Seasons in my world are usually punctuated with vivid challenging adventures: peaks, rivers, single track mountain bike trails, cliffs, slopes and frozen waterfalls. The past few seasons have been a bit of a blur without the periodic adventure punctuation points. Orange and red flashes in the foliage hint of autumn while crisp cool nights carry whispers of a new season.  

Fall is my favorite season.    Actually every season is my favorite…which means I that I don’t actually have a favorite - but each season feels like a favorite when it is happening. Nostalgically, each season feels more like a favorite when the season is coming to a close. I am not sure what happened to summer…or spring…or last winter. Outdoor adventures were sparse since I have been healing from major surgery, wrapped up in family life, and blessedly back in the studio. Balance is allusive. Survival has been the mantra.   I can hardly call my father’s illness and death this spring a “punctuation point.” I can’t even wrap it up as a “chapter” or “saga.” Most days I hardly believe that Dad isn’t actually here…alive…with my mother in their house surrounded by a perfectly pruned yard animated with happy wild bunnies playing on the lush lawn or munching snacks on the deck. The lawn is no longer green since Mom and I cannot begin to manage Dad’s diligent sprinkler and lawn care vigil. Rabbits still play on the less-than-green lawn and eat at the flower-shaped bunny feeder. The riding lawn mower with the cigarette lighter Dad custom installed on the dash sits in the garage. Dusty.   Earlier this week I managed to squeeze a sweet little punctuation point with the kids into my summer.  Just two days before school started, we went for a late evening mountain bike ride followed by a full moon picnic at Hyalite Lake. Jolly from our ride, feeling the magic of the moon, satiated by yogurt, fresh fruit, and Grapenuts, we began a game of charades. Our actions danced in the moonlight accented by long shadows cast by the BIG round full moon. The lake sparkled and our laughter bounced off the mountain peaks which poked a sky filled with stars.  

Alas, the bunny surplus has led to tragedy. Maya (my cat) is an excellent mouser. She is a super handy housekeeper for cabin-love’n mice but unfortunately her skills don’t stop there. Lately she has been grounded for the most part which means that she is IN MY FACE a good deal at night. Her protest tactics are highly developed and range from subtle (sitting within whisker tickling range of my nose while staring at me) to less than subtle (jumping on me in the middle of the night, howling, scowling, mewing and flinging herself about). Ugh.   Sadly, Miss Maya has successfully snuck out (I forgot to lock the screen door) or slunk out (I left the bathroom window open a crack while showering) or ran out (she ambushes me and scoots past while entering and exiting my house) which means that more than one bunny has gone to bunny heaven prematurely. Serious bummer…BIG bummer. Actually it is nightmarish to find a baby bunny ear on the bathroom floor. She brings the unfortunate furry little sweet rabbits inside my cabin to play with.   Thus - bunny saving missions punctuate my life when sly Maya slinks past the fact that she is grounded. More than one bunny has ended up tucked into my underwear drawer and even cuddled, protected, and slept with (I just love a bunny under the covers). Alas, only one has successfully been nursed, made it through rehab and been returned to the great outdoors. The cute tiny little bugger grew an inch during the few days of loving captivity. 

Took last Friday off…(my first day off in weeks).  I haven’t seen the monkeys enough lately so it was a joy to spend the day with 'em. We visited the very first Dude ranch in Montana (the historic OTO ranch).  Then we took the young’uns and their new friends rock climbing in Yankee Jim Canyon before jumping into the Yellowstone River near Tom Miner Basin for a late afternoon swim in the cool (cold) water. Zaydee out-swam all of us.   The sweltering heat and humidity of Texas was quite a contrast to the cool cozy nights here at my own home-a little cabin at the end of the road near the top of a mountain in Montana. 

I just LOVE animated movies!!! Art, humor, story, humor, art….

The kids said I laughed more often and louder than anyone else in the theater last night. Heck, I was laughing before the movie started just by looking at their little faces with those BIG black 3D glasses on. I watched the “villain” fall in love with those three CUTE children - felt my heart open with wonder and warm fuzzies at the gift of three awesome children in my life.

Blessed. 

click on the image above to see video from "Despicable Me"

Three weeks were scheduled to complete the large chocolate creation for Nestle.  Paul and the kids were going to fly to Wisconsin at the tail end of the project so that we could indulge in the festival then scoot to a cabin on a lake with friends for Memorial weekend.  Alas, life reared up and interfered with those plans when my father was diagnosed with fourth stage pancreatic cancer.  Thank goodness Paul agreed to assist me so that together (without much sleep) we accomplished the project in seven days.  PHEW! 

We used over 5000 miniature CRUNCH bars in the creation.  Unfortunately the bars were individually wrapped since they were out-of-date product.  I could venture to guess how many Nestle-work-force-people-hours were used to unwrap miniature CRUNCH bars but suffice to say simply ...ZILLIONS!

Haunted.  Humbled.  Horrified. 

We found ourselves underground on one of the first hot sunny summer days after being lured by Sami to take a tour of the Orphan Girl Mine.  Our day began in a rainstorm before sunup when we piled ourselves (a bit blurry-eyed) into the truck, struck out across rolling fields and snow-capped peaks toward Homestake Pass with the obligatory scrumptious stop at Wheat Montana Bakery for scones, cinnamon rolls, and turnovers – to go.  They hold the World's Record for the fasted bread from harvest to loaves.  We rolled down the pass into the wonderful rich quirky historical town of Butte in time for Ali’s pre-game warm-up at 7:30 a.m.  Wet from rain, the grass sparkled until the sun powered up.  Blitz (blue) team won their first soccer game.  After the 2nd game, we put on hardhats and headlamps then spent 1.5 hours underground.  Cold.  Clammy.  Creepy.  Disturbing.  Fascinating.  The men (and mules) who worked more than 10,000 miles of horizontal drifts and 4,000 miles of vertical shafts under Butte were tough buggers - to say the least.  Lordy.

Using candlelight, picks, hammers, shovels and dynamite, the fellas worked 12 hour shifts seven days a week underground.  Wet, hot/cold, dusty, toxic and LOUD (no ear protection back then).  I am blown away by the stories, the weight of the worn tools I held, the conditions I witnessed and the many thoughts I have of their plight.

 

Emotions ooze, wheeze, plod, siege, poke into and peak past my innards since Dad’s passing two weeks ago. Loss (many different kinds) anger, sadness, frustration, gratitude, joy, liberation, disbelief, quirky humor, black humor, horror, compassion, love, and (I know I said this already) - loss.   Vivid surreal and unreal scenes play like bad dreams behind my eyes. My heart feels pummeled, puffy - yet powerful.

I am tired.

I have taken long indulgent naps, watched the birds, reveled in the lush green spring, nuzzled the children, rested my head on Paul’s chest, tossed and turned, cleaned, cooked, and climbed. The rock feels good beneath my hands; the sun a blessing on my face. My arms are weak from a winter of post-surgery healing but my dog, my nose, and my lungs are happy to be outside. Summer remains elusive after a tumultuous spring of snow, hail, and rain. I gobble up the bits of sun between storms and wish for more energy to play and work. My thighs and shoulders are sunburned in patches after a Sunday afternoon mountain bike ride. Itchy bug bites polka-dot my legs, my head of hair hasn’t been cut for eight months and my bubble gum colored toenails are chipped and begging for a pedicure. There are bills to pay, shows to get ready for, projects to begin at the studio, thank-you-notes to write, a bulging e-mail “inbox” to reckon with, the hummingbird feeder to fill and plants to plant. Photos and video footage from the Nestle chocolate sculpture commission need to be edited and published (yes…I have gotten all of your requests and understand your curiosity to see results of the project). Giant industrious carpenter ants moved into my little cabin during the six week absence while I tended my folks and completed the chocolate commission.   I am squeamish when it comes to squishing BIG ants. Armed with my little purple vacuum cleaner; I am waging war to reclaim my space. I can hardly express how good it feels to be home in my little cabin at the end of a road near the top of a mountain. Retreat and rejuvenation accompanied by the patter of rain on my tin roof.

My father did not want a memorial service. We will travel to his childhood home in Nebraska – perhaps next spring – to bury his ashes. The ashes from my parents’ little dog Taz will journey from their current perch near Dad’s favorite recliner to Nebraska with us since Dad wanted Taz to be buried alongside him. My family is grateful for the exceptional care Chris Remely professionally and kindly bestowed upon us. The young owner of the hundred-year-old Dokken Nelson Funeral Home (and Howard’s high school classmate) Chris met several times with my father and us during the weeks preceding Dad’s death. Chris’s grace, concern and care were far beyond our expectations. We are thankful.

 

The sun is sleeping-in after an impressive rainstorm. The sky on the horizon is heavy like my father’s eyelids; unblinking. Dad loved the birds. Today they are singing with a post-storm celebratory vigor. My heart is like the morning; a light grey-white fog stimulated by the soft patter of raindrops. Heartened by the birds’ song, humbled by the force of the storm; I drink from the moisture laden lush green life - thankful as a farmer for the promise of life-after-the-storm.

Dad passed peacefully yesterday afternoon.

His strength is impressive. The sheer grit and power of Dad’s will was a marvel to witness – yet excruciating. A wrestling match dragged on for several days and nights. Dad’s grip on life and desire for control was an unprecedented opponent for his cancer-ridden body. His grit and determination won round after round even as his body weakened. Only with the help of accumulative medication did the wrestling subside.

Mom, Robin and I were talking and touching Dad when he died while lying under his two favorite pale blue and cream afghans (crocheted by mom). He was on the hospital bed in the TV room next to the sliding patio door where a cool breeze blew. Edye (his kind attentive Hospice nurse) arrived to clean and dress Dad. We had a silent respectful procession on the wrap-around-deck he spent so much time enjoying - from the covered porch at his favorite sit’n spot outside the TV room, past the little wild bunny feeding spot, several bird feeders, the barbeque, and his proudly pruned yard.

Looking up from my computer just now, the rain has subsided. I see a hint of blue on the horizon – the color of my father’s eyes. I can’t see them in the early morning light but I hear a gaggle of Canadian Geese crescendo and fade – a fitting tribute to the man we loved. 

   

Dad is listening to the Lawrence Welk show. The crease in his brow softened since we put the video tape in a few minutes ago. He has not eaten food for 7 days. He is not drinking water. His condition “took a turn” on Friday as his body began the final stages of shutting down. Paul and I arrived straight from the airport late Saturday night after completing the Nestle chocolate sculpture commission in Wisconsin. Robin and I are taking shifts; Dad is in the TV room next to the living room where we can keep watch.  He spent most of the last weeks in his old blue easy chair but it grew uncomfortable for him so a hospital bed was delivered earlier today. 

Dad is mostly in another world during the spells when he is awake – a world where he has been bear hunting and where he paid the popcorn man for two bags of popcorn. He lights imaginary cigarettes after pulling an invisible lighter from the pocket of his sweatpants. Late this afternoon with his own hand shaking uncontrollably, Dad gallantly lifted mother’s hand to his lips for a kiss. When Dad planted a delicate kiss on mom’s hand, a spark beamed from the pale blue part of his heavily lidded eyes - a little half-grin shown on his unshaven face.   The jaundice has darkened his skin and eyes with a deep sickly yellow. He cannot swallow pills or liquids but doesn’t seem to have symptoms other than pain and agitation thus the medications are no longer necessary. Pain relief is delivered automatically by pump into his permanent IV.  We boost the pain meds by pushing the button on the pump in 15 minute intervals.  Every four hours we give him a few drops of medicine to help with the agitation.  Mom is holding up - proving quite strong. Dad shrinks, his breath becomes shallower and his body weakens.    We keep close by.

After pulling an all nighter in the BIG tent at the festival grounds, Paul and I finished 1.5 hours before the unveiling - just enough time to grab a shower before meeting the press. We “wowed ‘em.”  Felt good! Blurry-eyed, plumb tuckered, and in desperate need of a nature fix, we left the festival grounds for a short walk to the lake. Passing a nail salon on the way; we stumbled into the air conditioned space. Paul passed out in a chair while a cute little oriental girl worked at getting the chocolate, paint, and silicone from my battered hands. We wandered along the lake in a daze, plopped our weary bodies onto the grass, and looked up at blue sky through shimmering green leaves of a giant tree. White blooms danced and Eddie Brickel sang from the speakers which surrounded the lake in the town park. I admired my silver sparkle fingernails, felt deeply thankful for Paul’s help and support, and thought about the tears which glistened in the plant manager’s eyes at the unveiling as he thanked me for our passionate effort during a difficult time. I felt blessed. Relieved. Thankful. Paul and I returned to our hotel, pulled the shades, turned the air conditioning onto full blast and fell asleep at 6:30. Unaccustomed to sleeping more than a few hours at a time during the last few weeks; I woke three hours later and decided to attend the Chocolate and Wine Indulgence event at the festival. A full moon nudged its way through heavy low clouds determined to outshine the bright garish carnival lights of the festival. My father and mother fill my thoughts. Dad's nauseous body has rejected any attempts at eating for the last four days. Mom sounds a bit lost. I want to go home. 

(photos and video will be posted soon...)

Emerged in Willy Wonka Land...my eyelids and heart are heavy. We are racing the clock to the big unveiling on Friday. Punched with gaping grief, my chest hurts when I step back from the crazy world of chocolate, candy, and creation. Worry is wrapped around a difficult unexpected chapter in my parent’s life. Dad is hanging in there. He gets around with his walker - sleeps more and eats less each day.    Most hours in my Nestle-world are filled with scheming and problem-solving - fueled with nibbles of chocolate, sips of water, and deep breaths. My hands are tired and sore. Phone calls with family and Hospice nurses punctuate long hours of vivid thoughts, creative ideas, and lots of crazy yummy chocolate creating.     Wildberry nerds look like turquoise...a lovely accent for the Wizard of Oz-themed chocolate sculpture.

Phew! First day at Nestle working on the ChocolateFest creation = fourteen hours of head-scratching, sculpture building, chocolate eating, people meeting, and red hairnet wearing - along with a few good laughs. Thank goodness I’ve a GREAT partner to help me with this GIGANTIC chocolate sculpture!

Photo taken of Paul and I with the cell phone while watching the safety video in the security office before entering the chocolate factory.

The inevitability of loss looms over my soul and stabs my heart like the owl who pierces the still night by screeching under a thin slice of moon outside my window. I hope father is sleeping peacefully with mom. Eyelids impossibly heavy, he rests more each day. Sometimes Dad slurs his words and doesn’t finish his sentences. Yet he gets out of the chair and scoots around the yard with his walker filling the bird feeders. The whites of his eyes darken more yellow each day. His body shrinks. Dad misses the ability to read since jaundice weakens eye muscles but his spirit gets him out of the chair without assistance, up and down stairs, into his little black pickup to “drive the fence” and check the horses.  

Mom too is losing weight but holding up. A dear sweet little bird that frets and flutters, feels and fusses, loves and hurts. Aunt Liz and Uncle Rollie are arriving today to keep watch over the two of them. Tomorrow I must leave for Chocolate City, USA with chisels packed, my heart torn, deep breaths and plenty of faith. Juggling phone calls with Hospice nurses and Nestle, the bank and my accountant, a few museums and two pet sitters, life continues. Just shy of 3 weeks since Dad’s pancreatic cancer prognosis, I drink deep from the cool night air, listen to the owl, shuffle exhibit agreements and post-it notes.  Paul will accompany and assist me with the Chocolate Festival sculpture creation. His support and guidance are a godsend. We’ve squeezed a three week project into eight days – will need a bit of luck and more than a bit of strength.

written early Monday morning...

Mom and Dad had a much-needed quiet day at home.  They are both understandably exhausted.  Just over a week has passed since last Saturday when I drove Dad home from his two-night stay at the hospital.  Since then Hospice care began, Howard and his family arrived from Minnesota, Robin arrived from Tennessee, the kitchen floor was ripped up and new flooring installed (Dad insisted), Dad’s older brother Keith came from Nebraska for a visit with his daughter.  Carl (Dad’s brother) and his wife (my aunt MaryJane) arrived.  Meetings were held in our home with the funeral home director.  Documents were signed.  A washing machine leaked into the basement.  Meals were given by friends and appreciated by my family.  A skit was performed by the grandchildren and their new friends (my boyfriend’s children).    Rounds of nausea, pain, and itching skin (a condition of jaundice) are being controlled with carefully recorded medications.  Stories have been woven with laughter and tears.

  The most difficult moments lately are the “goodbyes.”   Saturday at noon, Keith left for the airport under Lacy’s close watch looking somehow smaller than when he arrived; his blue eyes soft with sadness.  Later the same day - Howard, Tiffany and the girls drove away sobbing after homemade cards were given to grandpa, photos were taken and hugs shared in a tangle of oxygen and IV cords.  Yesterday Carl and MaryJane left for Nebraska after we shared a scrumptious ham dinner and apple pie prepared by friends.   Tomorrow Dad’s brothers Loyal and Don will arrive from Nebraska along with his sister Virginia and her husband.  My father (somewhere in the middle of seven siblings) is the first to face this transition.  Dad is in a medical records journal for being one of only two Americans to survive three separate polio attacks as a child.  Told he would never walk, Dad won seven out of eight track events in 8th grade.  Known for his orneriness, Dad is one tough bugger – the reality and disbelief of recent days have a tight grip on his family.  His spunk and spirit spit sparks from deep blue eyes; radiant in the photos taken even while his body shrinks and his skin yellows.    Using his walker, Dad made it outside and down some steps to his shop where he gave two proud tours of his impressive collection of ashtrays.  He sleeps a lot.  The nurse Eddie increased his pain meds today but they are still less-than-half what Dad is allowed at this point. Mother is frazzled but holding up.   Me?  Awake.  Very much awake.  The train I drove by early yesterday morning in a darkened canyon under a gray sky seemed somehow brighter than usual.  Like the spring landscape my heart feels open, raw, tender, strong – patches of snow incongruent with the budding spring wildflowers - a tumultuous mish mash of rain, snow, sun, snow, sleet, sun, gray skies, soft pink sunsets, sunshine and more rain.   Thank-you for keeping us in  your thoughts and prayers.

Dad perked up after I got him home last weekend and my brothers arrived.  Hospice is on board with daily visits and medications. 

Dark wet streets lay before me that starless Saturday morning when I drove to the hospital at 4 a.m. to be with Dad.  Laying next to him in the hospital bed, I listened to the gurgle of fluid beginning to creep into his lungs as one more sign that his body is beginning to shut down.  We shared some thoughts - mostly silence - as night gave way to day and the snow blew sideways.  Father’s physician visited a few hours later to say goodbye to Father.  He asked if Dad would like to pray.  They held hands while the doctor said a beautiful prayer aloud from his heart.  Dad also prayed out loud – a humble poignant moment shared through tears while I sat at the foot of the bed.  Mom was preparing at home since we had been told that Dad would be released “first thing” (they had put the “pick-line” – a permanent IV - in the night before).  Alas, it was late afternoon before father was wheeled (freshly showered) to my truck. The reclusive sun came out to brighten the landscape during Dad’s nauseous ride home.  Within minutes after I helped Dad into the house, grey clouds swallowed the sun.  Howard and his family arrived Saturday night.  Robin drove from Tennessee and arrived Sunday evening.    Dad insisted on having the kitchen and bathroom floors ripped up, new sub floors put down, and new linoleum installed (the flooring had been ordered and the project scheduled to occur this week before the recent medical events transpired).  Robin and Howard are helping with the floor project to speed up progress.  Howard’s girls have been staying with me.   Dad, Mom, the boys and I met with the mortician yesterday afternoon at the house.  The funeral director was Howard’s high school classmate.  We all liked him - though it was a bit surreal to carry on the meeting while two strangers pounded away loudly in the kitchen.  Two of Dad’s brothers will arrive tomorrow (Keith and Carl).  Mary Jane will drive with Carl from Nebraska and Lacy is accompanying Keith by plane (also from Nebraska).   Dad will decide what arrangements he wants to make (he is considering several options).  He had a difficult time last evening with nausea and weakness.  Hospice is available by phone 24 hours a day to assist with questions, concerns, and medications.  The jaundice is more apparent each day.  He slept his best night of rest last night with mother in their bedroom.  Today the construction continues, Dad is a bit tired - but as you know – he is a tough stubborn bugger using his walker to wheel himself about the house and is (of course) overseeing the floor project.   Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts.  

Dear family and friends,

Staring at the blank screen of my computer, I find myself stumbling through the process of typing the first line in this “letter” to you.  I am intimidated by the white space and my keyboard…wish they were pen and ink - no – more than that – at least a phone call and connection more personal than a keyboard since what I have to share is more than difficult.   My father is dying.    The prognosis was delivered to Dad and I about 8:00 Thursday evening an hour after he was checked into the hospital.  Earlier the same day, Dad had driven himself to the doctor for a check-up.   As many of you know, Dad is one TOUGH bugger who has dealt with several ailments and multiple surgeries during the past decade.  He suffered for many years with diverticulitis (a digestive disorder which creates various symptoms and plenty of pain to his abdomen, stomach and chest).  Several years ago he had surgery to remove a section of his colon.  Digestive symptoms and pain are a constant annoyance to him.  Understandably, father thought the symptoms and pain were caused by the diverticulitis.  He had grown quite used to pain in his mid-section and simply dealt with it.  The only reason Dad had a checkup scheduled on Thursday was because of a bizarre incident with his eye less than a week before.   A week ago (Friday), Dad woke up blind in one eye.  He went to an eye doctor who said he’d “never seen anything like it” – Dad was sent to an eye surgeon the same day.  The eye surgeon diagnosed the temporary blindness as a large blood clot (the blood itself was obstructing his vision).  Such a clot is usually caused by trauma to the eye, thus the doctor became concerned about Dad’s general health.  The eye surgeon contacted Dad’s personal physician to recommend a checkup.  Dad was sent home with instructions not to lay down, spent the weekend sleeping upright in his easy chair and his vision improved several days later.    The scheduled checkup was Thursday.  Dad drove himself to the hospital after a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and sausage.  Upon examination, the doctor sent dad to the hospital to be admitted for several tests.  The rest of the day was a frustrating round of hospital “stuff” – none of which was unfamiliar to my father since he is no stranger to tests, surgeries and procedures.  The sonogram technician told father that his gall bladder was in bad shape so when I went to see him the third time that day, we talked about the likely possibility of surgery to remove the gall bladder.  Dad was almost chipper…medical validation and a reasonable explanation for the keen suffering he’d experienced the past four weeks.  We waited for the doctor’s prognosis but were rather unprepared for the news shared once the doctor entered the room, closed the door, and sat down.   We were told that Dad’s gall bladder was totally “shot” along with his liver.  Most likely the organs were suffering from cancer and at this point the doctor believed there was a strong chance that dad was in stage four of pancreatic cancer.  We were told the diagnosis at this point was “not good.”  A cat scan the following morning would tell us more but most likely the cancer was pancreatic, had already spread throughout the vital organs, and there would not likely be any treatment for father at this stage.  The doctor was compassionate but clear.  I called my brothers, then drove to the house to tell mother.   The next 48 hours transpired in a vivid yet blurry chapter.  The final diagnosis came late Friday night after a long day of waiting, disbelief, bits of hope woven with grim fear.  The cat scan was delayed due to an high amount of trauma in ER caused by late spring winter-like road conditions.  The nature of the beast of pancreatic cancer is that it is aggressive and rapid.  The pancreas “floats” in the body - thus the organ remains symptom-less when attacked by cancer.  Only when cancer has spread to the other organs do symptoms appear.  By the time Dad was admitted to the hospital, his liver had already begun to shut down, his urine had been the color of dark beer for at least 3 weeks, he was weak, had jaundice, and had shortness of breath…ailments which father thought were caused by the diverticulitis.  Twenty four hours after dad was admitted into the hospital a “pick-line” was inserted into Dad’s arm as a permanent IV so we could have Hospice care provide pain medication when he returned home.  Less than twenty four hours after that (Saturday) I drove Dad home from the hospital.  The house had been taken over by equipment which Dad said appeared like “aliens” in their home: oxygen generator, home care supplies, etc.  Howard (my younger brother) arrived with his family.  Robin (my older brother) is on his way.   Dad’s symptoms since Thursday have progressed rapidly.  His body is shutting down.  He may have a few days or a few weeks (?)   If this were paper and ink, there would be many crumpled pages at my feet.  My apologies if this seems too long, too brief, or too impersonal.  Howard’s arrival at 8:00 pm allowed me to catch a few hours of sleep last night but I woke in the dark with the task of telling you.  Morning snuck upon me totally unnoticed while this e-mail transpired from a blank page to an attempt to share the beginning of an intense, awkward and deeply sad chapter of my father’s life.  We ask for your prayers, compassion, and good energy during this difficult time.  I will try to keep you updated by e-mail.  I must leave in a few minutes to take some walkie-talkies and anti-bacterial soap to the house.    Wish I could send a hug with this note.

Springtime in the Rockys has its usual smorgasbord of weather.  Sun. Snow. Sun. Rain. Sun.  Hail. Last Sunday the sun beckoned.   I loaded bikes in my truck and took a jaunt with two lovely ladies down Paradise Valley to Yellowstone Park.  We rode our bikes over bumpy moose and elk tracks on a lovely loop of dirt road below Electric Peak and near the Yellowstone River.  We munched on ice cream bars at Mammoth, then crossed the 45th parallel as we zipped down the paved road to the Boiling River where we soaked in the hot springs beneath a blue sky.  Sami and I goofing off in the store at Mammoth. Sami’s in the Coon Hat and I’m wearing…um…yes…that’s a stuffed moose.

The hot water flows down the falls into the Yellowstone River (murky from spring run-off – but soooo good for the body and soul!) Karen and I at the Boiling River.

Dozens of eggs + color + fuzz + markers + friends & children =   

FUN!!!

Returned from the desert yesterday. 

Red sandy camping gear was washed and put away.  Sandals, climbing pack, biking pack, helmets and headlamps are stowed away in the gear closet.  Last night my pink rose flannel sheets and fluffy pillows felt scrumptious.  The post-midnight-pee lacked the butt-chilling,  sandy-toe-under-the-stars-stumble of cold desert nights in camp.  My emotions are mixed.  I’ve only been home a handful of nights in the last four weeks – home sweet home feels good.  Snow blankets the hillside behind my cabin.  Dust and neglected plants compete for attention inside my cabin.  I am sporting big new bruises, a few scrapes, and a sunburned nose but am encouraged by how well my post-surgery body handled the activity. 

My body is healing. 

My heart still feels rough and raw like the desert rock.  Bare, exposed, burnished by sand and sun - a bit gritty.  Expansive.  I drank deep from the stars.  I snuggled, encouraged and laughed with the kids.  I dreamt that I had stuffed their colorful kickball under my shirt to see how pregnancy felt, did a deep easy knee bend with my shirt stretched tight and knew that pregnancy would have felt right.  I lay awake at night in a family tent big enough for a disco ball dance party, listened to the sweet sounds of kids sleeping, and simply felt.   Love and loss.  I marvel at the contrast of beauty and the harshness of a desert landscape heart.  Barren. 

Promising open spaces.

Gratitude and a grin.  Longing.   Deep sigh.  Big breath. 

Fresh start.        

Took me twenty minutes to find the biggest tree I’ve ever attempted to stuff into my little 18’ x 28’ cabin. I always pick a tree from a crowded bunch.  That way the remaining trees gain elbow room and sunlight while the harvested tree has a gimped up side (or two) that I can shove into the corner.  Once lit, the tree stays lit day and night until take-down-time. The magical traditional Christmas markets in Germany inspired me to collect my first few tree ornaments when I was seventeen.  I earned my exchange student tuition and airfare by painting bronzes for Harvey Ratty and Pamala Harr. A few graphic design jobs picked up on the side supplemented my savings.  Regardless to say, shopping funds were limited but I couldn’t resist picking out a few handmade beauties.  Memories of my first Christmas away from home flash vivid with sound, smell, and a mix of nostalgic emotion when I hang the miniature wooden Nutcracker ornament (complete with a mini moving nutcracker jaw).  Lordy was that really more than two decades ago?!   Hot spiced wine, roasted nuts, cold cheeks, festive little lights and a skyline framed by old European town square architecture are a vivid postcard memory of the romantic holiday spirit I experienced in a country 1/3 the size of my state back home.  Beyond the magic markets, Christmas was elusive and  homesickness leered.  My host family’s tradition meant that no trace of Christmas entered the house until Christmas Eve when the tree and presents were placed while we attended the Christmas program at the Bremer Cathedral.  A featureless sky was caught between between buildings in a snowless city.  I felt small, cold and a bit overwhelmed in the large cathedral where a priest spoke from his elevated box.  My host family engaged in a raucous frenzy of simultaneous gift unwrapping back at the flat where the tree had been put up complete with real candles.  A second celebration with the Münck family later that night gave me another whole flavor and depth of Christmas.  I was their guest in a small country church where I sang “Silent Nacht” with a reverence inspired by midnight mass and the knowledge that I was singing the song in it’s native tongue.  Afterwards I gulped greedily from the starry night, thankful for a relatively expansive patch of sky pierced by the humble church steeple.  The Münck’s gave me a string of freshwater pearls.  I blushed when I unwrapped the underwear set.  Big white navel-swallowing undies with a matching undershirt had been gifted “to keep me warm” since I rode my bike everywhere.  I never wore the undies out of fear of embarrassment in the off-chance I got run over in the city and discovered dead or wounded in “granny panties.”

We’ve had a hot week. Thank goodness for delicious cool mountain breeze nights. Perhaps a snow photo would almost feel good. Taken the 4th of July on a ridge below the summit of Ramshorn Peak, my nieces enjoyed the huge snow bank. Just in case you are wondering…yes! Of course we had a giggly fun ridge top snowball fight!  

 

 

I love seeing just who is drawn to what when it comes to the basket full of finished original works on paper. Each child got to select one as a gift from me. Here's what they chose: "Henri" chosen by Chloe (13 years old)    

 

 

 

 

 

"Little Boo" chosen by Kiera (11 years old)

 

 

 

 

 

"Leala" chosen by Zach (15 years old)

Sweet little nieces tagged their first summit! Ramshorn Peak - 8 miles, 10, 223 feet - total troopers, super strong, no complaints, LOTS of fun. Snow ball fights, fried chicken, chocolate, watermelon and a late night soak at Chico complete with pool games and fireworks.

July 2 My cute little nieces are visiting from MN and we're having a blast...Livingston parade...rodeo...art fair...slumber party...cotton candy, fries and Italien ice. yum and fun

March 30, 2009  

Stuffed today with kooky creativity, burly business, house-keeping (even scrubbed the bathroom), family care (took my father home from the hospital, visited with Flynn's parents at ICU, and climbed 3 pitches of ice in the evening until 8pm…should I mention the scrumptious dinner out…the big margarita…the soothing soak…the fine companionship? Awesome start to the week!  

    Rapelling off of the falls in the late evening...fresh snow falling...

 

 

March 29, 2009

I left my father’s side Friday evening to stay with my mom in Bozeman. Two young climber friends got out of the hospital elevator and I realized instantly that the family in the ICU waiting room is there for Flynn; young-adventuress-big-smile-super-kind Flynn who rolled her car a week and a half ago. She was returning with her brother through Gallatin Canyon after a day of teaching ski classes at Big Sky. She broke her neck and crushed her pelvis. They both had seatbelts on, her brother was uninjured. Our small climbing community is still not over the shock and concern for LizAnn after the accident on Mt Cowen left her paralyzed months ago. Once again the climbing community has rallied with love and support for one of our “own” cherished super sweet and adventurous gal. The plan was to transport Flynn to Craig on Wednesday (the same rehabilitation center where LizAnn went after her spine injury)…so I hadn’t connected the dots…and had no idea the family in the ICU waiting room belonged to little Flynn. Lung complications have kept them from transporting Flynn, in fact…the complications took a turn for the worse yesterday which necessitated sedating her, putting a feeding tube in and scheduling a tracheotomy this morning. She won’t be able to talk when she wakes up…terrifying to someone who cannot move or feel below her neck. Just a few months ago, Flynn inquired often about LizAnn’s progress after LizAnn’s accident and remarked that she did not think she could deal the way LizAnn did. Dealing she is, struggling for breath and life, showing grace and bravery. My heart aches for her parents and their pain. The journey by LizAnn’s side has been poignant and gut-wrenchingly painful…but is no comparison to a parent’s pain. Parents were not part of the intensity of that first month in ICU with LizAnn. The sedation, the breathing tube, and respirator allowed her parents their first break in the bedside vigil last night. They got a hotel room and showers for the first time in 10 days since the accident. Much needed rest, hopefully they feel strengthened for the scary moments today when Flynn wakes from surgery and realizes she cannot speak. I am home after a relatively simple vigil with my parents. Dad is recuperating from his surgery, feeling good enough to be grumpy about his breakfast. Dinner last night was shared with a big batch of girlfriends by candlelight during the 60 minute Earth Hour where many people from around the world turned off their lights and power for one hour. Felt good for me to reconnect with some of the women in my own little town. I read updates about Flynn and her family before bed last night, (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/flynnmurray/journal) and became too pumped with concern and emotion to sleep. The morning brought thick winter whiteness, trees veiled and snow falling. My first cup of tea had Bailey’s, two more cups (without Bailey’s) and a number of phone conversations later and it is time to write for the April 1st performance at Pine Creek

March 27, 2009

A family is camped out in the waiting room outside ICU. Red suitcases line one wall. Small coffee tables have open bags of candy with bows and empty coffee cups stacked three-deep. I offer a smile each time I pass them; a smile bright and bold as the red suitcases - packed with comfort, sincere compassion, strength, and warmth. I wonder how long the family has been here and wish I could offer more. My father is recovering from hip surgery…his second. Shortly after sunrise, I watched Dr Gammon write his initials in black ink on Dad’s white thigh next to the “yes!” written earlier and circled in ink by the prep nurse before the anesthesiologist came in to wheel Dad down the hall. The sunny blue sky morphed into a dreary gray while I kept vigil with Mom. The long over-due surgery went well…a relief considering the complications possible when replacing a hip on Dad’s “polio side.” Father survived three separate polio attacks as a child. He’s always had a “polio side” with one leg noticeably smaller than the other. Throughout life he continued to defy medical expectations for his level of physical achievement despite the floppy foot, lack of muscle, and mild deformity. The same doctor replaced his “good” hip five years ago in an attempt to offer some relief. The science to attempt surgery on the “polio side” did not exist back then. Half a decade of incredible pain was endured before science offered the confidence and knowledge to operate in the region wrecked by the mysterious virus. He’s a tough bugger, and that is putting it mildly. Evening approaches. Pale blue patches of sky offer ribbons of cheer; breaking up the grayness. I write while sitting next to the hospital bed with my sleeping father. Our day was long but blessedly simple. My thoughts and healing energy go out to the family in the ICU waiting room, wishing them a future of sunshine and blue skies.