I Feel Like Having Some Company ~ Come and Walk a Mile in My Moccasins with Me

If the reader needs some background, my last post sets the stage for most of what I'll write about here. Or just scroll down, rather than use the link.

All right, if you visit this blog often, if you're one of the wonderful souls who virtually loves me, may I ask you to join in a huge, loud "AW, Les!"? This windy, windy spring in Las Vegas has nearly made me lose my mind. It is oppressive. I'm also physically tired and emotionally jumbly and the work pace has picked up sufficiently to remind me that I used to go like hell at the desk and I'm out of practice. David's off on his cruise (setting sail as I type this) and I got some grief I've come to expect when he vacations. No matter how much preparation is made, how many discussions held, as David leaves town, at least one of the homes will try to pick me off in some way and I have to become The Skirt With a Badge. [Yep, the photo shows my own real badges!] None of them ever gives me any grief when David is in Las Vegas, even if not at the office, but . . . . I don't care for it much, but Saturday I was reminded how levelly and civilly I can behave while leaving no question what will and will not be tolerated. That was on Vacation Day 1: The Man is Not Even Out of Nevada.

I'd come up with a plan to restore and refresh myself by seeking out cactus flowers and horned toads at a spot in the Mojave Preserve I know intimately. It is a location where I have retreated when I've needed to expend some angst. It is a place where I have gone solo in order to perform necessary rituals that are not well-suited to conducting before an audience. They were, however, effective for me as I struggled for balance. It is a place that has been featured in the national news for the past week due to a Supreme Court decision favored by the conservative judges. I'll blog more about that in the future. It is a place that could be squeezed into a very narrow window of opportunity as other demands, other activities, other interests and the schedules of others compete for attention. Although it wasn't to be the preferred full-on weekend trip, it would be sufficient to fill a deep, deep need.

I'm no rookie at planning outings in the Mojave. I know how to monitor weather in even the remotest locations by watching weather conditions in several locations nearby. Which place has the approximate same altitude and where does the mountain range cut through? I know what to pack to eat, how much drinking water to carry, and how to dress for the conditions. I know whether the hikes will be rocky or sandy. I know what is likely to be seen based on the month, and even the time in the month. Different species of cactus bloom at different times, and in a predictable order. Lizards emerge from hibernation into the sun at the approximate time that I do the same. Sunday was to be the day. Claret cups, beavertails, chollas, hedgehogs and prickly pears virtually assured to be in some phase of flowering. Horned toads practically guaranteed in the loose sand at the mouths of the ant excavations, their favorite place to dine.

I'm not a good enough wordsmith to accurately describe my state of shock. For on Saturday night and Sunday, the wind became even stronger, even worse, in Las Vegas. I'm not sure which is more troubling to me, being slammed by it as I walk for 8 or 10 miles, or hearing the shriek that hasn't stopped for more than a day or so in weeks. Before setting out for my walk, I checked conditions at the desert destination. Cooler temperatures than Las Vegas, but not a "wind" icon to be seen. I walked in misery, then ran the laundry and dishwasher, attempted to restore my home to a decent condition after a busy week. Everything everyone else does on their time off, right.? When I took out the trash and walked to the mailbox, I noted the gale was worse. But I was hanging my hat on those weather spots with no wind icons. I was in the market when the e-mail came. "It's worse out there than it is here. What do you think?" What I thought was not printable! "I'll e- you from home. 10 minutes." We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. We pulled the plug. For I am the first to admit that if I stepped out in the Mojave and it was blowing worse than in Las Vegas, I'd burst into tears. "If you still want to go, I'm willing" was the gift offered to me. But, no. I knew I'd be unpleasant company. I knew no horned toad worth his scales would be out skittering around in the sand. No ants would labor at the door of the colony, at risk of becoming a horned toad meal. "How many horned toads did you see?" asked Doozyanner, in commentary. Um. None, Dooz. "Les, you in the desert yet?" chirped Matt on the BlackBerry. No.

OK, what am I going to do here? I can jump off the deck or crash my car into a wall. I can laugh or cry. I can become philosophical about it. Oh, right! I'm 57 years old and I haven't landed on "philosophical" yet - or at least not ever landed and stuck there. I could go shopping, and retail therapy is always effective for me, but that means I'd have to go out in the damned wind. What I did with the few "found" hours was a revelation to me. For I did something highly unusual. I turned on the Hallmark channel which was running some 24 hours of I Love Lucy. Lucy episodes make nice white noise for me. And then I relaxed in my own home. It was clean and tidy. I couldn't make work out of anything. I took some books down and remembered how much I love them. I played certain music on the Bose over the top of Lucy. Good music. I ran my hands across the fabric that screams my name, washed and ironed long ago but never made into the project I really and truly do want to execute. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was quite ready to do that project on this day. It was enough to just stroke the fabric. But the thought entered my head that perhaps I will do the project someday soon, as I am exhibiting some evidence of rejoining the living. Coming out of the darkness. I made a wonderful dinner to share. We played cards. I began a discussion about very difficult things and never shed a tear. I expressed myself fully and, though filled with emotion, I was unemotional. My reward was a caring and sincere real conversation, meaning both parties speak and both parties listen.

Monday, I stepped into my office. A full crew had run on Sunday and the work orders and collected payments were neatly stacked on my desk. At first glance, I thought I spied a pink calculator on top of the stack. I don't own a pink calculator, but whatever. There was coffee to brew, homes to greet, computers to light up, my food for the week to be tossed into the refrigerator. When I finally settled, the technician who gave me so much grief on Saturday said something quietly. "I brought you something, Les." I looked at him and he pointed to the calculator. I looked more closely and saw it was not what I had taken it to be. It was something else. Homey jumped up and snatched it, grabbed my BlackBerry, and grinning ear-to-ear, said, "I'm sorry I was such an ass. I brought you a pink BlackBerry skin . . . " He spent the next 5 minutes showing me the ins and outs of aligning the various buttons and how to maneuver the Direct Connect tab we use so frequently. It touched me. For he had also sent me a text message Saturday in the middle of his first job. Obviously, he was still churning about his behavior over the weekend. He has a well-developed conscience. It's one of the things I like about him.

The general public ate us up and spit us out all day long. The phones rang off the hook. I booked so many jobs I had to look back at some spreadsheets to see the last time I'd attained such a number. June 17, 2008. Cesar's steam cleaning machine went down three times at one job and I had to re-route the remainder of the day's work. On GPS, that re-routing thing always reminds me of billiard balls struck hard and rolling in every direction. I don't like re-routing. It distresses me. But I do it well. Three customers hung up on me when I was in mid-cry, something that bothers me far worse than having them call me "bitch". I had listened to screaming toddlers for a full 5 minutes before their mother slammed the receiver down on me. We had a little excitement due to the fact that our imprinted checks and bank cards still have not arrived after our bank account was looted and then closed. The e-mail he typed from somewhere in the Pacific off of Mexico landed in the late afternoon. I felt like I'd been pulled through the eye of a needle and I really didn't want to even look at one of the 7 e-mail accounts loaded into that BlackBerry. But I looked. That's what I do. David! "How is everything going?" I'm quick on the keyboard and I also know that while he would want to know how we were surviving, he is on vacation and wouldn't linger in his e-mail box. "XLNTLY!", I lied. To my surprise he popped back on. "Too few words from you. What's wrong?" "Absolutely nothing. Go take your cruise." I didn't hear from him again. He trusts that I've got his back. Vacation Day 3: Manic Monday.

And so go the days . . . what's been happening in your world? Tell me all about it . . . .

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: Driving home from Manic Monday, I spotted something pinkish. Las Vegas is dotted with enormous water retention basins - great holes in the ground to collect rainwater during the monsoon season, thereby preventing the floods we suffer due to runoff. In the area where I live, the basin perimeters are beautifully landscaped with native plants. And there, right on Desert Inn Road in the middle of commute traffic, was a profusion of prickly pears in bloom! I changed lanes tout suite and circled the block. Yes, best in the afternoon sinking sun, I think. I can get out, sit cross-legged on the sidewalk and get right in there. I spun the block again. Yes, I'll try them from a couple of different angles, looking east and then west. It hit me. There is no place to park anywhere near these cactus. Not remotely near, for one may not park anywhere on a major street in Las Vegas at any time. So this evening, I shall leave the office, taking the camera, park on the nearest side street, walk 1.2 miles to the cactus, fold my legs under me on the concrete, snap a few amateurish pictures, unfold myself from the sidewalk and walk 1.2 miles back to the car. Have I mentioned I have a tremendous need to see the cactus flowers?

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Wintry Morning Musing

I'm not anxious to attribute forces in nature with human abilities to "think" and "preplan", but the storms hammering California also affect Nevada and they've landed at the evening commute hour each day this week. Today promises to be the same. I've half a mind to bitch about the inconvenience of it, but my mind turns to the possibility of desert vistas with cactus flowers in April and May. It shuts me right up.


It's no secret that deserts are arid, and its no secret that the desert southwest is in a years-long drought. For the past four years, we've been struck by how many fewer cactus flowers present, by how clearly distressed and progressively more distressed are the yuccas, the Joshua trees, the scrub and creosote. Then comes a year like 2005, when there was so much rain some of the topography in the Mojave Preserve was forever reshaped. One wishes for balance, but the climate in a desert is one thing consistently. It is extreme.

Tuesday night's pounding rain made for a beautiful Wednesday morning! When I pulled out of the driveway, I saw the most wondrous scene. Red Rock, the Spring Mountains and the Sheep Range - all seeming close enough for me to reach out and touch - had a light dusting of snow against the scorching red, orange and caramel rock formations. Although most of the valley was crystal clear, there were some insignificant wispy clouds over Red Rock. The sun came blazing up over Sunrise Mountain and painted those wispies peach, right before my eyes. It was damned glorious!

As I drove into the sunrise, my car dashboard screamed "ICY". Yes, I'd say so. A full 10 degrees colder than the last few mornings. As I descended eastward, I could see a thick blanket of fog along the Strip hanging lower than the tops of the casino buildings. When I stepped out in the parking lot, the air was cold. It was quiet (for a wonder, at the busy intersection where my office is located) and I thought of the word "crisp" as I pulled frosty air into my lungs.

I heard on the news this morning that the Las Vegas Valley got 1 1/2 inches of rain in 2009. That seems about right to me, based on my own observation. In the first three weeks of 2010, we've received .80 inches, with more storms promised this week and next. We hope for balance and we hope for flowers. Meteorologist Sherry said we are "in the black" for rainfall right now. I might say we are in the black for these three weeks, but that does nothing to offset the years and years and years of drought.

And this post is not meant to be all about the weather.

Some conversations have occurred between various bloggers in person, in e-mail, and on some of the blogs. These conversations are about meaning and etiquette and rules of blogging. The conversations were generated by observations of how various bloggers group up on certain blogs for one purpose, then split up into different groupings to go to a different blog for a different purpose. We perform our dances with an ever-changing cast of characters, all for everyone (who's interested) to see. And what are the messages we send with the songs we sing in our writing?

I'd be interested to hear what any followers or readers think about such things, and I started the conversation, so I'll toss out a few of my head-scratchers.

A few of my followers meet in one of their blogs to thoroughly chew on a particular subject. I like, follow and enjoy each of these bloggers, so I go to that blog and read it, too. These people are perfectly brilliant in their discussions. I'd like to join in, but I have nothing to add. I am profoundly stupid regarding the topic about which they are profoundly knowledgeable. Here comes the twisty part. I go, I read, I say nothing because I am intimidated. I want to shout, "Right on, 'tend friends, you're remarkable!" Mind you, I could go off and learn about what they're discussing, but I'm not sufficiently interested or motivated to go do that. And all of this makes me feel a bit like a stalker and rather inadequate. [Disclaimer: If some of this is just my own dumb shit, then commenters will either say nothing or will say, "Leslie, that's your own dumb shit."]

A favored follower said something to me yesterday that nearly made me fall off of the chair. This person is intelligent, funny, feeling and gregarious. Take this blogger to a cocktail party and sparkling conversations will ensue. When the blogger found my pink bus, she wanted to join in, but she felt there was a bit of a closed club atmosphere between me and several followers. Ironically, at the time, I was wishing more voices would jump on so my bus wouldn't seem like a closed club. She said she worked at putting her comments on and I was immediately welcoming, so she quickly felt at ease. But I ponder on her hesitation and I wonder why my blog sent out a "closed" vibe. And, yes, I've also hesitated to jump in sometimes because I'm unsure whether I will be welcomed.

A blogger felt a little unsettled because a follower who previously commented often had gone silent. The follower hadn't stopped following the blog, but no longer had anything to say in comments. The blogger was considering whether he had been offensive in some way or failed to be gracious, thereby silencing the follower. "Well, do you ever go look at her blog?" He does. "Have you ever posted a comment?" He never had. "Maybe she'd like you to add your thoughts and ideas about her posts, as she does for you." The question here is how much do bloggers want to give-and-take? Is it a courtesy or a favor to give as well as one receives?

Here's one I do know how to handle. Occasionally a blogger posts something that's not up to usual standards. Sometimes a great follower will post a comment that makes one think, "Did he even read what I wrote? Did he even get the point of the post?" One moves on and checks out the blog at the next posting. We all blog as a form of expression. We're human. Every post isn't going to be wonderful.

Those are the things that pull my brain cells today, dear readers. I'd thoroughly enjoy learning what you think about such things.

In my ears right now: Something fun!


Something that charmed me: Eleanor and Harry charm me. Eleanor strikes me as a chiquita who could dress out a deer while wearing that charming gypsy blouse and peep-toe pumps. And then go put up some peach preserves before cooking chow for 47 ranch hands, never disturbing one hair in that pincurl 'do. Harry's pencil-thin mustache draws my eye almost as much as the mismatched shirt and tie. I wonder how he ranches with those long fingernails, and the best part of his presentation is the three inch foldup at the bottom of his jeans. Well . . . . . the 52-inch belt is pretty remarkable, too. See you at Buck Lake Ranch!

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Blazing Balls Was Just the Beginning

I wrote a post that included the retelling of a ritual I performed in the desert, hoping it would help dispel some angst. Said rite included imagining I converted my stores of anger and pain to flaming spheres and hurling them off the planet, out of the solar system, anywhere that would be away from me. But that wasn't the whole enchilada. No. I'm pretty intense. I'm thorough. I pay attention to the tiniest details. And I like to succeed at what I attempt. Taking a day off, driving more than 100 miles, hiking a trail that challenges bighorn sheep, spinning and throwing fiery orbs off the earth from a rock-strewn watchtower weren't enough for me. I'm not experienced at these things. I'm not a veteran high priestess of ritual performance. What if all that throwing didn't do anything? What if it only did part of the job? One wants to leave no stone unturned.

I am all of the (good and bad) things I am for very good reasons. My maladaptations are the very ones one would expect in a person who walked along my exact path in life. My strengths are precisely the ones that would present in a person who was well-supported in certain ways. Here is a truth that I know: as wonderfully original as each and every human being is, we also share so much that we might be far simpler creatures. Not amoebas, perhaps, but less individual than we like to think of ourselves. There are common patterns and rhythms in human behavior and resulting consequences that can't be ignored. We're not quite as unique as we think we are. Some of it is on auto-pilot. Or as someone I care for says, "Well, you're unique, but not for that."

I am not usually a noisy person. My normal speaking voice is not loud. I don't tend to scream and yell, unless tremendously provoked or when I'm having a tremendously marvelous time laughing. I had no siblings to yell and holler with, and the parents certainly wouldn't have tolerated any noise. But I wasn't inclined to be noisy, anyway. I've always lived in small family situations, so one didn't have to struggle to be heard. My daughter never has done anything to make me want to raise my voice. Although my parents had ups and downs in their marriage before they eventually divorced, I never once heard them raise their voices at one another. In my career as a union representative, I made compelling arguments in negotiations or when I represented a member at an administrative hearing. I gave some hellfire and brimstone presentations at meetings of school boards or other governing bodies. But I did these things in tones just loud enough to be heard. I use my soft modulation to highlight my strong words. Reader, please hold this thought: I typically don't make a lot of noise.

I don't do anger well. Oh, I have lots of it. Vast stores of anger. I own much of it. I possess anger both ancient and fresh. The problem is what to do with it. Park it in the garage next to the car? Wrap it up at Christmas and give it away as a gift? Donate it to charity for resale at one of those donation bins in the parking lot at the grocery store? I did not grow up in a home where anger was expressed. All the undercurrents were present in our ocean, but they were not mentioned. We simply flowed along. Later, in the career, I learned never to show my anger, although it was often present. Both personally and professionally, I am an expert at keeping the lid on. I'm the pressure cooker with the 100% satisfaction guarantee to never, ever blow. I do it very well. But it's not good for me.

My ability to avoid or deny anger is so ingrained that I usually don't recognize it for what it is. I'm not angry, I'm "unhappy" or "upset" or "depressed" or "not right today". But certainly not angry. I've tried all manner of things to address "unhappy", "upset", "depressed" and "not right today". Behaving obsessively in one way or another is always a good thing. If nothing else, the obsession diverts attention from the angst. Almost invariably in my life, the way I've exhibited anger is to blow up, thereby voiding the 100% satisfaction guarantee. Without describing some of my more shameful performances in precise detail, let's just say when the fury reaches critical mass, I blow up in some way that is nearly 100% guaranteed to add more anger and pain to the anger I've just blown up. Reader, please hold this thought: this woman stuffs a lot of anger.

Please rejoin me in my boulder fortress in the desert from where I am lobbing fireballs. Although it's unusual, it occurred to me that I would like to make some noise, maybe scare some of that anger away. I gave a few war whoops as I flung fire and that felt good. I turned up the volume a little, but I soon learned that hurling and hollering each require a great deal of energy and I had trouble balancing myself on the rocks as I attempted to do both at the same time. The noise thing intrigued me now, so I threw the last of the flames and started to scramble down the trail. I watched as I descended, making certain no people were about. When I hit the flats, I knew I was the only person around for miles, and I let it fly. My first shriek calls to mind Daryl Hannah in Splash. Glass shattering. I'm 57 years old and I know myself well, but I didn't know I could make that kind of noise with my body. I gave what must have been a pretty credible rendition of the rebel yell. I squealed like a pig at slaughter and I screamed like a banshee. It occurred to me to put words to this concert. I named names and cited dates and events. Loudly. And finally, I was done.

Lest the reader think this poor woman needs to be hospitalized, I will say this: I don't expect to find myself in the desert throwing fire and screaming very frequently. But this needed to happen, and it was one of the best things I've ever done. The pressure has been building for a long time. With guidance, this time I didn't blow in a self-destructive way. I simply blew energy, not my life. On the last, flat half of the hike, I was surprised by many things. I was amazed at how hard the neck, throat and abdominal muscles work when one screams primally. I was stunned at some of the names and life events that spontaneously flew from my face. I was startled to notice how torn up my shoulder felt. I'm probably not a good candidate for the geriatric ladies javelin team. Or discus.

An e-mail arrived. "Now that you've thrown it and screamed it, is the anger gone?" I had to ponder that awhile. I didn't pop back an immediate reply. When I did respond, I said, "It's not entirely gone, but it's dulled. It's no longer like a bleeding wound on fire around the edges. It's not eating me alive." I've lived the few days since the desert quite normally, but there is something new presenting. I am not so silent. Both personally and at work, I'm saying things that are on my mind. For you see, I have enough clarity right now to understand that if I don't stuff, I may not build up such a head of steam. If I don't remain silent, I may not have to carry such pain. And so it goes.

I'm moved to say that this was a difficult post to put up. It allows the reader a glimpse of how messy I am in some ways and that makes me feel quite vulnerable. Yet, just as I felt compelled to go into the Preserve and perform the ceremonies, I felt compelled to come back and tell them. Believe it or not, right now I'm the best me, the healthiest me I have ever been, sore shoulder, sore abs, sore throat and all.

Kirk, there is the story for your soundtrack! Do you think it will be a hit?

In my ears right now: A beautiful song, short(ish) for Kass ;~} and others with ADD, presented by two stunning performers. These are worth a listen, people. I like these "bookends" I find ~ a song that touches me, presented in different ways. Make mine a double!





Something that charmed me:


This makes me laugh out loud. It makes me chuckle until my abs ache. To my surprise, favored reader, I can't come up with any words to say. What is it, exactly? What does this image mean? Why is it called "Isolation"?

Of Massage, Bacon, Elevator Cars and Fireballs

Friend Kass gets my nomination for the Girlock Holmes Super Sleuth Award which has utterly no value other than it's tribute to her sensitivity to me. And that makes it worth millions. To me. "The silence is deafening," she wrote. "What kind of shit are you dealing with?" This woman and I are simpatico, favored reader. Congenial. We've never met and yet there is an electrical connection. And she was right.

I'd been pleased and proud to limp out of the holiday season upright. There were still the daughter's and the mother's birthdays to deal with and the every few days' (or once a week) sly and sometimes unkind shots made across my bow, but I thought I was doing pretty well. And then I made the phone call. When I was told that Stephanie no longer worked at Massage Envy, I couldn't reply. I don't think I said, "OK, good-bye." Now, I know how to find Stephanie. Her major job is in the spa at a high-end resort on the Strip. Although she'd never said a word about leaving Massage Envy, she had been bringing me spa magazines and speaking to me of vichy baths, exfoliation and various mud treatments, so maybe . . . . She'd been trying to figure out the best discounts for me, based on credit cards I held or frequent traveler scams I might belong to. Uh-uh. I'm not doing it. We found a way for me to get a 70% discount, and the day's treatment was still hundreds of dollars. I don't want a spa citron salad and a fluffy terrycloth robe all day once a month with treatments I don't seek made on my naked person. I want my frequent deep tissue massage, delivered by one person I trust and rely upon.

The phones took off dramatically at work. It was evident that none of us had kept our edge sharp for dealing with nearly impossible demands of time and resources when we're booming. Homes and I were feeling the pressure, steam cleaning machine hoses sprung funny leaks and the general public's attitude has improved little. One customer had a major flood in his home, resulting in a huge water damage job. No, we don't wish anyone ill. But that's income for us. That's what we do. We didn't flood his home. We just fix it. Unfortunately, the man appears to be a tremendous alcoholic. Sober when Troy arrived to do the work, he required assistance to write his check at the end of the job. Now we cannot raise the man from the bed he shares with his demons to get our industrial fans out of his house. We are also concerned about the man's welfare. For me, there is pressure because it was month-end, year-end, accountants, taxes, and the anticipation of helping to breathe life into David's new business venture. This is all shared simply to say, "New day, same old stuff." I get through it better at some times than others.

I'd asked Stephanie for recommendations of some of the other massage therapists. My friend was looking for a way to reduce the cost of frequent massage and wanted to give Massage Envy a spin. "How about if we each book a massage, pay attention to the talents of the therapists, compare notes, and go from there?" "Good idea!" "OK, I'll book the appointments." We presented ourselves at the appointed time and met in the lobby afterwards. Walking toward the car, I asked, "How was yours?" He said it wasn't bad. Not perfect, but slide her some points for this being the first massage. "How was yours, Les?" I'd have to say it was good. Definitely promising. I'm not shy about saying, "Hey, is there any therapeutic reason you can't _____?" And now we know three different massage therapists there who are at least acceptable. Other massage days will roll around, and so it goes.

I'd been given a generous gift card that could be used at any of four dining establishments. We were massage-lazy, so we chose the nearest, not the one we already knew we liked. Being seated was smooth and easy and the vivacious Vicky soon had brought his Tanqueray martini and my iced tea (no, not the Long Island variety). She enthused to us for quite a long while about the restaurant's new menu and pointed out several ways for us to "get more" and "pay less". We could actually get about 5,000 calories worth of food for less than the fewer than 1,000 we'd hoped for. But the fun really began when we opened the new menus and began to study them. For we - two truly irreverent, sarcastic and sometimes rude individuals - found ourselves in the west's last bastion of applewood smoked bacon. We are two people with a serious aversion to bacon. After seeing it on the menu, even in the desserts (no, not literally), I began to notice the plaques on the wall celebrating the greasy stuff. I heard him say, "Oink" and "Do you see anything you'll eat in here?" And I started to hoot in my seat. His burger was decent he said - "Hold the bacon, please." My quesadilla explosion salad fed me three meals - "Hold the bacon, please." Note to self: Avoid that diner ~ it smells of bacon!

And then, the end of the evening. We took time, again, to speak gently, with care, of things damaged between us. We acknowledged again that neither of us knows how to fix these things, completely. We committed again to wanting to repair what is broken - to find the way. A week prior, he'd come up with a brilliant idea and I'd pursued it. I shared my findings and the comments made to me to be shared with him. We shared schedules for availability and we took hands and agreed, there are some things not to be put down forever broken, but pursued until they are fixed or until there seems no reason to pursue them. We spoke of camping soon to be shared, and a blanket of peace settled.

So, dear Kass, you were right. The little elevator car that is me slipped a cable and took a dive down a couple of floors. I did not crash into the floor 20 stories down. I just slipped a little ways. And now I hear the professionals gathering. Tools rattling, measurements being made, voices. "Broken cable over here on Number 4 - easily fixed." "Little shot of WD-40 and some duct tape, this will be as good as new." "As long as we're here, let's polish up the buttons and replace the light bulbs." You see, when you don't know how to fix it yourself, you ask for help. Call for service. Trust in the good intentions and ability of all the players (I understand that, I work in a service industry!), set the appointment and go.

I share this, feeling somewhat vulnerable. This could be easily mistaken for "crazier than batshit". I would hope the reader has read enough from me in this and past posts to understand it is pretty healthy. I performed a ritual this week. I drove to the Mojave Preserve and parked in a paved, well marked parking lot. I took the fairly short hike that is nearly flat in the first half and pretty torturous rock climbing in the second. I am never 100% certain I'll make that last 500 yards. One ends up in a rock citadel with a 360-degree view of the world. This being a weekday, I saw no other human being on foot. I did not create this ritual. I read about it and I understood it. I "got" it. One gathers her anger into a fiery ball and hurls that flaming orb into the cosmos. I flung that fireball like an Olympian discus thrower. And then the next. And the next. I threw balls of pain and anger and every other kind of rot until my ancient shoulder forced me to stop. I began to sag a little in the climb down the rocks. Before Las Vegas came into view, I was worried I'd fall asleep at the wheel. I slept all night long, never getting up to use the bathroom, tend to meowing cats or explore why the BlackBerry was breeeeeng-ing me at 2:00 a.m.


Photo credit: Hammer Head - J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: "Crying", a most beautiful song. I've loved it by Roy Orbision, Roy Orbision and k.d. lang in duet, Don McLean and k.d. lang solo. Yes, I'm playing them obsessively in order.

Something that charmed me:



I like k. d. lang's "baring my soul", "baring my feet" performance style. I suspect splinters are an occupational hazard and a warm, wool rug is a perk.

Do You Have Any Baggage to Check?

I find this the hardest writing I've ever attempted to complete. I want to tell this. I am compelled to write it. But it is damned difficult. Do I even have the language skills to tell about the lifting of the heavy velvet drapery without divulging the unnecessary minutiae of the story? I am not so sure. I shall try.

The reader should know that we became acquainted and deeply bonded in 1968. We boyfriend-girlfriended intermittently across four years. We finally walked in opposite directions and didn't know whether the other still existed for 30 years. Reconnecting at ages 50 and 53 led us to realize that there is a deep connection between us that no amount of time will erode. Events in life have caused us to assemble and reassemble what we share now. It doesn't look exactly as it once did. It is different, and some parts of it are yet undefined.

When our tapestry began to unravel, we each retreated to maladaptive coping models that were comfortable to us. The most mundane topics were discussed and resolved with a two sentence exchange. The things that mattered even slightly were not discussed at all - these left hanging like shiny decorations on an overloaded, drying Christmas tree. For one of us is terrified of simply slipping the necessary words out into the atmosphere and the other is afraid that the acrid smoke rising from the words will choke and annihilate us. We tried some traditional, well recognized means to reach rapprochement, but drifted from that. After all, it still required the words to be said and the feelings to be dealt with.

For an ice age, we have rolled like a vehicle with two round and one square wheel. Roll along, flap, roll again, flap. Ker-whap. Ker-whap. Assumptions made. Accusations tossed. Apologies made. Forgiveness granted. This activity allowed between us, but not that one. By some arbitrary and capricious ruling made by one of us or the other, but rarely by both. We've talked for the longest time about the need to talk about things. But the agenda was not moved forward by either of us. The Badger has asked repeatedly: "Who will ask the hard questions?" And, finally, guided by interested parties wiser than I, encouraged by parties who have witnessed the pain, I said (and meant it), "Badger, I believe I can ask the hard questions. I believe I can get us started."

I let him and myself down many times. "Hey, let's plot a really long walk and finally open the discussions." "OK." The walk would happen, but not the talk. Pregnant silences between us. He waiting for me to open the door as I'd said I could do. Me wrapped in knots that made me almost physically ill. And I'd despise myself afterward for cowardice and falseness.

To consider about us: we are two extremely intelligent, passionate, emotional, creative, fiery people. Intense and extreme. He calls me "difficult" and I say that he "ain't easy". We don't see everything the same. In fact, there is considerable disagreement about some things. If we were flavors, there would be no vanilla in the mix. He is habanero and I am key lime. Strong. Vivid. We are not identical twins or mirror images, but rather highly complementary beings. What one lacks, the other has in abundance. It has been said that when we are in a room together, the lightbulbs spin. The good times are nearly euphoric. The sad times are almost more than the human spirit can bear.

I've mentioned crying quietly in the dark when a song came on as we drove to the Preserve. I cried because I felt pretty sure I'd be false and let us down again. I'm now practised at planning to, but not talking. So please join us now at the campsite at Cow Cove, 8 miles one-way from Gas Food. Dinner has been enjoyed. The Badger had a couple of nice cocktails. The fire had settled from flame-throwing to happily crackling and there was a lot of wood left to add to it. We sat in the chairs bought so long ago at Bed, Bath & Beyond and pulled them close to the fire and immediately next to each other.
The campfire prevented us from seeing all the stars, but we knew there were plenty of them. Every now and then, a little zephyr would present itself, puffing smoke at us. We're pretty quick movers and likely looked funny when we'd jump up in unison, lift the chairs one-handed and dash to the opposite side of the fire. The blaze grew quiet, but was still strong and warm, little flames licking out from under the wood rather than walls of flame roaring. We inched closer a few times, absorbing the heat into our bodies.

And then I heard a voice. It was my own, although I barely recognized it and struggled to understand the language I spoke. For what I said was stated without tears and was the plainest, straightest thing I've ever asked out loud. "Why did you ____?" I waited only a moment for his reply, but I felt myself cringe for the asking it and I steeled myself for an answer that might be painful. For I was pretty certain I knew why, but I needed to have it confirmed, even if it nearly ruined me. "Here is why: _____." Oh. Not at all what I'd thought. He intention was kind and gentle, loving and caring. Not mean, not biting, as I'd interpreted it. How long had I flogged myself replaying it all, when I could simply have asked him . . . we sat in silence for awhile. I didn't know what he was feeling. I was feeling trepidation mixed with a fierce determination to keep going . . .

I decided to try a few "I need" statements. That is very difficult for me, as I wear a mask almost every moment of life. You know the mask. The tough-guy, hard-case mask. "I don't need anything from anyone." But I do. I need. I need things from someone I care for. I choked and gagged the first such statement out. "I can do that for you." Oh. The next statement from me came out a little smoother. "All right. Agreed." Oh. And then I pulled out the big guns: "You hurt me when you _____. I don't want you to ever do that to me again." "All right. I won't." Oh.

Lest the reader think that only one of us had things to say or ask, I will tell that the Badger checked off a few beads from his own pain rosary. They're not mine to tell. I will simply say that the energy flowed both ways. And, in the end, from this man who can be both a wonderful communicator and taciturn (but not at the same time), two overarching, powerful statements that felt a whole lot like cornerstones for the foundation of a structure being built ~ our next phase in life? Finally. A man and a woman with a long history and deep, abiding affection for one another . . . . communicated, made agreements, made commitments. It may not be remarkable in your world, but it is in ours.

That fire flamed and flared, glowed the most glorious colors ranging from golden amber to crimson. We had inch-wormed very close to it, on opposite sides of it. The conversation was so excruciatingly emotional, we were each pulled in by the fire to be dazzled and comforted. At some point in the evening, I noted that my back was very cold and when I assessed my position, I learned why. Each of us had assumed the oddest posture in our chairs - seated, bent very low at the waist, face almost in the fire. My back was exposed to the cold night air and seemed to have been for quite awhile. Our talking had taken on the most unusual cadence. We'd speak about one subject, talk it to completion and then lean into the fire, sometimes for a long time. We'd comment on the fire - the changing shapes in the hottest burning parts, the little blue lick of flame. And then we'd take up the next topic for discussion. More than once I said I'd like to reach out and touch the warmth of that fire. "Don't do it, Limes." I didn't.

People who are not emotional, not romantic, not gentle, might say, "Great, enough time passed and these lame people finally began talking." I am emotional and romantic and gentle, however. So I will tell you what I felt and how it was for me. Struggling for words in the night, I thought I could hear tinkling windchimes - the sort with small glass rectangles that clink together. I thought I could see twinkling glitter in the night air - some fairy offering of strength-giving magic. I thought I could smell the fragrance of dirty laundry rendered fresh. I thought I could taste the peace of a heart unburdened. I thought I could touch my heart and find it nearer to whole. For, as I've written before, there was magic in the air, some enchanting presence that made a couple of wonderful people start, finally, taking care of their business. We talked. And maybe now instead of simply being in one another's presence, we can actually spend time together. There's a difference.

In my ears right now: Indigo Girls again, Power of Two. " . . . . for if we ever leave a legacy, it's that we loved each other well. Now the steel bars between me and a promise, suddenly bend with ease . . . ."

Something that charmed me: That picture above of the squalling kid on the funny tricycle. No, it is not the Badger in his youth. Youthful Badger wouldn't have sat bawling in the saddle of such a funny 3-wheeler. He'd have been greasing the bearings and checking the hubs, getting ready for the next race.

Gas Food

It may seem that I have zigged away from my camping story, but I assure the reader I have not. This is just setting the stage for the next act.

The building has squatted at the offramp of the I-15 for decades. If I am not mistaken, it was one of the crappy, ubiquitous diners on the road between southern California and Las Vegas 30 years ago. In this part of my life, however, I have only known it as Gas Food. Gas is sold to the desperate for more than $4 a gallon, as there is no other place to buy it for many miles in any direction. Diesel fuel nears $5 a gallon. The electronic billboard announces towing, tires and repairs. This time as we drove past in the dark, we each caught the word "urinal" on the billboard. "Urinal, Limes? What does it say?" "Come in and see our new waterfall urinal. That's what it says." "What do you suppose . . ." "I don't care to think of it, Badger." Gas Food hosts a small gathering of squalid mobile homes off to one side and one wonders who would live there and why. Broken bottles, aluminum cans and desert debris dot the ground in the mobile home "park". Observe the chunked up asphalt and broken concrete parking blocks at Gas Food.

We have stopped at Gas Food from time to time, also out of desperation. Sometimes it's the restrooms we need, sometimes a cold or hot drink. I believe the Badger partook of a hot dog once - one of those that rolls on silver metal rollers for days until it finally shrivels up to the point it cannot be sold. The place is filled with things one does and does not expect to find. Beef jerky and peanuts abound. Desert postcards meant to be humorous. A bin filled with "local" minerals like turquoise and tiger eye. One scoops the stones out and puts them in a small leather bag to take home as a souvenir. "Souvenir of Gas Food". Every imaginable drink is on hand, including liquor. There is an area that houses tiny portions of the commonest over-the-counter medicines, bandaids and such. One wouldn't be able to make a meal from ingredients purchased at Gas Food, but one could keep the wolf away from the door by consuming endless junk food. It works in a pinch. And the atmosphere is such that we're not too concerned with our appearance, even when we've just crawled out from a four-days stay in the desert.

True Gas Food story that goes to my point about unexpected items: I am notorious about money, meaning I never carry any. Oh, I have money. But it's in the bank. I buy things with the plastic card. It works nicely for me. I like it that way. Ex screamed for 30 years, "Limes, you have to have a $20 bill with you at all times!" But I don't. We'd stopped at Gas Food and I used the restroom. There a vending machine caught my eye. "What the heezy?" I went out into the store. "Badger, do you have $1 I can borrow?" "Sure. What for?" I whispered my reply. "Get in the car, Limes." I just wanted to know, to satisfy my curiosity, how many "Pleasure Toys" (for it was plural) one might get for $1 from a vending machine at Gas Food. And I wonder still, specifically, what those toys were.

And now, back to Saturday evening as we came back to camp from the mine. I am a note-taker and a list-maker. I am well-organized and I don't forget much. The Badger has been the absent-minded professor all of his days. I've always chalked it up to how very busy he is in his head all the time. He just doesn't register the details. He loses things and forgets things with frequency. He won't resent reading these words. He'd tell you the same things about himself. Despite several e-mailed exchanges about who would bring what to this expedition, there were a few uh-ohs, but we'd been able to handle them so far. No longer.

As the sun dropped, the temperature did likewise. It was time to light everything - firewood, lanterns, stove. After all these years, we have pretty well-defined roles in camp and we busied ourselves with what each of us does. The Badger was rummaging around - rather like a badger digging - in the X-Terra, the kitchen box, the lantern bin, the back hatch of the X-Terra . . . . . "Badge, what gives? It's getting cold and dark." Rummage, rummage. "Limes, do you have any matches?" "Um, no. I don't smoke or anything. Matches weren't on my list." To be fair, there was a small collection of matches, but they were not the "strike anywhere" sort and the striking strip on their box was worn through. The Badger had a stone for striking matches, but those stubborn things seemed to be very invested in lighting only when struck on the box intended. Finally, the last match was in tatters. "Well, Limes, we might need to consider going in to Gas Food. Do you think they sell matches?" "Get in the car, Badger. We're not going to consider it. We're going. Now. Before it gets colder or darker. We can't see, we can't eat and we'll freeze to death. They sell cigarettes. They have to have matches or lighters."

It may serve the reader well to recall that we camp way out in the desert. We piled into the X-Terra and started on the jeep trail, the bumpy, rocky, sandy, rutted, washboard of a jeep trail. The Badger was rather gnashing his teeth about taking this trail 8 miles in each direction to buy something one should never be without. I was grinning, silently. And feeling very grateful that we were in the campsite that is closer to a store than any of our other favorite haunts. Finally he stopped being cranky and offered up, "Well, maybe they'll sell Afrin, too. I seem to have forgotten . . . " Afrin is something the Badger should never be without. "Hope so, Badge."

Gas Food, as always, was populated by a cast of characters sitting at the tables outside, talking and visiting. Who are they? Did they ever know each other before stopping at Gas Food? Well, no time to muse on that. We were on a mission. For the first time ever, we had to seriously peruse the wares displayed, because there are no known substitutes for matches or Afrin. At first we walked along together, aisle by aisle. I struck out on my own. I'm pretty good in a store. Not a match or a lighter to be seen for sale. The Badger said, "Let's ask at the cash register." A bottle of Afrin was located. The box containing it was about as tall as my pinky finger. It cost $8.69. The clerk gave us one free book of pretty fragile looking matches. The Badger explained our dilemma and the young man coughed up another three books. We climbed into the X-Terra, the Badger blasted his nose and we headed back for the jeep trail.

Bumping and rolling along the trail, the Badger asked, "Did you ever expect to see some of the stuff they had for sale? How much duct tape is there in the world?" I had noticed some pretty interesting items for a place that appears to have maybe 20 locals and 20,000 visitors a day on their way to Las Vegas. "Badger, in all my life I have never seen so much Liquid Paper Correction Fluid. Next time I need office supplies, I'm going to consider shopping at Gas Food, despite the long drive." Finally, our 16-mile journey completed, we rolled into our campsite.

He quickly lit the lanterns and the stove. I began to rattle pots and pans. We eat well in the desert - no concessions to being out in nature. The bar is top shelf, too. "Open a couple of things for me with your Swiss Army Knife, Badge?" He did so. "Want to look at all the shots I got today after dinner, Limes?" I did, indeed. "Ready for me to light the woodfire, Limes?" I was. It was chilly and I wanted that fire well banked by the time we could sit down and enjoy it. The Badger is an experienced camper who knows how to do all the necessary things well. I have a hunch if he were to camp with another man, he'd light the woodfire matter-of-factly. But for me, the fire-lighting is always done with no small amount of panache. Perhaps it's because he is performing for a most appreciative audience. He gets just a little show-offy. A little squirt of white fuel, a toss of the match(es) and - VROOM goes the conflagration. There's always a boyish grin on that face when the boom occurs and he leaps backward mightily to avoid the flames. "Particularly nice one, Badger. That oak will burn for hours."

That's it for this time, favored readers. The story of what came over us in that firelit desert night, the story of sharing the photographs of the day, laughing, and then being overcome by some enchanting spell that carried us both to a place where we were able to do things we'd never done before . . . that story deserves to stand alone.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: the BlackBerry preeeeng. BFF Terry is back home from her business trip and has much to tell. I envy her. Her work, that pays her money, is in a desert protection group. Talk about having one's cake and eating it, too! We've just planned a BFFs camping trip together for January, our first outing together.

Something that charmed me: I was e-mailing with one of my blog followers. This person wrote one sentence about me - commenting on what he thinks I am made of. It touched me profoundly. It is not the first written kindness this person has sent me, but this one hit me where I live and where I need. I've been carrying that comment like a talisman that warms me. It's served to make me contemplate this blogging thing which is damned funny to me - odd. And it made me consider that 'tend friends can be just as real as the friends in your immediate vicinity. I cut and pasted the sentence and sent it to the Badger. "Look what someone wrote to me." He guessed immediately who had sent it. I like this connecting with others thing!

Familiarity Doesn't Necessarily Breed Contempt

I think most people can get pretty excited about traveling somewhere new to discover and explore. But there is a particular beauty in the excitement felt about visiting a much familiar, and still much loved, spot. So it goes for me with many spots in the Mojave. Just say the names to start me talking! I have tales to tell about each and every location: what the weather was like, the hikes, what we saw, the rocks I always pick up to fill my pockets, carry home and display. I can go on and on about the cactus and flower species to be found in a given location, not to mention the birds and animals. So go ahead - make my day. Come on. Say it. The Cow Holes, Cow Cove, Coyote Springs, Kelso Dunes, Hole in the Wall, Midland Hills, The Garden I, The Garden II, The Garden III, Clark Mountain, Teutonia, Cima Dome . . . . Aiken Mine, Morning Star Mine, Evening Star Mine, Colosseum Mine, and a multitude of tiny, one-man, nameless mines.

Is it surprising that the names of some places include the word "cow"? One should know that the area now known as the Mojave Preserve has been heavily ranched, mined, homesteaded and railroads have crisscrossed the territory since shortly after the Civil War. The Preserve teems with ancient cow patties bleached white and compacted hard as adobe. Some are my approximate size (yes, I'm slightly exaggerating) and probably much older than I. The land had been overgrazed and degraded by the early 20th century and is still terribly distressed as I have written previously. The Preserve is peppered with crudely constructed corrals, chutes, holding pens and long-dry watering holes. In some locations a few head of cattle can still be spotted, and once we saw a small herd of cows and calves cavorting around the meadows on Clark Mountain. Soon I shall write about a venerable Mojave cow the Badger dubbed "Clarabelle", but that is for a future post.

Cow Cove has been our destination perhaps more than any other. It is very low in altitude, so it's one spot that is almost tolerable even in the most frigid months. It is easy to reach, only 8 miles off the paved road. It has the attraction of Aiken Mine and some lovely petroglyphs, several different hikes, suitability for hosting a night fire, a flat spot for pitching the tent, good parking off the jeep trail. It is easy to find our spot even in the dark, and we can always confirm we're in the right place by checking for our much-loved Joshua sentinel and the posts blocking vehicles from driving out on the path to the petroglyphs. Cow Cove was also the spot where we left the car on a trip when we backpacked from the jeep trail to the petroglyphs and beyond, to camp in a tight stone gorge. We packed almost everything out to the gorge on the first trip and the Badger hiked back to bring the water needed to get through our backpacking adventure. I stayed in the gorge setting up camp in screaming winds. In the wee hours, it snowed on us, causing me to utter my only words of true protest in all of the trips we've ever made.

Ooooops, I've swerved here and I need to right the course. I intended to speak of this past weekend at Cow Cove.

On Saturday morning, he asked me which hike I'd like to take. One has choices at Cow Cove. I cared less about which one we took, than just "Let's go!" He mentioned a hike that's long, bushwhacking for miles, no trail, but soft, sandy washes and a challenging charge up a rocky outcropping. "Yes, let's do that one!" We set off, stopped to visit the petroglyphs where we learned that my small camera's battery had failed to hold a charge, and moved on. I felt strong and sturdy . . . until that outcropping. I am always a little touchy about heights, but I had a true failing of fortitude as we rose 100 feet from the bottom of the wash, climbing loose rocks. When I began to lag, he asked me if I was tired and needed to rest. "Not tired, Badger, petrified!" The more dicey it got for me, the more my knees began to shake which made for a frightening ride on the rocks that were loose. I managed to bark the skin off of one knuckle and cut my arm on the rocks. When I arrived at the top rather gracelessly, I was embarrassed and said so. He was good to me, reminding me there is no shame in being afraid of something, particularly if one keeps moving despite the fear.

So . . . many of my predictions were correct. Up at the Aiken Mine, all the baby giants' playthings were in the positions one comes to expect. Someday we may learn to better predict what time to go to the mine for sunset photography. The cinder cone to the west is so high, it begins to block the sun by about 3:30. The Badger had to step pretty lively to get all the shots he wanted. I stepped up behind him at one point to see what he was framing in the viewfinder. "My god, Badger, did you pose that?" "Nope - it was exactly that way when I saw it." I won't steal his thunder by announcing this photograph before he posts it. If it comes up on his blog, I'll ask to use it and will comment further. However, you may rely on my opinion. It's a wonderful photograph ~ a fascinating desert still life.

The coyote gourds were spread out in profusion on the lava at the mine, just as I'd hoped. In my trunk right now are several heavy, green and golden wet ones, oozing nectar from their skins. There are golden ones I think must be about half-way through the process, and nearly white ones beginning to make noise when one shakes them like maracas.

Alas, no coyotes howling, but evidence of their presence is everywhere. I don't know what they are eating, as no rabbits showed themselves, but there are coyote droppings everywhere. Chalk white specimens that have been out in the sun a long time, nearly black droppings with fur in them - "That's pretty fresh, Limes." "Yes, I caught that, Badger."

There was the much wished-for tarantula sighting. The Badger spotted him as we hiked back from the petroglyph photo session, lumbering along the path. "Get his picture, Badge!" "The camera's got the wrong lens . . . . oh, OK, quickly unzip the camera bag and hand me everything." I unzipped as he shrugged the camera bag off of his shoulders. Soon he was lying on his belly on the desert floor, eyeball to eyeball with that large insect, who had frozen himself once we were talking and moving around in his territory. "Oh, Limes, I think I got his eyes in the picture. I could see them through the viewfinder. He was looking at me looking at him!"

When darkness fell, it began to get chilly very quickly. We'd hiked well over 9 miles for the day and it was time to start our fire, light the lanterns, have dinner, talk, laugh, maybe play cards . . . . all in all, a good day in the desert, and now the evening was to begin. We drove from the mine to our campsite and . . . .

Faithful reader, this will mark the end of this post. For when we arrived back in camp, things began to go awry. There was angst and then dismay, a decision landed upon that was really the only option, finally some belly laughs, a meal and a fire. Although we are not identical, cookie cutter people, I feel sure the Badger would concur that something lovely happened out there. For that night, under the stars, before the fire, two people shared an unlikely, unexplainable experience. There was magic in the air and it blew across our consciousness and transported us to a better place than where we'd begun our day. But that is for a post of its own.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: Dixie Chicks ~ I love the girls! And I need them today. Maybe some Sin Wagon. We're open today despite the holiday. I bet someone $1 the phones would jangle a litte. Citizens with the day off, calling the carpet cleaning company just in case they might be open . . . please, god.

Something that charmed me: Last night when I left the office and went downstairs in the dark, my back window in the car was half-way down. I don't leave my windows half-way down. I got in and learned immediately that one of those hideously expensive and difficult to repair motors was shot, never mind that the car is 3 years old and that window has likely been used twice. During the drive home, the window thudded to fully open. Not a millimeter of glass to grasp onto. Great distress as I took everything from the car, put it into the trunk and worried about the car being wide open all night long. I pulled into the parking lot at work this morning, got out, locked up the car (for no good reason, since the window is hanging wide open). Immediately: "Limes, what the hell?" "I've got trouble, Homes." And now, for the price of a couple of fast food lunches, my window is secured. No, the motor isn't repaired and the window isn't usable, but it's up and my car is secured.