Time to Tidy Up

I broke out the DustBuster on Sunday. Oh, it's literally true that there was some crumbly debris in the crevice between the carpet and the baseboard. I got it up and then tried to locate some coffee grounds or cat hair or anything, really, to pull up into my DustBuster. It took me a moment to notice the symptoms. For when I start obsessively vacuuming, it is metaphorical. It means I need to tidy things up. Ex used to joke that when I was "chewing on things", trying to restore some order to myself, he would run out to tell the neighbors to throw open their doors because I was on the way down the street with the vacuum cleaner.

I am not "troubled", exactly. It's more like my head is filled to maximum capacity and some of the voices are speaking too loudly. Some of it is about my writing and some about other aspects of life. I'm unsettled and dissatisfied with myself and it's time to regroup and become tidy again. I want to write and I also want to read the writing of other bloggers. I want to do something with the closet that almost contains all the crafting materials and - oh, yes - I'd really like to make something with said crafting materials. I want to make a huge crockpot of red sauce and feed people, but I can't focus to buy the thoroughly well memorized ingredients.

I have an unruly queue of posts waiting in the wings. I want to finish Chapter 2 of The Field Trip and I've still not told the best Sugarhouse story of them all, despite having written Chapters I, II, and III and about the Secret Order of the Sugarhouse Hoppy Taw Society. The holidays came and I got distracted writing about them. I need to get us out of Sugarhouse and on with the ensuing 50 years! I still have a mountain of photos to share from the last camping trip and the one before that, and there are three embryonic posts about the things I see and experience "out there".

The race weekend unsettled me as they always do if I cannot be present. One wants to be at the race, given some meaningful occupation. One wants to drive ahead, get out, wait for the peloton to appear, check out his position and form, assess his well-being, and repeat the process. One wants to hand up water at the designated place on the course, and if one fails to plant the water in his hand, she cobbles a plan to drive forward, get out where she can easily be seen and keep trying to give that water until she succeeds. Only the first race of the season has been completed. Knowing the hellish conditions he rode in, I found it particularly difficult to watch the clock, watch the radar, watch the hour-by-hour weather and hope not to receive a phone call too early for him to have finished. It's going to be a busy spring, with races near and far.

This morning, at the intersection of Desert Inn Road and Durango Drive, my (almost) four-year-old car turned 20,000 miles. At the moment the digital display flipped from 19999 to 20000, it hit me that I had an empty BlackBerry holster in my purse. I did the 360, went home, collected the device from the exact spot where I knew it would be, and made it to work on time. It is not like me to be so forgetful, and particularly about the BlackBerry that is always at my fingertips.

For Tag and for Kirk (and anyone else, of course), I saw a news article that revisits an old topic once presented on this blog. It seems the Neon Boneyard is undergoing some changes and perhaps some day soon, I won't have to contemplate jumping the fence to commune with those venerable things.

Friend Tag had something cool on his blog this morning and I'm going to snag it from him, as Kass has already done. Its theme is what happened in my birth year. I like trivia games and round robin games. I've been known to start one or two and participate in more. I'm going to process mine a little differently, however, leaving out the boilerplate stuff that applies to everyone's birth year and commenting on the things that strike me. I have a few entries of my own to add, as well.

What happened the year I was born.

In 1952, the world was a different place. There was no Google yet. Or Yahoo. I seem to remember that.

In 1952, the year of your birth, the top selling movie was This Is Cinerama. People buying the popcorn in the cinema lobby had glazed eyes when looking at the poster. They were still showing it widely 8 years later when I was taken to see it. I remember the trip over the Grand Canyon and the virtual roller coaster ride.

Remember, that was before there were DVDs. Heck, even before there was VHS. People were indeed looking at movies in the cinema, and not downloading them online. Imagine the packed seats, the laughter, the excitement, the novelty. And mostly all of that without 3D computer effects. It was also before colored TV and transistor radios.

In the year 1952, the time when you arrived on this planet, books were still popularly read on paper, not on digital devices. Trees were felled to get the word out. The number one US bestseller of the time was The Silver Chalice by Thomas B. Costain. Oh, that's many years ago. Have you read that book? Have you heard of it? It resided on my parents' bookcase and I have read it.

In 1952, West Germany has 8 million refugees inside its borders. I was born not so very long after World War II.

Elizabeth II is proclaimed Queen of the United Kingdom at St. James's Palace, London, England. This pleases me as I am an Anglophile and I think she is a practical, likable woman who knows how to do things we might not expect of her. She did active military service in World War II and when an intruder entered her bedroom in Buckingham Palace, she talked him down while she rang for assistance. She shoots and is outdoorsy. Ex was fascinated by the pastel purse that always hangs from her forearm. He was convinced she kept a gun in there in case she had to take care of herself in a dust-up. She certainly wouldn't need to carry a wallet and ID and money. She has other people to do that for her.

The Diary of Anne Frank is published. I first read it very young. It was my first awareness of Jews and what they suffered. At the time I read it, I didn't know there were bad things one's father couldn't prevent from happening. It terrified me.

The United States Army Special Forces is created. A British passenger jet flies twice over the Atlantic Ocean in the same day. Martial law is declared in Kenya due to the Mau Mau uprising. The first successful surgical separation of Siamese twins is conducted in Mount Sinai Hospital, Cleveland, Ohio.

The Nobel prize for Literature that year went to François Mauriac. The Nobel Peace prize went to Albert Schweitzer. The Nobel prize for physics went to Felix Bloch and Edward Mills Purcell from the United States for their development of new methods for nuclear magnetic precision measurements and discoveries in connection therewith.

The 1950s were indeed a special decade. The American economy is on the upswing. The cold war betwen the US and the Soviet Union is playing out throughout the whole decade. Anti-communism prevails in the United States and leads to the Red Scare and accompanying Congressional hearings. Africa begins to become decolonized. The Korean war takes place. The Vietnam War starts. The Suez Crisis war is fought on Egyptian territory. Fidel Castro, Che Guevara and others overthrow authorities to create a communist government on Cuba. Funded by the US, reconstructions in Japan continue. In Japan, film maker Akira Kurosawa creates the movies Rashomon and Seven Samurai. The FIFA World Cups are won by Urugay, then West Germany, then Brazil. I think of the 1950s as cold and steely gray. No color. The cold war, men with gray hair in gray suits driving big gray Dodges, sterile scientific progress being made everywhere.

Dwight D. Eisenhower was elected president in November, 1952. For me, he epitomizes the men with no color, the men with gray hair in gray suits driving big gray Dodges. And yet . . . Stepfather was an aficionado of Norman Rockwell paintings and the art on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. He was generally Rockwell's age and he appreciated the images that reflected life in his era. I am not particularly a Rockwell fan, but when Stepfather organized a group he took to lunch and then to a Rockwell exhibit, I went along. I am not a Rockwell fan, but I was a Stepfather fan. The museum was packed with patrons ogling the magazine cover images. I roamed around, not impatiently, and landed before Rockwell's portrait of Eisenhower. Although painted mainly in white and neutral tones, this image utterly screams color. It is warm and exudes light. This must have been what the man was like in real life. Colorful and engaging. It was painted in 1952, the year of my birth.

Do you remember the movie that was all the rage when you were 15? In the Heat of the Night. I do, but Bonnie & Clyde rings my bell more clearly. My father took a girlfriend and me to see it at a drive-in. It was a grand outing until a bedroom scene showed itself and Clyde's lack of sex drive was discussed. One of the most uncomfortable moments I've ever spent in my father's presence. Today we'd just cackle about it. Then it was excruciating.

Do you still remember the songs playing on the radio when you were 15? Maybe it was Ode to Billy Joe by Bobbie Gentry. I remember. I didn't Google this, I have that thing for lyrics, remember? "It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty delta day, I was out choppin' cotton and my brother was balin' hay . . . ."

Were you in love? Certainly.

Who were you in love with, do you remember? I've never forgotten for a moment.

When you were 8, there was Pollyanna. I wanted to be as adorable as Hayley Mills. I still want to be as adorable as Hayley Mills.

6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... it's 1952. There's TV noise coming from the second floor. Someone turned up the volume way too high. The sun is burning from above. These were different times. The show playing on TV is Kukla, Fran and Ollie. The sun goes down. Someone switches channels. There's The Ed Sullivan Show on now. That's the world you were born in. I was introduced to my Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show at age 11 in 1964.

"Progress", year after year. Do you wonder where the world is heading? The quotation marks are my addition. I'm not sure we are making "progress". I'm a bit jaded, a little cynical. I am terrified about where the world is heading.

The technology available today would have blown your mind in 1952. Do you know what was invented in the year you were born? The Floppy Disk. Optical Fiber. The Fusion Bomb. Anything would have blown my mind in 1952. I was a newborn that August.

Christopher Reeve was born. And Dan Aykroyd. Douglas Adams, too. And you, of course. Everyone an individual. Everyone special. Everyone taking a different path through life. Angela Cartwright (Ha, Kirk!), Annie Potts, Carol Kane, Cathy Rigby, Harry Anderson, John Goodman, Juice Newton, Leslie Morgan, Marilyn Chambers, Mr. T, Patrick Swayze, Roseanne Barr. I'm in some pretty good company here!

It's 2010.
The world is a different place.
What path have you taken? I'd say that differently. I haven't "taken" it. I'm still "taking" it. I'm not complete yet. I'm still standing.

In my ears right now: The Beatles. The End. Kass wrote about love being the great equalizer and I'll take one of those to go. Because I know that in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.

Something that charmed me: The Badger dropped in his sincere thank you comment this afternoon. He was touched by the kindness of so many.

Pablo Fanques' Fair

I didn't hit the ground running on New Year's. My readers and followers know I like a lot of song lyrics, and "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" plays (virtually) in my ears right now. No, I did not jump into 2010 " . . . over men and horses, hoops and garters, and lastly through a hogshead of real fire." Unlike" Mr. K(ite)", I entered the new decade presenting the world with no challenge whatsoever.

Unlike "Messrs. K and H", my production was not second to none. Instead I went quiet on New Year's Eve. Not using words. I'd already written my post. Then I stopped talking, mostly. It was noticed. "What's going on, Les? You're nearly silent." "Nothing, homes. Year ending. Year beginning." There's also the fact that my life broke into its two separate pieces (so far) at the holidays. It does still color things, somewhat.


I become contemplative at year's end. What good things have happened? What happened that I'd never want to repeat? What can I do (what's within my own power) to draw nearer where I want to be? What can I do to make someone else's burden lighter? What can I do to make the time I was privileged to spend here meaningful? Although I shut my mouth and listen to the voices inside my head during this one hallowed season, I don't always land on definitive answers to all the questions. I try.

Oh, and have I mentioned that immediately upon the close of the holidays comes the first week in January when both my mother and my daughter have birthdays? The rest of the year is a skate in the park, dear reader, after getting through its beginning.

Twenty years ago at this moment, I was very pregnant. This pregnancy had astounded a large number of people, as we'd hoped to have a child for nearly 20 years. All the fertility treatments failed us and we'd moved on to other fixations. When I became ill at pretty close to 40 years of age, we were concerned because it simply wouldn't go away. My family doctor finally threw his hands in the air and said, "Pleeez, I'll run the $2 pregnancy test . . . , " and it came back very positive. At 6:18 p.m., in La Mesa, CA, on this date, my daughter was born. Giving birth to a human being is undoubtedly the most profound thing I've ever done. And I got the best one because I waited the longest. I've been asked why I don't rave about her excessively (there's that word again) on my blog. Easy answer. She doesn't want me to, despite being very rave-worthy. If she wants to be presented in a blog, I imagine she'll start her own, as she is a fine writer and artist.

So, "20 years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play" and 20 years ago today, I had a child who isn't a child any more. I've spent some time both up and down as I've contemplated this number of years and what has become of us all. I admit it to the reader, I spent a day or two with my chin dragging on the concrete. This happens to me sometimes during these weeks. They burden me more than I can express.

And then, Mother Badger sent an e-mail so much like a blog post, I'm going to start applying pressure to her to publish. Like this little rock is going be able to move that hard place, but I shall be heard. And then I had a moment of lightning bright clarity: if I asked someone with whom I share a problem (it's not just my problem) to help me find the way, I'd be carrying less on my narrow shoulders. He came up with something brilliant! The wheels were put into motion today. If I carefully explain how much a camping date circled on the calendar means to me, one is established! I don't care how far ahead it is ~ it's there to be seen. "Going camping again, Les?" "I am, homes!" Las Vegas has become startlingly mild while much of the rest of the country suffers in cold. I don't wish anyone else ill. I just enjoy the warm sunshine. I'm humbly reminded that one doesn't have to go it alone. It's OK to say, "I need help. I don't know everything. I can't do everything alone." And then the clouds part.

In my ears right now: I already told you at the start of this, "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite." I believe I'll post it on my sidebar.

Something that charmed me: I returned to work and the phones are jangling non-stop. I'm no longer used to it. My arms windmill as I take the information and book the jobs we need so desperately. What? They were all waiting for after the holidays? It's not like we're having a fire sale! I'll take them anyway I can get them, and I've been damned flirtatious!

This Isn't What I Intended to Write About

OK, I'm not brilliant. I'd read a number of blogger questions and comments for a long time. "How do you do this?" "What can I do to make that happen?" "Why do you moderate?" "I can't see your face very well." "What's your actual name?" "What do you think he means by that?" "Why do you suppose she publishes those fawning, prattling comments? It cheapens her blog." And while I did not possess the answers to all the questions, I'm a good organizer/gatherer/event planner, so I did a blog post that got some conversation going. I liked that. I learned some things, had some assumptions confirmed and just plainly heard some opinions of others. That's a good thing.

I went off on a self-indulgent, obssessive-compulsive, funny-to-me musical kick for a few days, all the comments coming in as flippant and amusing as I hoped for. Monday morning I even blamed my musical antics on another blogger (all in good fun, please understand). I asked myself what I was doing with all the melodic madness and I landed on the answer. I knew I would if I'd stop being manic and look inward. You see, I am avoiding writing about other things I've planned to post about, because I am a person who has some issues with the holidays. If I burn the days away by writing silliness, the holidays will have gone by again, me safe in my avoidance cave. So I determined to get back on track, be true to myself and do the damned writing.

Then came a late comment to the blog post about blogging. It took me a little minute to consider this comment. I didn't publish it for awhile because I had to ponder it. I'm revisiting the subject, because I like where this blogger, took the conversation. I asked the how. She asks the what and why. Here's what she had to say (the rest of the exchange can be read by clicking on the link just above):

Thanks for this. All your posts are thought-provoking. This one engendered a train of thought that pulled into this station: why do we blog, really? What do we want out of it? Where will it take us? And will we be there by next week?

The mechanics of blogging, setting, format, etc., are the means by which we create what we want to have happen. So what's our intention?

You knew right away that you wanted a blog. It took me weeks of hemming, hawing, gulping and trembling in my toe socks before I worked up the courage. Expose my attempts at photography and writing? Aaack! Well.

Not many things in life generate fear for me like this one did. So I used it to clear the fear. Blogging as a path to spiritual development! Who knew?

There's more, but this is long enough!

Thanks for putting it out there-you've got guts galore!

Readers, I like the questions that have been posed. And I am working on my responses. I had some immediate ones come to mind. But they weren't the full picture. I'm refining them. Spending some time inside myself. Please ring in on comments and I'll be doing the same - yes, commenting to my own post. Yike. I'll work on my OC tendencies in 2010. I really will.

And then: I spent a long time on the massage table last night. Stephanie kicked my sorry butt. I am a disaster this morning and had to cut my walk a few miles short. I don't like to do that, and I go to a hiding place - it's shameful to me. So, while I can say,"I had to cut my walk short", I won't tell how many miles. There's a nice piece of baggage to go to work on ~ if it involves hiding oneself or information, it probably needs attention. And yes, I'm smiling at myself, not cutting my wrists. Note to self: When it takes 10 minutes to dress after the massage, when Stephanie stands in the hallway looking concerned and says, "Limes, we did an awful lot of trigger point work tonight. Epsom salts. Lots of water." . . . the next day is going to be bad.

In my ears right now: I'm putting up the song that gave rise to my blog's name. I'm posting it as a reminder to myself to sit down in my seat on the bus. I've been standing up in the aisle, holding onto the strap for awhile. My balance isn't all that great. I will take the vacant seat over there, settle in among my bags, observe the other passengers, and move forward. Thanks to the blogger who probably was just asking questions, but aimed me toward some of my answers.



Something that charmed me: BFF and I were (mostly) missing one another on e-mail. She spends her day off alternately busy and leisurely. I spend mine going like hell. She was at the computer with coffee. I was trying to do the grocery shopping. I used the BlackBerry as much as I could. She asked, "Why will you be warm on your holiday camping trip? Did you get a new coat?" I burst out laughing in the cat food aisle. I haven't bought a new coat or much else of anything new since the economy terrified me more than a year ago. No, I haven't actually been hit in the wallet. I'm just afraid that I will be. No, I'll be warm for the holidays due to benevolent forces in nature that have deemed The Solstice Fairy of Past, Present and Future to be worthy of warmth at the holidays. In that magical place, we have been given warmth and unexpected gifts from the natural world that please us, make us gratfeul and make us look forward to the coming year. Or so it has happened each time before.

Photo credits for LimesRightNow and The Solstice Gift: J.D. Morehouse

Skull Valley Redux ~ We're Ba-a-ck

The Badger didn't get behind on his writing, so he's long since posted his telling of the Skull Valley Race 2009. I'm going to take just a slightly different approach, because - after all - for me, it's not about the bike.

I have had the good fortune to take many road trips in the company of the Badger. This is something we do well, whether our destination is a campsite in the desert, Daughter Badger's wedding, Mother Badger's home, a vacation at the beach . . . it simply doesn't matter. When you put the two of us in a car, there's going to be some fun. Yes, he always forgets at least one important thing. Yes, I always overpack. Yes, the car inevitably groans from the weight of its contents and looks like adolescents have taken over in a coup. And we have fun! We solve the world's problems in the ways we know would work. We laugh irreverently at some things that probably should remain sacred in the view of most decent folks. We rail at the things that outrage our sensibilities. And suddenly, we're just there. We can while away some miles.

Last year's drive through hell to Prescott with no air conditioning was a dim, grim memory as we set out under gray skies, looking forward to temperatures 20 degrees lower than what we "enjoy" at home. Because we set out early in the morning, we served no sentence in stopped-dead traffic over the Hoover Dam. Soon we were in Arizona. "Bathroom needed in Kingman, Badger!" "OK!" It was after Kingman that he spotted the dead badger in the road - the first badger in any condition of health that he'd seen since leaving Wyoming. After he commented on it, we both got a little hinky about that omen, brown eyes looking into blue, a little alarmed. Then the rains came. And came. And came. The Prius has a perky little icon that lights up to say "We're hydroplaning and I'm trying to correct it!" I didn't care for that icon much. It rained so long, so hard, from a sky so gray that we missed the turnoff to Skull Valley and went far out of our way (which we didn't know until later on). The Badger, not known for tolerating nonsense, began to get crabby about not being able to ride the course that afternoon. There were pools and rivulets of rain all across the desert floor. Surely the course would be in bad shape, too.

When we exited the highway, we were stunned to see a small, old settlement of houses and a few tiny businesses. What the heezy? Last year there was nothing between the highway and Skull Valley. How could an old settlement spring up in a year's time? We're pretty quick on our feet, though, and soon realized we'd become not lost, but diverted. "Limes, what did you do about feeding us lunch?" "Not a thing, Badger. This is your rodeo." Uh-oh. We were on our way to a l-o-n-g, strenuous ride and breakfast was a l-o-n-g time gone. "I have one Clif bar in the car, Limes." "You eat it, Badger. You'll need it more than . . . general store on the right, Badger!" We walked through a creaking wooden door into the oddest emporium. An ancient commercial business space was outlined with some 50 small coolers one might expect to dispense soft drinks. There seemed to be a little tiny bit of everything imaginable for sale in the place, from ant poison to diapers and white bread to Kraft mac 'n cheese. Except that we couldn't find anything we were willing to eat. Not one diet anything in the place. Coke and Pepsi have a sure market if they over-produce their fully sugared concoctions. No produce. Not a fruit or vegetable to be found. We finally landed on a meager meal: turkey jerky for the Badger, string cheese for me. The clerk had me go back to one particular cooler to determine the price of the string cheese for him. He was unfamiliar with putting a purchase on a debit card, but came through with flying colors. As we walked out the door, the Badger and I snapped our heads to look at one another. "Did you see . . . . ," we said over the top of each other. For behind the wooden counter of that store was the oddest sight. If the local citizens want to buy Tylenol there, or Advil, it is purchased in tiny packets of two tablets. Toiletries and sundries are available in small, hotel-freebie-sized containers. But also behind that counter were about 5 gallons of really bad, cheap wine for every man, woman and child in the county. More wine than the law allows . . . as they say.

We arrived at the race course to sunshine, dry roads, pleasant temperatures. The Badger needed to ride part of the course, imprinting that sharp, fast descent to the turn-around point. I needed to drive the course to remind myself of the landmarks and check out where I'd hand up his water. "I'm off, Limes." "No. The Prius does things I don't understand. I need a primer." He taught me the ropes and pushed off for 29 miles. I drove to the turn-around point and a little beyond. It's a tight, narrow space to manage a pack of cyclists. Narrower than I recalled, even. I drove back to the place where we'd agreed to meet after his ride.

I had choices. I could read. I could listen to music. I could take a nap. I could put some extra miles on my feet for the day. Hmmmm . . . extra miles. I was in the mountains with some steep rollies at hand. I walk on flat ground every day of life. Walking hills would be different. There's only one highway with no turnoffs nearby. I'm wearing the red Nike shirt - he can't possibly miss me if I'm walking between the car and the direction from which he'll approach. The decision was easily made. There were even mile markers on the highway for me to measure my progress. The shoulder isn't very wide, but neither am I. I set out on foot with plenty of water and the car keys. What happened in the next hour is interesting to me. I am not sure I think it would happen where I live. No fewer than four vehicles stopped and the drivers asked me if I needed assistance. It amused me a little. I think I look like someone who walks on purpose. I wear the cool girl pants and very serious shoes, and - hey! - I'm just out for my walk. Why couldn't these people figure out I'm doing my walk? Of course, it probably seemed an odd location to find a lone woman hoofing it fast in the heat. I'm not sure I'd experience the same thing if I were walking, say, in Red Rock. I think drivers there might just plow me down and not notice the bump as they ran over my body. I enjoyed scoping all the roadside debris and found an interesting bleached bone that still had some sinew and hide attached. I did not enjoy seeing rabbit roadkill.

The Badger pulled up minutes after I completed 5 strenuous miles on foot. "How'd you do, Badge?" "Good! I'm really ready for it. I felt good enough to ride a little longer than I'd planned." Out near the crossroads to Bagdad (Arizona, not Iraq), he'd been treated to the sight of a large flock of buzzards. "They probably heard there's a race tomorrow, Badger. Mmm . . . cyclist! A little stringy, but the bones are good to peck." We jumped into the car and headed for Prescott . . . . .

which turned out to be infinitely easier to get around in than last year. Maybe simply because we'd been there once before, but whereas we'd had a terrible time navigating it in 2008, now we were like natives. I'd Googled a different place for us to stay than the official race motel and it was certainly a cut above the typical race weekend dive. It had faux art deco furniture! And a fully loaded kitchenette so we could dine in if we chose to do that. It was clean and more than serviceable and cost about what was paid for the dive last summer. The Badger soaked his bones in epsom salts for awhile. Then, "Limes, didn't you say you wanted some shops?" Yep. Limes always wants the shops! And the Badger's always good enough to do that for awhile. We went to pick up his racing packet at the dive that was last year's and this year's official race motel. Yep, my little faux art deco place was a way better deal. We headed for Prescott's historic Whiskey Row.

Whiskey Row is old, kind of charming, picturesque. Courthouse Square had live music playing across the street and the Row itself is a mish-mash of crappy souvenir shops, rather serious art and artisan offerings, coffee houses, and saloons. Lots of saloons. Many saloons with lots of alcohol being served. The streets teemed with people ranging from tourists to children to locals to faux cowboys to patrons of those lots and lots of salooons. We first encountered a young woman sitting on a bench, sobbing and screaming into her cell phone at someone. People were giving her wide berth. Yow. From her vicinity we veered sharply into an indoor collection of lovely little art shops and a wonderful used book store. Moving on down the row, we spotted the souvenir shop that housed the badger who had met with taxidermy. I saw this one, folks! He looked a little bleary. A little worse for wear and tear. Trip treasures were found in that shop and carefully carried home. We finally landed in a most interesting artists' co-op displaying the creations of only local artists. As we are launching a line of the Badger's photos for sale, we carefully studied how other artists present their wares. The place was a find - paintings, decorative gourds, every manner of jewelry, woven articles, cards and more. We had a good time.

Strolling back to the car, he spotted a likely looking Mexican restaurant. "Limes?" Yes to Mexican food, any time! We enjoyed a good meal. He had wine. I had iced tea. I felt a little funny. I felt a little bad. I felt really bad. I needed to put my head down on the table. "Oh, no, Badger - was that real sugar I put in my tea?" It wasn't. "Oh, Badger, I'm going to get sick right here." He asked if I could get to the restroom. I couldn't. "How can I help you?" The color was draining out of my face and I was feeling awfully low. It was about to get embarrassing. And the good man stayed with me. Some would have bolted. Just as quickly, the spell passed. "Let's go, Badger. I'm OK." Not sure what that was about, but I wouldn't like to go through it again in a public place. We made a grocery market stop and headed to our home for the night.

Just to prove we really do know how to have a good time, we ended the day with a bang. One begins operating the Prius by inserting a chunky black object (that resembles everyone else's car remote) into the dash. Embedded within this remote is a small, oddly shaped key. The key is removable, but it takes purpose. It does not easily slip out of the remote. In fact, he has never removed it from the remote since he owned the car. One just doesn't. He'd left something out in the car and I offered to go after it. I went down the stairs to the car I'd operated all day long and now understood, reached out to open the door . . . no remote. Funny little key, but no remote. Back up the stairs. "Badger, where's the remote?" Keystone Kops comes to mind. Down the stairs into the black night in the pines, looking for a black remote on blacktop. He had a weak little flashlight. Nothing. Back up the stairs. Tear into the room and everything we'd brought into it. It was found with relief, finally. When he carried his bike upstairs, he must have jostled the key loose because his hands were so full of things. We each allowed it had entered our heads, although neither had uttered it: "How many days might it take to get the necessary item to Prescott, Arizona?" Because that car can be entered, but not driven, without the clunky black object.

Our neighbors arrived at the room next door about the time our heads hit the pillows. They were not partying or behaving objectionably. They were simply talking. Four of them. We could hear every word, and I swear, I could hear them exhale. My sweet lord, the acoustics! I turned our A/C down to 60 and we suddenly had white noise. It would be a frosty night, but no voices in our heads. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. The charlie horses hit my feet and legs about the time I stumbled on the white noise solution. For I am not used to walking 5 miles fast in mountainous terrain. Damn, there's a race tomorrow. Be at peace. I only got up about 14 times to do stretches. And then we slept.

In my ears right now: Emmylou Harris singing Lucinda Williams' "Crescent City". It's a favorite. Emmylou nails it better than Lucinda does.

Something that charmed me: Four drivers stopping to see if I needed assistance. I don't think that's so common any more. One man took pains to say, "This is my wife right here beside me." Taking care not to alarm me. There are still good people in the world who would help a stranger.

Whirlwind - That's Limes NOW

David is on vacation, so Limes is at the wheel. Not "in charge" (that makes me feel uncomfortable, like a skirt with a badge), just taking my turn at the tiller. It is the end of one month and the beginning of another - extra work. The year is half over, which means we just completed the second quarter - extra work. Oh, and did I mention we went 108-degrees Monday? The home dudes were feeling it. Their personalities are different, so they deal with in different ways. But they all had to deal with it. An e-mail from the Badger as I plodded down the stairs into the fiery pit, "107 degrees at 6:00 p.m. does not bode well for my race tomorrow." I paused on stair number 17 to e-mail back "Ditto, except I'm not racing."

None of which is griping, you understand. It's just different from what had felt normal for a little minute. David here, unseasonably cool weather. One morning you get up and things are different. The ebb and flow of everything.

While the Badger races near and far, I've got his birds lodging in at the office with my own pair and I must say that doubling the number of parakeets in one's office increases the noise level exponentially. The phones are jangling now (that's the best work juju) and I have people asking me all day, "Lady, are you with the birds?" "No, the voices in my head are channeling. . . "

Waiku No. 211, An Ode to Birdbrains With a Smile to Express Humor and Affection

Raucous birds, please hush!
Badger, come and collect yours.
I need peace to work.


I've now walked a walk of more than four hours- closer to 5 hours than 4, (only once, but weeks ahead of schedule). The price I paid was one fairly sore day - say 5 on a scale of 1 - 10. I justed wanted to see if I could do it. I did it. Many things happened I didn't expect to have happen. Some things didn't come up that I expected to have to deal with. OK - balance is good.

For a month or more, the Badger has been getting some wonderful shots with that new camera. He said June may be his most prolific month of good pics ever. Coming home from Mother Badger's and his Tortilla Flats race, he had a lot of pretty dull miles to cover. He e-mailed from WickedBurg, grumbling about the constant bottleneck there. I shot one back: "Hey, Badger, you've always wanted to capture that photo op out near Wikiup. Why don't you get the picture today? I'll put it in my blog." BlackBerry reply: "OK!"

I was buying our dinner hours later when my BlackBerry notified me the photo had arrived. Yes, folks, that is Snoopy(ies) and Woodstock taking off on a rocket from Wikiup, AZ. Why? I don't know. I'm not a rocket scientist or a Snoopy scientist. Woodstock is a birdbrain. He doesn't deserve a scientist. Who would we ask? I don't know. There's no one in Wikiup.

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: The Girl With . . . you know what kind of eyes she's got. The CD came and was promptly burned for me. I believe Beast of Burden shall be played next.

Something that charmed me: I asked a man who is sometimes a curmudgeon to interrupt his journey and take a picture of something odd. Badgers are not know to tolerate nonsense. But you're looking at the picture. And, yes, Mother Badger's offerings have been delivered to me . . . all except for the upholstered chair!

All the Comforts of Home

In the photo: Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird host the Badger's birds. The Badger had gone to a race for a few days and we cheered him on from far afield.

It pleases me that I work in a place where my every comfort matters and my little eccentricities are not only tolerated, but encouraged. I have a deep-seated need to be surrounded by things that are beautiful to me and that please me. My job is stressful to say the least, and several times each day I need to have my eyes land on something lovely, my ears take in sounds that please me, and I frequently jump out of my chair to do stretches or weights and bands. It keeps me from running away screaming or from seizing up into a fetal position whimpering.

We recently moved from very cramped quarters to a spacious and, probably, damned funny new office. We're on the second floor with a large deck that's ours alone. I sit up in the treetops with my doors thrown wide open and get the effect of working outside. For whatever reason (we didn't do this) both David's and my offices have mood lighting - go figure. It's restful and I figure the lower light might shave a good 5 years off of me. We have the best technology on the planet and I spend my day at the big dual monitors, watching our service teams move around the valley on GPS. "What is that chucklehead doing, driving around in circles at 53 miles an hour for the last 7 minutes?" We needed some storage space out on the deck, so Troy built us a miniature barn!

Because I am a nester, we have sweet little plants and homey little touches everywhere. But what startles people and brings smiles and comments are our pets. David and I eac keep beautiful betta fish - when I need to slide away momentarily, I focus on Mr. Redfish who glides in his water with the little front fins going a mile a minute. David brings his much loved shih tzus a few times a week, just because he can.

But my favorites, by far, are the birds. My birds (our company mascots, because we're not birdbrains) live in a veritable parakeet palace. They're placed near a sunny window so they think they're outdoors (because they are birdbrains and are easily fooled). They chirp and twitter all day long, and they draw the attention of everyone who steps into our office. They make me laugh out loud several times a day and I am treated to the sight of manly men stepping over to their home and making kissy noises at them or talking pookie-pookie talk. Sometimes a customer will ask me over the phone if I am somewhere with birds, and if I've deduced that customer has any sense of humor, I say, "No, sir, those are the voices in my head channeling through the telephone."

I guess what I really had to say today is this: I had the big career. It was grand, the pension is wonderful, I felt very accomplished, it's over. I worked in the sterile offices of corporate America. The money was great and last winter I eBayed off more cute little suits than the law allows. That's not what I do any more. Now, I work as hard as I ever did, but in a place where what matters, right after succeeding in business, of course . . . is that everyone is comfortable and feels good. It suits me better. It's a rare Monday that I don't come in and say, sincerely, "I am so happy I have this place to come to."

In my ears right now: Mellencamp, "Cherry Bomb"

Why I like it: One of the best nostalgia tunes ever. Fiddle music! Fun and funny. Wry.

Something that charmed me today: Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, just like every day.