size up an opponent, to predict what another player would do (after observing her through many, many games), to learn the strengths and weaknesses of other players. It was the first arena in which I spotted cheaters with my own eyes and I concluded that some people had to win - it was all that mattered to them. My father is a man who believes a person should pursue any activity he or she takes on with total spirit, total commitment. He believes we learn from every single thing we do and, therefore, every single thing we do is important. He talked to me about hopscotch. He coached me at hopscotch. He encouraged me to chase after something I loved, and to be good at it, drawing every lesson I could from it.

These are the things I learned about myself on the hopscotch court, something I recognized decades later: I am fair and honest and big enough to lose if someone else beats me. I am not aggressive, needing to win and also crush my opponent. I am a keen observer of people and situations. If I am quiet and absorb what is happening, I can draw on that information later. I can be cautious and aware that others in a situation are bigger or more experienced than I, but that doesn't give them the win. I can look the dragon in the eye and roar back. And I learned that a kid with Father Now's DNA was never, ever to fold. For any reason. Bad weather, nasty tumble on the asphalt, too tired, bored. Uh-uh. You don't walk away or stop trying about anything that's important.

In my 30s and 40s, I was a kickin' labor union rep, a position I landed upon by defying seemingly all odds. I was not educated or experienced to do this work. I had to work hard to win the privilege. The employers of our members always, but always, hired attorneys to meet with the union for contract negotiations, disciplinary hearings before the school boards and other matters of labor relations. I have seen grown men blanch at the thought of going up against this shyster from that law firm or a fabled hired gun. Trust me, reader, I have qualms about many things, but meeting a giant in the board room never terrified me. Because I'm fair and honest and big enough to lose if someone else beats me. I'm not aggressive, but I'm unfailingly assertive and I'm still a keen observer of people and situations. I still absorb information and draw on it later. I'm cautious and keenly aware of an opponent's strong points, but that still doesn't give them the win. I can look the dragon in the eye and roar back. And I never, ever fold. I won far more hearings than I lost. I settled contracts that people said would never be settled. I'm not a braggart, or even particularly remarkable. I'm simply saying that what I learned on the hopscotch court helped me to be successful in life. You see, The Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society really did prepare young girls for future life.

True story: I lived in Salt Lake City in two separate residencies with some L.A. in between, and never after age 13. For decades, in California and Nevada, when adult women friends talked about their childhoods, the subject of hopscotch would come up. I never failed to ask about other womens' hoppy taws. I never failed to get blank stares. Not one friend had ever heard of such a thing. What, did that old man of the mom-and-pop store whip hoppy taws up in a laboratory behind the house and only sell them out of their tiny store? Were Sugarhouse girls the only kids in the world to have known about such things? I began to think I was delusional and eventually stopped bringing it up. One doesn't like to feel others think she's just a bit odd. I've not asked anyone about hoppy taws since before the age of the internet. I decided to try one time in the privacy of my own office to research online about hoppy taws before writing this post. No one would know. I didn't have to be embarrassed.

The information highway is a wonderful thing! Guess what I learned? Hoppy Taws, LLC, is a Salt Lake City business, operating for many, many years. No wonder I didn't connect with others who knew about them. I wasn't mingling with Salt Lake City women. It pleases me that hoppy taws can be purchased online everywhere now. Maybe the word will spread and before I am doddering, I can say "hoppy taw" to another woman whose eyes will light up at the memories. By the way, hoppy taws cost upward of $4 each online. I'm no John Maynard Keynes, but I'd say that's quite a lesson in economics from a 50 year perspective.

In my ears right now: Still the Rolling Stones, "Waiting on a Friend". I posted the lyrics on my blog sidebar. I'm planning a short post to tell why something I found on YouTube charms me, as related to this song. When Justin came in from his route yesterday, he said, "Limes, that same song was playing when I left here this morning!" "And all day long, Justin."

Something that charmed me: I have a new Salt Lake City friend. More specifically, she is a Sugarhouse friend. I have $1 that says she knows about hoppy taws, and her daughter(s) and her granddaughters.

Skull Valley II ~ The Badger's Revenge

Race day - up early. The Badger is quiet. Not unpleasant, but very busy in his head. We have certain luxuries this time. I flirted outrageously with the 90-year-old motel clerk the day before and got us a late checkout. We can return to the room after the race and the Badger can take a real shower before our long drive home. The free continental breakfast was decent. We always carry our own good coffee. No rain to deal with. Let's go!

About half way to Skull Valley, he muttered, "I wish we'd left a little earlier." When we pulled into the road where all the cyclists park, it was clear that this year's event was much better attended than last. I finally parked illegally and let him out to get ready and to warm up. He rolled away and it was very close to his starting time. I didn't know if he'd get back to me with the answer to the $64 million question. He did! "Limes, no personal follow vehicles this year. Just ride on out to the turn-around and I'll see you there." I was disappointed about that, but remembered he told me last year, "Your maiden voyage is the best it will ever get. I've never even heard of personal follow vehicles in a road race."

My 27+ mile drive was fairly uneventful, but I was watching the course carefully. At the starting line, I noticed far more racers in his 50+/60+ group than had been registered earlier. The finish line and 1 Km marker were highly visible and there were flags and banners that hadn't appeared last year. The road had been cleared of much of the rocks and gravel left by the previous day's storms - a good thing. I drove slowly, I sang poorly but loudly and I watched racers. I watched the Prius getting 100 mpg for part of the drive and pondered that. Maybe because of the increased number of competitors, or maybe for no good reason, I saw a lot of flats happen - official neutral cars pulling over to assist the unfortunates. Way too close to the turn-around, on that sharp descent, there was a crash with several broken-up bikes in the road, cyclists down, and one young man banged up and bleeding pretty badly.

This time, the turn-around was well marked, manned by plenty of volunteers, showing multiple orange cones. Still so narrow the racers weren't going to get through by very many more than two-by-two. I had to roll quite a way in order to park the car and position myself for the water hand-up. Finally I spotted a large wash I could run in while handing up. I tucked the Prius away, got out, stretched, felt the sun . . . . there weren't too many people crowding me. I'd left the biggest group behind. Farther along in this wash was a really young woman with a lot of water bottles at her feet. She was a race volunteer and would hand up to anyone who needed water. It's been said that Limes could talk to a dead snake and the snake would talk back to her. It's also been said that Limes has never met a stranger. I moseyed on over . . she's a 22-year-old triathlete from Tucson and her boyfriend was riding in the race. I told her about the Badger, we spoke of cycling in general and I told her about my walking and why I do it. It would be fair to say we were simpatico!

She didn't have to watch for anyone. Her boyfriend wouldn't come by for a long time as his race was more than 80 miles. I needed to pay attention to time, because the Badger had reminded me how fast the first half of this course is. I watched her handing up water and she nailed it every time. The problem was her delivery method. "Ummm, excuse me, Grasshopper, but why don't you run when you hand up?" "Oh, I was taught to do it this way." Her form was to grasp the bottle with all 5 fingers across the top - leaving the cyclist more bottle surface to grab. She held her arm out straight, but loose. When the cyclist grabbed, her arm was pushed forward - she didn't resist the movement. And she was delivering 100% of the time. "Well!" thought I.

He announced his approach by bopping me with his empty from across the highway as he descended. It hit my knees and rolled away, but I can read "Pro-Cyclery" upside down and in motion. I quickly asked cutie Tri-Ath if she'd hold one out for him, too, since I didn't have a good track record with this. "Sure! Tell me what he's wearing." When the pack took the turn-around I spotted him from quite a distance. I had him picked out! I was going to do it cutie Tri-Ath's way and if I missed, she wouldn't. The only thing wrong with that plan was that nobody clued in the Badger on his bike. "Run, Limes, run!" he shouted. To my mortification, I couldn't run. The hill was right on me. The car blocked me. He was swooping down on me. I tried Tri-Ath's way and he missed it. I noticed her hand was empty but she wasn't happy - someone else got it.

Running for the car, I quickly came up on the pack and I saw him strong on the climb. I knew he was setting the pace - it was obvious. He was out of the saddle and unlike during some parts of last year's race, he was not hanging with road toads. He was leading this pack, on his feet in the pedals and he made me think of a mighty warrior. I got choked up watching him. In the year that had passed, he went from very little confidence to "come on, I'll lead this parade!" I could see it. I didn't have to hear him say a word.

I drove ahead and picked a good spot to park so he'd see the Prius first. I went far ahead of it on foot and picked a section of highway where I could run like the wind when I saw him. When they came into view I started to run slowly, arm extended. I could hear them approach and I ran faster. I heard a racer say, "Let the man through, he's being handed up water." I knew they were giving him his propers for pulling them up the hill! It's hard to run and hand up water when one's throat is constricting from emotion, but I did this. I could feel the rush of air from his bike and he masterfully grabbed that bottle. "Good one, Limes! Thanks!"

There wasn't much left for me to do now. I got in immediately behind the official follow vehicle for the 50+/60+ and stayed on its bumper for a lot of miles. I saw the team shenanigans the Badger blogged about and realized he wasn't going to be able to turn the race into the scorcher it could have been if there had not been so many resistors. OK, so be it. He remained strong, on the front, often setting the pace. He and another racer worked together and looked like skilled young men showing the others how to do it. It happens that there were continual flats and breakdowns. The official vehicle pulled off a lot. I'm rather big on community service, so when the vehicle pulled off, I stayed behind the pack with my flashers blinking. When the vehicle came back to the pack, I immediately let it in and returned to "regular citizen". The driver waved and nodded at me repeatedly. He didn't give the appreciation the sheriff's reserves showed last year, but I took it that he was pleased with the teamwork.

Until he wasn't any longer. The finish line was within view. I ducked my head a little to watch the Badger fly across, no errant red car threatening him this time. He easily had first in his category. I saw it for myself. When I straightened up, Mr. Official Follow Vehicle hung his head out of his window, looked back at me and bellowed,"This isn't a spectator sport - you're making it dangerous on the road for the cyclists!" Huh? I guess my little head dipping beneath the steering wheel freaked the man out, and I felt truly chastised. I maintained good balance - no smart-mouth - and drove to the meet-up area.

Quickly we zoomed into Prescott, the Badger showering while I decamped us. We stopped for a sandwich and headed back out toward Skull Valley. The hosting club was still packing it up, and the Badger was able to get his official placing and his trophy plaque. And that's when the driver of the official follow vehicle spotted me. He came over to give me the (gentle) business. I was respectful, but held my own. I wondered why he was apparently so happy out on the road to have my assistance, but now was spanking me in front of the other organizers. All of the organizers insisted I had been no one's personal follow vehicle in 2008, because that was never allowed. The Badger looked at the old gent who told him in '08 that he could have a personal follow vehicle, but said gent looked at the ground and remained silent. Brown eyes looked into blue eyes and said, "Let's get out of here and go to the place we live where everyone is full of b.s. and no one tries to deny it."

Driving home, I could see him start to sag. "Want me to drive, Badger?" "Oh, maybe after awhile." "Want to just go on home after you drop me, Badger, no dinner together?" "OK, maybe. You won't feel badly?" "No." "What about your birthday presents?" "You could come in for 5 minutes, never sit down, and watch me open them." "OK. I could use your bathroom, too." "OK, Badger. It was a great weekend!"

In my ears right now: "This isn't a spectator sport . . . . " Um, it is to me, home dude.

Something that charmed me:

Same Old Tune: Communic8ing

People who know one another very well communicate in many more ways than verbally. Body language speaks volumes. A sudden change in the way a person usually operates can tell a story. But for me, there is nothing more compelling than all the different levels of information that can be exchanged through "the look".

My mother has virtually no sense of humor. She doesn't care for comedy and she doesn't get jokes. I don't think I've ever seen her toss her head back and just howl. Conversely, Cousin and I can be just plainly irritating as we roar and carry on. Mostly when others look at us oddly while we're amusing ourselves, we kick it up a notch. But I recall a dinner out at a restaurant when I was the advanced age of 48. Cousin and I were particularly hilarious with our bellies filled and we'd gone on for some time. My mother made eye contact with me, and I withered.Communication through "the look". Cousin didn't wither. Her aunt's facial expression didn't mean anything to her. It rolled off her back. I, on the other hand, was calling myself all the words and names I knew my mother would use if she'd verbally lit into me. "Limes, stop it, you ________. You're attracting attention."

A different view of communicating through "the look": Amber began competing in martial arts tournaments at about the age of 8. She sparred with adult men. Martial arts was Ex's thing, certainly not mine, but I supported it. He insisted that she be able to physically defend herself against attack from a young age. Martial arts did many good things for my daughter, beyond simply making her a pretty tough chiquita. This was one proud mother, and after her performances, I was prone to hugging, kissing, tearing up and babbling. It came to pass that she didn't want me to do that any more. It embarrassed her. I developed a "look" that spared her the hugs, tears, kisses and words, but still got my message across. I know this because when I threw her that look, she still blushed bright red! Oh, yes, she knew what I would have said and done if I hadn't used the "look".

Mother Badger was a third grade school teacher for many years. She still could call upon "the look" today! Folks, I'm not an 8 year-old boy, yet I know she could make me evaporate in my P.F. Flyers if she turned it on me.

So, I'd carried a little gift in my purse to Arizona and I wasn't exactly sure when to spring it on the Badger. The night before the race when he wasn't too preoccupied? The morning of the race when he would be preoccupied, but I'd feel snitty because he wouldn't be as gushingly grateful as I wanted him to be? After the race, when First Place was his (because I had no doubt)? Unlike myself, I did not pre-plan the gift-giving to death. I decided to just wait and see when the moment presented itself.

We were out on the highway. I'd just hoofed 5 hard up-and-down miles in considerable heat. The Badger had done a strenuous 29 in the saddle and on the pedals, preparing for the next day's race. He'd faced down buzzards. I'd found animal bones and garnered concern from passersby on the road. He pulled up to the car. "How'd you do, Badger? Good ride? Ready for tomorrow?" "It was really good! I'm ready."

And then we went to some other place to communicate. His arms moved first. He extended them. He was going to put them around my waist and hug me. But a fraction of a second after moving his arms, he got the "look". I am bilingual, so I read both arms and face. He felt strong and hopeful. His confidence was running high. He was happy to be right there, right then, on his bike, in his jersey with me for his support team. He intended to take that first place the next morning and he'd learned that sharp descent didn't scare him any more. The sun felt good on his skin and there are just some people you can hug even when you're sweaty. Hence the arm action.

The light came on for me! This was the time for the gift! I jumped out of his reach, dug into my purse like a badger, and came up with that box and its offering wrapped in purple tissue paper. I said, "Here's a little tribute, Badger." He opened it. He liked it. He said home dudes were right to give it their approval. He wears it every day. Even when he's indoors in a meeting, he can glance down and see his bicycle chain around his wrist. I wish I'd presented the gift and taken the proffered hug. Sometimes I get a little impulsive and miss out on an opportunity.


In my ears right now: Dead Flowers, Rolling Stones version. I missed another opportunity! I could have taken dead flowers and presented the Badger with a wreath at the finish line. Dang.

Something that charmed me: He fiddled with that bracelet a little, establishing the right look. "Too much on the same arm with my watch, Limes?" "Yes, probably too much, Badger." "Maybe I could intertwine it with my 'Live Your Dream' bracelet I wear in races." "That would be cool, Badger."