It Happened So Suddenly

It may seem that some desert dwellers kvetch about the weather all the time, and some of us do. It's not exactly that we hate everything about it. It's more that everything about it is so extreme, it catches one off guard and one needs to comment.

Monday I walked my miles in the street fairly bundled up. I work a head of steam up pretty quickly, so I wasn't uncomfortable for any part of my exercise. I went home, drank coffee, showered, absent-mindedly patted cats on their heads, dressed for work. About half way to my car, I thought, "I'm chilly." Glanced at the BlackBerry - to turn around and go back for a jacket was going to be pushing time a little too hard. I progressed to the car, jumped in, and the display on the dash told me it was 47-degrees outside. Huh? Ten days ago it was nearly 80-degrees when I drove to work.

Later in the day, the Badger commented that the A/C is still on at school and his office is frigid. He intends to take a sweater so he won't freeze. I laughed and said, "Well, you're talking to one! I'm a little shivering old lady and not ashamed to admit it."

But there is more. We moved upstairs to our new office in February. We haven't seen a full year there yet. Something I love in our office is the "mood lighting". Who, when, why mood lighting in an office, folks - I don't know, but David and I have it. I always feel restful in the dim light and as if that mood lighting shaves 10 off of my age (10 minutes). I feature myself in the captain's chair in the mood lighting looking like a young woman in her 40s. Ha.

I worked Saturday and did not notice what was very apparent and intrusive on Monday. The shade and shadows are shifting. They're a little longer, a little earlier. At 3:30, I could barely see anything in the office. The deck looked dark and kind of foreboding. My own image bounced off of the huge glass doors at me - I can't see out through the tinted glass doors. Sighing, I got up, turned off the mood lighting and turned on the screaming fluorescent. I also sneaked a mirror out of my purse and checked myself out under the fluorecent. Yikes!

I wasn't watching GPS very closely as Cesar and Matt headed in from their last job. I had work to do. I could not see them approach the glass doors because of the shadows. I nearly tipped over as they flung open the doors, screeching like little girls at all the bright light inside. "What the hell, Limes? What's going on?" "Change of season, homes. Nothing stays the same forever. It's fall."

It distresses me a little that it's already this dark and I'm the last person left in our professional plaza every day, upstairs, on the back of the building, unable to see outside and visible to no one on any street. I guess I'll start locking the door early and turning some lights off to peer outside before I leave. I'm not easily spooked, but one wants to be careful.

Driving home, directly into the west at 6:00 p.m., I suddenly need no sunglasses. Half way through my 5-mile commute, I do need my headlights. Last Thursday morning, our "early" staff meeting day, I didn't need those sunglasses as I drove due east into the sunrise, either.

Friday is the last cycling race of the season (on John Lennon's birthday - he'd have been 69 years old and it charms me that the race is on that day). I'll look forward to getting the play-by-play from the BlackBerry as it occurs and as fast has he can type it. Once that is completed, camping may be addressed in earnest. I was asked by a most creative and wonderful writer to take my journal out camping and write down every peaceful occurrence or feeling. That journal is already tucked into a duffel bag along with the colored pencils I take every single time.

It's not that I'm down or unhappy. I have simply never felt "change" so intensely. As if everything is changing at once. Some things tugging me gently backward and some things snatching me fast forward. I had some unhappy hours on Sunday. I melted down a little. I wasn't able to cope with all the changes. Monday I was still somewhat subdued. Today I look forward to happy times to come. Nothing stays the same forever.

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: Billie Holiday - a CD of 20 of her tunes. Yes, I like that music, too. One should read her biography. She suffered as much pain as a person could be expected to survive. Except she didn't survive.

Something that charmed me: I got a letter in the mail from one of my banks. I've read it three times and I do not understand it. I am not stupid. But bank talk isn't my first language. The bank claims it has been accruing interest incorrectly for nearly 3 years on my checking, savings and line of credit. Um, OK, bank - if you say so. They now confess their error and I got $97.90 I didn't know was mine.

I'm Just Talkin' to the People

I am very verbal. Verbose, some might say. I am an only child. We grow up thinking every other human being wants to hear what we have to say. Toss in that thing I have about wanting to connect with others . . . I am a talking natural.

Sidebar: my mother, my daughter and I are said to have nice speaking voices. I'm not sure why none of us can sing, then, but that's for another post. It is said that when one of us speaks on the telephone, the other party wants the conversation to go on just a little longer. I am a talking natural.
On our company websites, that is my voice behind the slideshow the customers view when they book a job online. David wants mine to be the voice of A1, on the phone and in cyberspace. This means I talk to a tremendous number of people. All day, every day. I am a talking natural.

I'm also a natural trainer. I've done it in most of my major jobs and I like to train and teach things to people. I'm not very shy under any circumstances, but put me in front ot 500 people with a microphone and say "Teach them, Limes!" - I am in my element. Nowadays, when I get a live one on the line, someone who will let me tell them a thing or two, I am in my glory. I am a talking natural.

Here's how we conduct business: in a service industry, one doesn't take the working vehicles off the road to run around giving estimates. One puts a strong person on the phone with a scripted set of questions to ask the same way of every customer. Such a person needs to know about carpet cleaning and needs to listen closely to the customer's responses. It's not rocket science. I'm pretty good at determining what it will take to clean a carpet, sight unseen, if the customer will communicate with me. And therein lies the rub. Some of them are obnoxious, some of them are funny, but I think it's fair to say that many people don't listen and don't understand the value of communication. Some of what I hear is unique and some of the strange stuff is ubiquitous. No day passes without me walking to David's office door to tell what I just heard on the phone.

Most women are easier to deal with when booking a job. My first scripted question is "What are the rooms you'd like us to clean, like living room, dining room, bedroom . . . " Few women hesitate at that one. Women seem to know their homes well. Many men stop dead when I ask it. "Uh, um, well . . . " When I'm chirpy and not beaten to death, I want to giggle and say, "Sir, do you live in your home? Do you go there?" For some reason, lots of men answer my "what rooms" question with this: "Well, it's a 2,700 square foot home and most of it is in tile. We bought it 4 years ago. Do you want my name and address now?" Limes: "No, sir, I still want the list of rooms, like living room, dining room, bedroom . . . "
The scripted list of questions is not long. I need limited information to assess what's going to be needed. But people get impatient. Some interject "Why do you have to ask so many questions?" I've learned to respond with "So that my estimate will be a realistic and responsible one." That calms most down. But there are the few who blow on the second or third query. An elderly lady screamed at me and slammed down her phone, "You ask too many questions! I'll call someone else." Um, OK.

Stairs cost extra. Home dudes clean them on their hands and knees with a hand tool in order to clean every angle of every stair. In our valley stairs can range from the size of a postage stamp to the size of a theater stage. So stairs are quoted within a range of prices. Virtually no one gets that if I don't know how many stairs there are and the technician hasn't inspected the staircase and given a firm stair pricing, I can't tell you exactly how much the stairs will cost. The concept of variables seems to be beyond the ken of almost everyone I book. In addition, virtually everyone who gives me a list of their carpeted areas says, "Then there are the stairs going up . . . " When I'm chirpy and not beaten to death, I want to giggle and ask,"Don't those stairs go down, too?"

When I'm quoting for services on a really big job - carpet hasn't been cleaned for 6 years, pet urine, Kool-Aid stains, heavy traffic areas - and the caller goes dead silent, I have given him or her sticker shock. A very few people will say, "That's crazy!" or "I just can't afford that." or "Thanks for your time." But the vast majority of this type of caller says, in an escalating voice, usually with a giggle: "OK, I'm going to call you right back." Um, I don't think you are, M'am.

The worst call so far: He asked in his wispy Michael Jackson voice if we could get blood out of carpet. I said we are expert at it and asked when the bloodstain happened. "Just now. Right now." It was hard to hear him through the phone - that soft, dreamy voice. I pulled up GPS to see where all my teams were at the moment. "Sir, don't put anything on the bloodstains. I'll try to get someone for you right away. In what zip code is your home located?" He gave me a zip code of 8914. "Sir, you're going to need one more digit in that zip code, or give me two major cross streets near your home." He started to mutter and I began to think we had someone somehow impaired. I didn't want to lose a job, so I asked, "Can you help me understand which part of the city you're in? And is it human blood, sir? How big an area is stained?" Mutter, mutter, mutter in Michael Jackson's voice: "No it's not human. The whole dining room is filled with it. It's everywhere." "Yikes!" thought I. He muttered on incoherently, but then, in his loudest proclamation yet, "I didn't mean to kill my dog!" Oh, boy. The hairs on my arms rose and my anntenae began to protrude through my bangs. "Sir, I don't believe we're going to be able to help you."

In staff meeting a few days later, I brought that call up. I wanted to see what the men thought of me turning it away. Was I just being too much girl? Or was it prudent not to send someone there? I explained my reasoning. The man could barely communicate and couldn't tell me where he lived. I had no way to know if he'd accidentally sat on his chihuahua or engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a Rottweiler. "Jeez, Limes, the Michael Jackson voice and the weird zip code would have been enough for me." "The incoherence and an entire room full of blood would have been the end for me, Limes. I wouldn't have wanted to go do that job." "OK, homes, we think alike, then. I didn't want to send any one of you into that because I couldn't tell what 'that' was."

Forrest Gump said it best. Life is like a box of chocolates. I am reminded again that I have the best seat in the house. I dispatch everyone and listen to all the radio transmissions. I watch them on GPS with both amusement and frustration as they move around the city. We dish back and forth all day long. In the end, it is they who must knock on the doors of some wonderful and some truly frightening customers. While I just stay back, talking to the people.

In my ears right now: The Boss. All day long. My friend Tag posted a birthday tribute to him on his blog today. I do love me a 60-year-old rocker.

Something that charmed me: Justin and I had a little dust-up this morning during huddle. He got a little belligerent and I got a little schoolmarm-like. David walked in and heard Justin apologizing to me. "What's going on?" An impromptu staff meeting was held during which our little boat was helped to find a more even keel. On the way in from his last job, Justin chirped me on the BlackBerry. "What's up, Justin?" "Hi, Limes, I'm Gina and I'm a Starbucks barista. Justin would like you to give me your order." "Well, hello, Gina! Let's make that a tall, skinny pumpkin spice latte, no whip." He hugged me when he delivered it, too.

Extreme Environment - Any Way You Want It

The brochures, the website and Wikipedia will tell you it consists of 1.6 million acres lying between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Its guardianship has passed through the hands of several government agencies, and this month is its 15-year anniversary under the auspices of the National Park Service. Of course, the government has no money, so there is little upkeep of this wonderful natural resource. If one visits frequently enough and returns to familiar spots, erosion and human vandalism can be easily spotted. The 4-wheelers tear the desert floor to shreds, leaving gouges that can be seen from a jetliner. In all the years we have visited there, we have seen a ranger twice.

In the Mojave Preserve, one will find singing sand dunes, volcanic cinder cones, vast meadows of wildflowers, the world's largest Joshua tree forests, mountain ranges, canyons and mesas. The area has been heavily mined, homesteaded and ranched. An abandoned rock-walled military outpost, a defunct railroad depot and ghost town, countless mining sites, and many deserted ranches can be found. However, all that is spread over the 1.6 million acres, so it will seem logical that there are also vast expanses of what some would call "nothing". I call it a rich landscape of countless treasures.

Elevations range from 7,929' at the top of Clark Mountain (I was nearly blown off the top of that mountain once!) to 880' above sea level on the desert floor near Baker. It is increbily hot in the summer months, with no shade available in most locations. Snow is not uncommon in the winter. Rainfall varies from 3" per year near Baker to almost 9" in the mountains. Almost 25% of the rainfall comes from summer thunderstorms and the skies are almost always dramatic. The wind can howl through the preserve in a way that will be told later in this post.

A few paved roads criss-cross the miles, but most travel in the preserve on jeep trails. I have been privileged to explore much of it on foot, having first come in on the jeep trails. There are so many diverse habitats in this beloved place that no two trips there seem the same. Shall we go high and try to keep cooler, or down to the flats in January? Do we wish to hike in mountainous terrain or on sandy washes? Many of the spots we love have names bestowed upon them in the distant past: Cow Cove, Cima Dome, The Cinder Cones, Fort Paiute, Coyote Springs, Hole in the Wall. Some of them we named ourselves: The Garden of the Gods I, II and III and others that don't bear repeating.

That recitation was as dry as a mouthful of desert sand, but I needed to establish what it is like and where this glorious locale could be found. Nothing in the hard, cold facts tells of the beauty to be taken in and the fun to be shared and the situations that help one understand how strong, or quick-thinking one is. And now I will tell my first desert tale. There will be more to come.

The forecast for the Presidents' Day weekend was dismal for Las Vegas and southern California. Wind, heavy rain, cold. We decided to go anyway. It did not bode well for us that on the trails we had traveled many times before, we took a wrong turn in the fog and took a 10-mile donut detour. Arriving at the edge of Paiute Gorge, we could barely see each other through the pea soup and marveled out loud that we hadn't driven right over the edge into the gorge.


We're pretty intrepid, and while this wasn't the best camping trip ever, we stayed. The skies were so flat he did not get one photograph. We ate dinner at 4:30 p.m. because we needed to be inside the tent by early evening - it was far too cold to sit outside in camp chairs. In the morning, the water for coffee was ice. Hiking was miserable because we had to layer so many clothes. There is an unflattering picture of me bundled up and looking like the Michelin man with all the clothes creasing at the elbows and knees.

But for all of that, on this trip the wind was the story. I couldn't tell what time it was by the position of the moon. Maybe 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. The wind howled sufficiently to blow the tent's staked-down corners up and my body was being slightly lifted by it. Various camping equipment was being blown across the desert - I heard one of the chairs slam into a yucca. The noise was incredible! He slept on. Incredibly, it began to blow harder. The tent flapped and I thought of going to the XTerra, but I didn't know how I would fare on the walk from the tent to the car. Finally, I began to choke and tear up. I wasn't going to be polite any longer. I elbowed him in the ribs. "Wake up. Talk to me for a minute. Have you ever been in anything like it?" Of course, I fully expected him to say this was nothing - that he'd experienced far worse. Instead, he sat bolt upright and said, "WTF! I've never heard anything like it! This is really terrible." I plunged to the depths. "Try to go to sleep, Limes. We can't take down camp in the gale. It probably can't actually move the 275 pounds of us." OK. I tried to sleep.


Who knows how much later I felt something silky come across my face, covering my mouth and nose? I didn't care for it much. Using my hands to explore, I learned that the wind had arced one tentpole downward and it was tent fabric covering my head. I elbowed him in the ribs again. "The tent's collapsing on us! I thought an intruder was chloroforming me, but it's the tent caving in on my face." We flipped the tentpoles back to their proper configuration. That lasted for about a minute . . . . it would not be correct to say we "woke up" in the morning. It was more like finally unwinding from the miles of folds of tent because there was finally daylight. It was not a pleasant breaking up of the camp.

He has a good curious mind. He knows how to learn things. He is a grand researcher. Logical and analytical. He'd checked the National Weather Service and other sources. He'd plotted our exact location on his mapping software. The e-mail announced itself with the little chirp Yahoo Messenger makes. "Limes, being conservative, I'd say we spent 6 hours in winds gusting at 75 miles an hour. I've got the data to support that."

Those tent poles are permanently damaged. Aluminum poles bent by blowing wind.

In my ears right now: It would still have to be Against the Wind.

Something that charmed me: I returned to work on the Tuesday after that weekend. "Hey, Limes, how was your long weekend? You guys didn't go camping in that weather, did you?" "Yes, we did, actually." "Oh, man, did you have fun?" "I did, homes!" And I meant it, too.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Everything's Going to be All Right

I am sure when the head stops throbbing, the heart stops pounding, the adrenaline stops pumping and the first flush of anger subsides, there will appear a blog post. It will be told sharply, biting. It is not my news to tell. It was hard news for me to hear. It made me feel sad. It made me feel fierce and defensive for someone I care about.


It made me think to say how terrible we feel when something bad befalls a loved one. It reminded me we are sometimes too complacent, thinking we know how every little detail of our day will play out. It is just the most recent event I can point to that says, "There's always something new to be dealt with, in addition to everything else we have to endure."

My dear friend, may I say I am glad it was no worse? May I express my frustration that there is nothing tangible I can do that will help you in any way right this moment? You did not need any of this, and I am sorrowful that it happened to you.

Tomorrow will be better! It will be one day past today. Eat well, rail about it to all of us who care about you, and then sleep well. Be as crabby as you need to be, for as long as you need to be. And then move on. You've dealt with worse.

In my ears right now: The echo of the startling words in the phone call.

Something that charmed me: I don't feel very charmed right now. Oh, all right. The obvious, lame statement. It could have been worse. I'm grateful it was not.

Longing . . . . Yearning . . . .

I have a deeper, brighter line of demarcation in my life than most, or maybe it simply seems that way to me because I have a starring role in the drama. Nearly everything about me can be categorized as "before" or "after", for everything truly changed that much.

"Before" was childhood and youth, a long marriage, finally a child, the long career, my work life ending when I was 46, because I could do that. I thought I had the future planned quite well. OK, so the marriage wasn't sparkly and I didn't know what to do with myself if I was no longer defined by that career, but I decided I could hang in for a lifetime despite all that. The child was a nice reward to stay for. Ex already had squatters' rights in our home because he'd stopped working before I did. We were trapped in our home together all day, every day unless we looked for a purpose to get out somewhere. It took about four years for those walls to reach their maximum capacity, barely containing emotions building and unresolved for 30 years.

"After" is not yet fully defined, as I am still living this life. It's a work not yet completed. "After" has contained some of the highest highs and the lowest lows I will ever know. I'll keep you posted, interested reader.

"After" has included a man I knew from "before", but didn't know for 30 years. Our process of becoming reacquainted included, of course, the telling of the things we loved or disliked, the interests that caught our attention, the things we now knew how to do. "Do you remember the disco era?" We both hated that! "I converted to Judaism. My daughter was bat mitzvahed and worked in Israel." Wow! I came to "after" very well-traveled in Europe, Mexico, Egypt and on the world's cold and warm oceans. I could rightly be called an ocean person. He spoke compellingly of his love of the desert - photographing it, camping primitively in it. I knew nothing of the desert and was, in fact, just a little afraid of it. I'd driven through it all my life to one destination or another. It was pretty dull. Brown, hot, huge. But I was interested in him and if he was interested in the desert, then I'd check it out. "So, will you teach me about it and show me what you love?"

I have many wonderful desert adventures to share and beautiful photographs to punch up the stories. I will begin to share those soon, but this post is meant to be more general in nature. On the first camping trip, he uttered not one disapproving word about my four duffels and backpacks teeming with way too many, completely inappropriate clothes for desert camping. He didn't raise his eyebrows over my bringing shampoo and conditioner and hair wax. At least I didn't bring the blow dryer. Although friend Janne had taken me to Big Five to get boots, they weren't quite right either. But I didn't know that for a long time, because he was not critical.

When we rose up out of the deep gorge from our hike on an early outing, the wind was screaming. He was in the lead. He reached the top of the trail, where one's head pops above ground level like a gopher peeping out of its hole. "Oh, my god, our tent has blown away!" Well, he's known for his sense of humor and ironic wit. I know when he's funning me. "Ha! You can't fool this city girl!" It had. Despite being anchored by my four bags and his meager duffel full of necessities, that purple dome tent had had its stakes torn from the ground and had rolled seemingly half way across the Mojave.


It took just the one time to snare me. Emerging from the car into the dark, starlit night as we arrived, I said something I've never failed to repeat on any desert trip: "Listen to the quiet!" I learned to love the hiss of the lanterns. I reveled in the conversation and laughter and a shared cocktail in the campsite before ending our day in the tent, sometimes freezing and sometimes roasting, but always preferring to be right there, rather than anywhere else. During the months that are acceptable for camping in the Mojave - about October through May - we went out a couple of weekends per month. For years. Although we celebrate winter solstice rather than "Christmas", we have enjoyed our holiday dinner "out there" more than once. I could rightly be called a desert person.

Fast forward: nothing remains the same forever. Other interests take priority. Work schedules must be considered. One has to decide what one will spend free time doing. Cycling races took over the number one spot. If you care about someone, you support their endeavors and I have been willing to sacrifice some camping opportunities for some cycling races. The odd, rare campout has been enjoyed from time to time.

But now it's truly and officially fall. The last cycling race is in sight. I read something on his blog that said, while he has had such a racing season he can hardly believe it, he aches to be out in the starlight. I wish he'd said "eager" or "anticipate". "Ache" rather tore me up. I sent an e-mail to concur that it is time to camp. I used words like "longing" and "yearning". They are my truth. I named places like Paiute Gorge and Cow Cove. He came back with "Ibex Dunes". For I need to wake up to the sound of the coyotes and drink the good coffee dripped through the Melitta filter. I pine for the long hike in the sun, whether I am bundled up in a parka or wearing as little as possible. I am starved for the little treasures one locates on the desert floor - from shiny rocks to live little lizards, old mining tools . . . it doesn't matter the details. It's all good. I desire to scramble up the rock pile and find still more, previously undetected petroglyphs and pictographs.

I've had a difficult change of season from summer to fall this year. I almost thought I had some version of Seasonal Affective Disorder as I've been quiet, "down", moony. I don't sleep and I can't write and I can't "get right". I spy the "Not Available to Work" calendar on the wall in the office, and Limes' name appears nowhere.

Yesterday I read a comment on a blog I follow. I immediately confess that these are not my own words, but they struck me in my heart and gut. She wrote: "I long for something I cannot even name." My eyes filled with tears. I long, too. And soon we shall go camping.


All photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: Bob Seger - Against the Wind. The lunatic wind right now is sucking my office steel and glass double doors open and shut, open and shut. A gust was clocked at 72 mph in Red Rock last night. The Badger is riding up in it now, though it's calmer than it was in the night. Virginia Woolf and I trembled in our bed as the wind screamed. Dylan is too aloof to care about such things.

Something that charmed me: On that first camping trip a comment was shared. "I love my little camping table and my lantern." I grew to love them, too.