Circling The Globe

     September began, as all Septembers do, with it's frenetic influx of activity. The beginning of a new school term ushered in new schedules, new books, new assignments, and  new activities. After just a few weeks of all this newness, we needed something old, so Mom, Sissey and I headed to the ancient hills of the Appalachian mountains. It was to be a quiet weekend of lazy, coffee mornings and meandering, afternoon drives.
     Our only mission was to find the whereabouts of a backwoods cult that lived deeply embedded in the smokey blue forests-- a group we had studied in one of Sissey's classes and that had piqued our interest. We knew the general direction of this hillbilly clan and were hoping to find the locale of their intensely private, close-knit, and incestuous compound for no other reason than we wanted to satisfy our curiosity by seeing where they lived. So on Saturday, we headed for the forest, driving cautiously around twists and turns, taking only one wrong road before finally finding the landmark Sissey's professor had given us: several rickety trailers meshed together, with a toilet perched on top  as a smokestack. This curious sight marked the beginning boundaries of the compound. We had found the clan.
      A man-made mountain of decaying cars, rusting bikes,  and a dilapidated school bus formed a formidable fence around the entrance to the community. A few pick-up trucks blocked the dirt drive, where several barefoot children were passing a puppy back and forth as they ran through the dust. The paved road ended here, and our only option was to turn around in the drive-- which was occupied by unfriendly and glaring characters who neither returned our hesitant waves nor our nervous smiles-- or to keep on driving down the dirt road that headed into the hills.  I wasn't about to ask this crew to move over so we could  make a three-point turn, didn't want them to think we had come just to stare, so with a timid wave, we headed on down the dirt road as if that had been our original destination all along.  Having no idea where we were going, I just prayed that a trunk load of buckshot would not be  our only communication as we cautiously crept past the clan. 
      The road was now rutted, unpaved, and desolate, but  power lines  ran along it's edges, and we figured it would eventually lead us to some civilized place. After about an hour of driving deeper and deeper into the woods, I admit I became a little nervous about our ultimate destination.  I had been secretly praying that we weren't headed into a hillbilly trap, a hidden gorge where curious gawkers vanished, never to be seen again, and kept reassuring Sissey that , yes, I did know where we were , and yes, this was a real road.  We kept following those power lines, my only plan being to keep moving forward  until we came out somewhere, which in the philosophy of mountain driving usually works. Eventually, my theory tested true, and the dirt road became gravel, which turned into a rough macadam, and finally, a certified, Department of Transportation "Stop" sign loomed at the crossroads ahead.   I put on my blinkers and turned right toward paved roads, yellow lines, and houses. We actually passed a car at this point, and I muttered a quiet "Hallelujah" as I knew we were back on the road to civilization.
      Once an adventure is safely endured, it gets into your system and you want to repeat it, so the next morning, hankering for another bumpy drive, we decided to take a detour on the drive home and wander through an area known as "The Globe." For those uninitiated in backwoods touring, there are many mountain communities quietly tucked into the nooks and  crannies of lumbering hills, reachable only by rough trails of dirt and gravel.  These drives through canopies of elms and oaks, among groves of rhododendrons and mountain laurel, past trickling streams and secret waterfalls, around hairpin turns that leave your stomach on the curve ahead--these are the drives you want to experience in the mountains, these are the drives we would seek out on our weekend get-aways, these are the drives that beckoned to our city-souls. So with pimento cheese sandwiches packed on ice and our suitcases loaded into the car, we decided to take the road less travelled on our journey home from the hills. That Sunday morning, we had set our sights on circling "The Globe."
     When we left  home on Friday, we had packed lightly for our quick weekend trip, grabbing just the essentials needed for two days travel. Some things had been forgotten, but we ran to the Walmart in Boone and picked up the essential undergarments, the only trouble being the pack of underwear I grabbed included not just the appropriate and proper shade of white but also one pair of hot pink cotton panties. Scandalous, I agree, but sometimes you just have to live on the edge.  That morning, as we had packed to head home, Mom was horrified to realize she had to wear those "horrid pink panties," and as she dressed, said, "I certainly do hope nothing happens to me while I'm wearing these!" I laughed at her as I loaded the bags into the car, eager to get on the road and start our last adventure of the weekend, not really concerned that my mother was dressed in the pantaloons of a tart. I just wanted to get started on our trip to "The Globe," and I certainly didn't expect anything to happen.

     We drove slowly down the parkway until reaching the turn that would take us into the thickly wooded area, bumped off the asphalt onto the washboard road, and started the trek down into the Wilson Creek Gorge.  It was a beautiful, crisp morning and as the sunlight filtered through the thick growth of trees, it left a dappled pattern of yellow light against dark green leaves. We "oohed" and "ahhed" as we drove, pointing out waterfalls, patches of iron weed and Joe-Pye, an occasional burst of early fall foliage. We passed not a single car, not a solitary soul, not one hint of the outside world.  It was a perfect drive on a perfect Sunday morning.
      About halfway down into "The Globe," Moma suddenly gasped and said she had a terrible pain in her hip, the same hip she had broken in May.  She rubbed the affected area and I slowed down a bit to ease the bumpiness of the drive.  Several seconds later, she again gasped and said the pain was terrible and she needed to get out and stretch her leg.  I found a spot on the road where I could ease the car over without tumbling down into the ravine, and we got out. She walked towards the back of the car, gazed over the edge of the mountain as she stretched, commented on some trash someone had tossed down the hill, then suddenly,  gasped again and grabbed onto the back of the car.
      "I don't feel well," she groaned as I rushed to her side.
       "Moma, what's the matter, what's wrong?" I asked.
      She moaned again, " I don't feel well at all," and she slumped further forward. 
      I grabbed her under the arms and tried to pull her towards the front seat of the car.
      "Moma, come on, let's get you seated in the car, " I cried, frantic as I tried to move her forward. She was dead weight, not budging an inch, and slumping further and further onto my shoulder.  I tried to hold her upright, but suddenly, her head flopped rearward, her eyes rolled back, and she crashed to her knees.
     "Sissey, call 911!" I screamed, my hands shaking so hard the skin almost fell off.
      "I'm trying!" she cried, "But we don't have a signal.'
      "Keep trying, keep trying!" I hollered, as I held onto Moma and tried to feel for vital signs.
      "Oh Sissey, she's not breathing! I think she's gone. Moma's dead!" I yelled, panic-stricken and frightened as I tried to hold her up.
      We were alone in the woods and I was holding what I thought was my dead mother in my arms.  I just wanted to curl up and die with her, not knowing what to do. I couldn't move her, couldn't lift her into the car by myself, couldn't let go for fear she would tumble down the side of the mountain, couldn't get a signal to call 911, couldn't get to Sissey's walker to get her out of the car, couldn't even think as to what to do next.  It was at that exact moment we saw the first sign of human life since we had turned onto the godforsaken road that led into "The Globe." A mountain man in a pickup truck appeared out of nowhere, an angel in a Ford with a white mustache.
      "Help! I need help!" I screamed as I flagged him down with one hand.
        He stopped in the middle of the road, rolled down the window, and slowly said, "Can I hep ya?"
       "Yes, yes, help me, help me! I don't know what's wrong with my mother."
       He strolled over to the car, took a look at my still unconscious mother, and drawled out in a slow mountain voice, "Do ya think it mite be sumpin' she et?"
      I couldn't help but stare at him, slack-jawed and stunned.
       "Hell no it ain't sumpin she et," I wanted to scream at him,  but afraid to anger the only hope for help we had, I frantically answered instead, "No sir, I don't think it's something she ate. I'm afraid she might have had a stroke or a heart attack. Please, help me get her up."
        He calmly lifted her into the car, then told me, "You'd better turn on 'round and head back up the road, cuz thare ain't nuttin down thatta way."
       Like a bolt of lightening, we tore out of the holler in Mom's little Buick, still trying to get a cell signal, searching for the paved road, crying and yelling and full of panic. By the time we got to the top of the mountain, Mom had opened her eyes and started talking. By the time we reached the road to Blowing Rock, she was back to her old self.
        "I am not going to the hospital," she protested when I told her where I was headed.  "I just want a cold co-cola and to get back home."
       "You're going to the hospital, Moma. You're going."
        "Well, I'm not going to one up here. You'll have to take me to Charlotte."
        I didn't care which hospital we went to, as long as she remained conscious until we got there.  I barrelled down  Highway 321 with shaking hands and a heavy foot, not caring if the police pulled me, actually sort of hoping they would, just wanting to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. I had one hand on the steering wheel, one hand on my cell phone making frantic calls, one eye on Moma and the other on Sissey in the back seat.  There had to be angels in that car as we made that mad dash down the hill, but I was focused on one thing and one thing only: get Moma to the hospital, and get her there fast.
        About halfway there, perhaps thirty minutes outside of Charlotte, Moma calmly turned to me and said, " I knew something would happen to me in these panties. Beth, you're going to have to pull over on the side of the road.  I am not going there in this pink underwear.  Stop a minute so I can change."
      I looked at her and yelled, "Oh No! You've had a stroke!"
      That was the only explanation  I could think of. She had to be incoherent, delusional to think I was going to stop for a wardrobe change.  I was driving at the speed of light to get her to the hospital as quickly as possibly, hopefully before she lost consciousness again, and she wanted me to pull over so she could change her underwear?
       We made it to the hospital in a little under an hour, with no stops for the pink panties. I  grabbed a wheelchair and rushed Mom into the emergency room, where my sister and Dad were already waiting. The nurse whisked her off to begin assessing her situation, check her vitals, and place her in an examining room. It wasn't long before the doctor entered our crowded little cubicle.   The very first thing Mom said when he began to examine her was, " I am just so embarrassed over this pink underwear," as if he really cared what his previously comatose patient was wearing beneath her hospital-issue cotton gown.  I sweetly looked over at her and said, "Moma, I've got your black thong in the bag. Would you like that?"
     And that was the last we heard of the pink underwear.
     After two days of testing, the only thing the doctors could determine was that Mom had experienced some kind of vaso-vagal syncope. In other words, she fainted-- out colder than a dead possum on a country road-- possibly a result of bumping down old mountain roads on her recently replaced hip, possibly caused by pressure on a nerve and a drop in blood pressure. Whatever it was, she had swooned like a professional and had definitely fainted.
     But one thing was for sure. It def-nit-ly warn't sumpin she et.
    

Jump, Carolina, Jump!

     Sundays in the south can be rather slow, creating a perfect post-church scenario for lazy drives and long naps, so today, being a holiday weekend and all, we did just that. First, we stopped for a fabulous, family dinner at the Front Porch, where I really wanted the crispy, crunchy,golden brown, fried-to-perfection chicken, but feeling guilty, ordered the healthier baked version instead. That, of course, left room for steamed cabbage, broccoli casserole, raisin carrot salad and a hot buttered biscuit, which is what we call the "Weight Watchers" platter down here, because I didn't order the chicken fried.
     Feeling fat and full, we needed to drive around a little to let all that food settle and digest. We had picked up Uncle Henry earlier for church and lunch, so we dropped him back at the assisted living facility, or as he not-so-affectionately calls it, "The Prison."  He currently resides there until he completes physical therapy rehab, at which point Dr. Sam will set him free and let him move back home. He is, of course, counting the days.
     We dutifully signed him back in, wondering as always what they would do to him if we didn't sign him back in. Would they set him out on the porch and make him stay there until we came back or give him some demerits or maybe a spanking? I don't know, it just seems silly to have to sign a grown man in and out, as if he is on probation, but rules are rules, and we complied. The front chairs were packed with lonely souls, the ones who had no place to go, and they were all sitting by the door to see which lucky residents were getting picked up or dropped off for the afternoon.  It was sad and depressing, as always, to leave him there.
   My husband had never visited one of Chester's many claims to fame, our regional airport, so the drive home took a detour for that destination. Our community may be small, but our airport has one of the largest landing strips in the south, with several mile-long runways which were built to accomodate cargo planes during WWII.  As you might expect, there are no commercial flights and very little private air traffic coming in and out of Chester, but two major ventures have resulted from having a regulation length air strip in a rural community: gliding sailplanes and sky-diving. Today was a big day at the hangar, with sky-divers from up and down the east coast gathered for a holiday weekend of jumping out of airplanes with nothing but a nylon windsock between them and death.  As an added bonus,  a team of gold-medal skydivers were there practicing formation jumps and swoop landings. These were the big honchos of the parachuting world, and watching their butter-soft, spot-on landings was an impressive sight.
     We stood by the edge of the airstrip and watched the jumpers suit up, march across the tarmac, and climb into the waiting plane. With the side doors still open and the jumpers waving to the watchers, the plane taxied across the runway, soared into the sky, and began the climb to it's desired destination of 13,500 feet. We watched the plane climb, climb, climb, then begin a long, slow circle, higher and higher, finally leveling off and turning back towards the airport.  Small, black dots began appearing in the sky, the black dots gradually grew into colorful sweeps of para-sails, and before long, we could make out the dangling legs of the jumpers.  They glided gracefully through the sky, with some of the more advanced turning summersaults and twisting in spirals on the way down.  Upon landing, it wasn't hard to distinguish the professionals from the novices, as the former made gentle, smooth descents and the latter crashed hard and clumsily into the dust.
     After we had watched a few jumps, one of the managers, a former Special Operations soldier with several tours of duty in Afghanistan, came by to talk to us.  As a result of a severe war injury, he had spent several months in a coma, then a wheelchair, and  finally a walker. Fully recovered and jumping for sport now, he understood the frustrations of limited mobility. He was excited to see Sissey there and eager for her to experience the thrill of jumping out of an airplane and floating gently back to earth. He said there were still spots available and asked if we were ready to go up. I wasn't quite dressed for sky-diving, still wearing the crisp white skirt with a coordinating  teal and camel jacket in which I had been singing hymns earlier. Plus, in the event of a hard, dirty landing,  I wasn't too eager to ruin the fabulous Rangoni pearlescent Italian flats that I had picked up on my last trip to Charleston.
     "Don't worry," he said, "We have jump suits available for you. You can just suit up here and be good to go."
     My second worry was that there was a weight limit, and having just eaten a full Sunday brunch, I was a little concerned that I might be too heavy for a safe lift-off. He assured me, however, that I was within the safety zone, although he hadn't seen the plate of chicken I had consumed earlier, so I had my doubts about his professional judgement on that one.
     Finally, if we were jumping today, it was going to be a group effort, as I was not willing to meet my maker alone in case of an equipment failure. It was going to be one-for-all and all-for-one or not-at-all; we would take the risk together or it would be a no-go.  I had some major concerns, however, about how Sissey would make the landing. We would be jumping in tandem with a professional, he explained, and when it came time to touch down, we would have to lift our legs up and hold them straight out as the pro made the touch-down. This would keep the level of bodily harm to both ourselves and the tandem pilot to a minimum and ensure the safest possible reentry to land.  At this point, the manager said he needed to clear it with his boss, to make sure that it would be possible for her to make the jump, but he did not think it would be a problem.
     "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back," he told us as he headed into the hangar in search of his boss.  A few minutes later, he returned.
     "Well, I have some good news and some bad news," he began, and I could quickly tell which way this conversation was headed.  Much to his dismay, the boss would not give the clearance for Sissey to make the jump.
      "It's a liability issue," he said, "but more than that, if something did go wrong, it would be devestating for the tandem pilot."
      I agreed with him, but wanted to add it would be pretty devestating for the jumpee and her parents as well if anything went wrong. 
     "The good news," he continued, "Is that there is a facility in Fayetteville that has a free-fall wind tunnel. You can go there and get the experience of free-falling without the risk of a crash landing. It's a pretty impressive place, where they train professionals and amateurs, and it would be a great place to get a chance to jump."
      He was as disappointed as Sissey that today would not be the day she would leap from an airplane and glide back to earth.  I had some mixed emotions, feeling both relief and regret, but with my well-shod feet planted firmly on the ground, I headed back to the safety of the car, ready for a nice long nap in my warm, safe bed.
      And somehow, I knew that we'd be calling Fayetteville tomorrow.

Year Three

    YEAR THREE..... A moment, a season, a year, a life....without stopping to breathe or blink, without a sound or a touch, it goes by, that phantom called time, that invisible ticking of our lifespan, and it latches onto our souls and whisks us through life and we are left looking back and looking forward and wondering "when?" and "how?" and "why?" and sometimes even "if?"   It is too fast, that short stretch of time we are given, and from our first mewling breath until our last dying gasp, whether we have been blessed with many years or few, they all pass in a fleeting and fading moment, a reality that will one day be no more, and our season will be done.
     I have crossed the midpoint of life: the marker where you have lived longer than the years you have left, and the years you have left are guaranteed to pass more quickly than your first five decades; and it forces one to ponder and re-evaluate and assess the journey thus far.
      It is humbling to stand at this point, looking back, looking forward, knowing, and wondering, and wishing for a replay button,or perhaps, a second chance. There are paths that have been taken, and wrongly so. There are byways that have been missed, and sadly so.  Yet there have been treks that led to wondrous and marvelous discoveries-- good roads, fruitful roads, bountiful roads.  The monumental task has been to keep moving forward, to not stand still, to never become idle, to search for the productive path, to reach a destiny.
    It is ironic to be standing at  the midpoint in my life while simultaneously standing  at the midpoint of my daughter's college career.  I am half-way done with life. She is half-way done with college. I have made my choices. Hers are free to be made.  Bittersweet, looking at life from such a perspective, knowing I have chosen my journey, knowing I will not travel with her to the end of all hers. She will one day forge ahead on her own, blazing trails of her own, and rightly so; but for now, college is a journey we have endured together. The irony rests in the fact that because of each other, and in spite of each other, we have both grown.
      It is a journey that seemed daunting and impossible and overwhelming a mere two years ago, that humid August morning when we packed our car with overstuffed bags, boxes of books, piles of shoes, an extra walker, a spare wheelchair, a very nervous poodle. We filled the tank with gas and silently drove three states south, curious about college and nervous about classes. But now, at this point, from this perspective, it seems to have passed too quickly. Two years, a split second on the wings of time, and we have come so far, so fast.
     Year three....how did it happen so quickly that we are at year three, at this mid-point in the journey? Just when we have gotten used to the routine, used to the schedule, used to running up and down the interstate between Virginia and South Carolina, used to the pattern we now know so well? Just gotten used to it all, and then, only then,  to realize we are half-way to the finish line, and this voyage will end?
     But for now, we travel together, and the journey is good. 

10 things I've learned from being robbed while in France

TEN THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM BEING ROBBED WHILE IN FRANCE

1. DUST YOUR FURNITURE!
 Contrary to popular belief, fingerprints do not stick to dusty furniture.  One would think that all those guilty fingerprints smeared on your dust riddled furniture would be a boon for the detectives. Au contraire, mon ami, au contraire. Fingerprints do not stick to dust! Therefore, polish all your furniture with a reputable lemon oil or beeswax polish before any foreign travel.

2. THIEVES ONLY TAKE THE GOOD STUFF.
  Robbers today are quite selective. They won't touch the fake jewelery, not even the good fakes.  Therefore, buy only Tiffany or Cartier. The replacement value is much higher.

3. DON'T BOTHER HIDING THINGS.
 Think your treasures are safely tucked on that top shelf in the bedroom or closet in the back of the basement? Ha! I say, Ha!  People brazen enough to rob you are also brazen enough to go through every drawer, closet,  shelf, and secret space in your house.  Therefore, just leave everything of value  in a huge pile by the front door with a sign that says, "This is the good stuff. Take it and leave the rest of my house alone."

4.  HIRE A GOOD YARDMAN.
 Amazing what one can learn from a trustworthy yard crew.  They will notice everything out of place in your yard and collect evidence that even the best detectives might miss.  They are extremely loyal, will try to track you down even if you are in France, and they tell you everything. Therefore, pay your yard crew extremely well and make them a fruitcake every Christmas.

5. YOU MAY NOT BE PRESENT WHEN THE DETECTIVE INTERROGATES THE SUSPECTS.  Believe it or not, criminals have rights, you do not. According to the law enforcement officials, it would not be appropriate for you to sit in on the interrogations and hold a hot lamp over the guilty parties as they are being questioned. Even when you respond that it is not appropriate for criminals to enter your house and leave with guns, televisions, electronics, and jewelry, you are still not allowed to sit in on the interrogation process. Therefore, take a Xanax and wait for the police report.

6. IT HELPS TO SHOP.
  Retail therapy is very helpful in the healing process.  After one has lost treasured possessions and  had the security of their home stolen, it speeds up the healing process to engage in a little therapeutic replacement shopping. Therefore, after a robbery, head to the mall.

7.  POODLES ARE NOT GUARD DOGS.
 No matter how fiercely they bark, they are, after all, poodles. Poodles are social animals and like a crowd, even if that crowd has invaded your home and is walking out the door with your stuff.  Therefore, get a Rottweiler.

8. BE THANKFUL FOR THE GOOD THINGS.
 Getting robbed is bad. Getting taken advantage of is bad. Having your home raped by strangers is bad. But, you had a wonderful trip, great flights, good health, fabulous pictures, treasured memories, incredible travels. Things can be replaced. Life goes on. Therefore, focus on the good things and let the bad things work themselves out.   

9.  LET THE POLICE KNOW YOU ARE GOING TO BE OUT OF TOWN.
 Call your local police force and let them know you are going to be out of town.  If there are hundreds of kids drinking beer by your pool, that is probably not a good sign. If there are hoards of kids hanging out in your yard, that is probably not a good sign.  If there are tons of  cars  parked in your yard and  along the neighboring roads, that  is probably not a good sign. Therefore, have a second set of eyes watching your house; preferably adult,  legal, law enforcement eyes.

10. NEVER HIRE AN 18 YEAR OLD TO WATCH YOUR HOUSE.
 Eighteen year old kids do not think like fifty year old adults. Therefore, hire an adult to watch your house. Enough said.

The French Diaries

NOUS SOMMES ICI!!!
J'aime aller à Paris!

Au revoir, les États-Unis.
Paris, Paris nous sommes ici!!!!!!!!

Oh-la-la et oui, oui, OUI!!!!!!!

St. Chappelle et Notre Dame,

a little rain

along the Seine

Croissants and crepes, cafe au lait

a little shopping along the way;

all in all,it's been a very good day

as we enjoy la belle français!!!!!

PARIS!! 

Eiffel Tower to the top

Champs Elysee just to shop

Arc de Triomphe, Ferris wheel ride

stop at cafe  riverside

Tour the jardins de Tuilleries

...stroll the streets of old Parie

tomorrow we head for Normandie

and then it`s off to the Loire Valley

all in all it`s been another good day

as we still enjoy la belle français!!!!!!!!!

NORMANDIE

The hallowed beaches of Normandie;

The graves at American Cemetery,
For 9000 soldiers who shed their blood

Perfect white crosses solemnly stood

Row by row; side by side

...Each soldier's fate rests by the tide.

The price of freedom has been bought

By every bitter battle fought

and as those fallen warriors slept,

I stood beside their graves and wept.

LOIRE VALLEY

I think that I was meant to be

A princess in the Loire Valley

Stroll the jardins of Chanonceaux

Waltz my way through each Chateau

Amboise and Blois both suit me fine

...Moats and towers, boats and wine

Yes, I could live the Chateau life

If I were born a monarch's wife...

but wait; I think some lost their head

and all the rest are now long dead

so perhaps it's best to be

simply little bourgeoise me!

VERSAILLES

Versailles! Il est un grand château!

Il est vieux et il et beau!

Fountains flowing

Gilt is glowing

Jardins growing

Everywhere.....

Louis lived large and he lived fine;

loved to dance and wine and dine;

Mirrored halls

And Painted walls

Courtly balls--

Life had no cares.....

But when the people had no bread

Marie said "Give them cake instead!"

"We have no cake!"

the people cried

as many of them

starved and died:

Discontent

was in the air.

The opulence was overwhelming;

Revolution soon was swelling

"Off with their head!"
the people said

and soon the monarchy was dead;

It was only fair.

Versailles! The people rule once more

le grand chateau! Louis est mort;

Marie et les enfants aussi

Le monarchie; il est fini!

The fate of all is history

vanished in thin air.

AU REVOIR!
So now our time in France is through
Au revoir cafes, the Seine, the Louvre,
the crusty breads, the cheese, the wine,
the chocolaterie so tres divine
the chateaux and boulangeries
the croissants and pasteseries
I'll miss the Paris air at night
the city all illlumined in light

The cafe cremes ,the cobbled streets
 the crepes-- so hot and light and sweet!
Au revoir, Paris! I'll come again
and stroll once more along the Seine
but until the day I do
I'll smile when I remember you......

Wanted: one old-fashioned shoe dog

     Whatever happened to good ole dogs that just ate shoes? That's all I really ever wanted-- an adorable, scruffy, floppy little puppy that chewed up my slippers, perhaps an occasional pump or two, maybe an old sneaker. You know the type, the ones you can laughingly swat on the head with a newspaper, saying "Bad dog, bad dog," as they guiltily look up at you with a fuzzy slipper hanging out of their mouth. But, oh no, not for us a mere shoe-eating dog. We had to have poodles. Standard poodles. Big, smart, finicky, fussy dogs that think they are too good to feast on  something you would solely put on your feet. These purebred types, they go for the high ticket items....furniture, rugs, accessories, appliances...expensive things that you can't just run out and replace when one gets destroyed. Poodles are tricky. They think about the damage they are inflicting. They want it to hurt. They want to max out your credit card when you have to replace the latest project they've gnawed to pieces.  I think it's a power play, a poodle ploy just to let us simple humans know those crafty canis familaris are really in control, that they are smarter than your average homo sapien.    
     We knew this about poodles. We understood this about poodles. We worried about this with poodles. And yet, we still went out and brought home poodles. Poodles!  Knowing full well that our home was going to be invaded by an animal with an attitude. Not only that, the attitude was a fur-wrapped termite the size of  a small cow.  Gus, Rhett, Sugar Pie, Auggie....a pestiferous poodle pattern  repeated over and over and over and over for the last twenty years. It was the eighth wonder of the world that we still had a house standing after decades of these poodles with a penchant for period pieces.

      Our last poodle had been the largest and hungriest so far, chomping his way through every room in the house.  The late, great Auggie was eighty-five pounds of curly white wool, innocent as a lamb but with fangs that could easily rip through a sideboard. He preferred mahogany over walnut, Chippendale over Queen Anne. He left a path of destruction that often left me in tears, and over the course of  his puppy stage,  he managed to devour eight dining room chairs, three oriental rugs, two legs on the breakfast room set, and an antique card table that had belonged to my grandmother. Miraculously, he survived his teething period only because he could run faster than I could catch him and because  he was smart enough to hide until I had cooled off. After he finished cutting his canines, he settled into an affectionate and lovable member of the family, and I dearly loved him, even though I always eyed him suspiciously around my mahogany. Sadly, in March, he suddenly died from an autoimmune disease, an illness I believed was caused by ingesting pounds and pounds of wood splinters and carpet fibers.  My husband deeply mourned the loss of his big, ravenous poodle, and to fill the void left behind by eighty-five pounds of  lumbering dog, we  decided to surprise him with a shaggy haired, thick-snouted, red -headed poodle puppy that we fittingly named "Alf."   We quickly discovered, however, that unlike his television namesake,  this "Alien Life Form" did not have a taste for mere kitties.  He preferred, much like his poodle predecessors,  household accessories.
      Pillows, picture frames, willow baskets, tilt-top tables, porcelain vases, computer cords ....all were fair game in the mind of this poodle. Alf had only been part of the family for a month, just long enough to settle in and take inventory, when he started munching his way through the house.  From living room to dining room to den to study, across the mid-section, through the back, and down the center; bedrooms and bathrooms had all been inventoried and invaded and tasted and sampled as he began to eat his way from one end to the other. I bought chew toys and squeaky toys and busy bones and crunchy treats, but they did  little more than take the edge off his appetite for timber, and fresh little teeth marks began appearing on the edges of furniture. He soon expanded into more than just the wooden legs of all my tables and chairs. He was a renaissance dog, with a growing taste for art and furniture and accessories, and a curiosity for even the more mundane of household items.
       He attacked the fountain on the front porch with a regular fury, dove headfirst into all the toilets to splash water everywhere, played leapfrog on the sofas,  left slobbery noseprints investigating every window in the house, nibbled off the scant remaining fringe on my rugs, and  once almost made an international call while chewing on the cordless phone. His ambitious antics only served  to work up an appetite, a furious craving to chew on something solid and substantial.  I  tried to sabotage his tastes and train him to eat shoes, leaving slippers and loafers and sandals lying all over the house, thinking surely a stinky sneaker or a well-used hunting boot would get his attention.  But alas, this doggie would not bite! Not a single sole had been so much as sniffed. Just like Auggie, he was purely a house dog.


Guilty as charged!

       And so, he continued to gobble his way through the house, each day finding some new and tasty tidbit to inhale.  This morning, for breakfast, he devoured a silk braided tassel that was hanging from the skeleton key of my walnut corner cupboard.  As a mid-morning snack, he polished off two needlepoint pillows-- a matching set of Whippets that  had proudly perched on the Queen Ann wing chairs in the living room. I discovered his little feast by following a mysterious trail down the hall, a Hansel and Gretel trail of white pillow stuffing and fluff, a trail which led right to the tip of his guilty little snout. The poor, demolished, decapitated whippets lay dead on the floor, entrails spilling onto the rug, bits of fluff and thread scattered nearby.  Alf merely looked up at me as if to say, "They didn't even taste all that great. Grab me a footstool, will you? I'm still hungry."
     My days of chasing dogs were long over. I had willingly brought the rascal into my home; I had purchased the pup with my own hand-written check.  It had been my decision, and mine alone, to surprise my husband (the same man who had recently announced there would be no more poodles) with a new puppy.  I knew what I was doing. I knew what the consequences would be, and that made me almost as guilty as Alf.
       So I simply picked up the mauled pillows and tossed them in the trash with a sigh. I patted him behind the ears and gently said, "Bad dog, bad dog," as I headed to the closet for the vacuum cleaner and a bone.

The days of vines and roses.....

      You can approach life in one of two ways: either with a sense of gloom, despair, and sadness or with a sense of humor and a feeling of relief that at least you've made it this far.  Life can come at you hard and fast, but if you face all the challenges with a little laughter, it certainly eases the strain.  Things happen that are out of our control, and it always feels like once that downward spiral of tragedy starts, it gains momentum and gets bigger and bigger as it tries to pull you down with it. The only way to survive is to find something strong and steady to cling to, and with a sense of hope and awe, a lot of prayer and a little laughter, you can get through it and start the uphill climb toward normal once again.
     For our family,  the downward spiral started on Memorial Day.  Within a period of two weeks, my mother had fallen and broken her hip, a close friend's son had died, our beloved Aunt Virginia had gone home to glory, and french class was in full swing. It was, may I please say, a bit stressful, but through it all, we held on to our faith and found peace and hope and reasons to laugh.
     The broken hip was just the beginning, occurring on the first day of class. On this particularly hot May afternoon, my mother decided to do a little weeding and deadheading while waiting for us to arrive home from school. Dad had warned her to stay out of the 98 degree heat and to wait until our return, but when he fell asleep in his lift-off recliner, she slipped out of the house and headed to her flower bed. 
      Things were going well in the garden until she spied a muscadine vine strangling her climbing Queen Elizabeth rose. The woody vine had crept up the arbor and was clinging to the thorny canes of the old rose, and if it didn't come down, the rose would soon be consumed by the invasive plant.  Mama wrapped her hands around the muscadine, determined to free her delicate rose, and with a determined yank, gave it a pull.  It was a game of tug-o-war between Mama and the vine, both sides holding on and pulling for dear life, but that sinewy old vine finally snapped, and when it did, it shot Mama back like a pebble out of a sling shot.  She hit the ground hard, with a solid thud, and realized right away that the vine was not the only thing that had snapped.
   For two hours, Mama lay stranded in the hot Carolina sun, desperately calling "Help!" When we finally found her, it was obvious that the ambulance ride to the hospital would not be for a quick patch-up job. 
      As they loaded her onto the back board, I told the ambulance drivers what had happened, that Mama had gotten into the muscadine vine and taken a bad fall.
     "Has she been drinking for long?" they asked.
      I was puzzled for a moment, and then started laughing.
      "VINE! I said muscadine VINE, not WINE!"
       I could tell they didn't believe me until I picked up the broken tendril of the vine and shook it under their noses.
      It was a long ride to the hospital, and an even longer twenty-four wait until surgery.
       Let me tell you something. Post-anesthesia conversations can be pretty darn funny.  When they wheeled Mama back into the room after her hip replacement, she was  in la-la land and feeling fine, a much needed break after the last twenty-four hours of pain she had endured.
    "Mama," we all started at once, "Mama, you're back in the room. You did fine in surgery. You have a brand new hip!"
    "Well, that's nice." she murmured. "Isn't that wonderful?" Those were definitely NOT the same words she had been muttering pre-surgery.
      We decided to have a little fun while she was in her post-surgical land of delusions, and in that sick way of finding release in the midst of trauma, we also needed to laugh.
     "Mama, we all wanted them to put in a gold hip, but Daddy said that was too expensive. Said he'd only pay for plastic, it would work just fine, but we made him splurge for titanium"
      "Well,  sounds just like him,"  she declared, having a sudden moment of clear-headedness in her anesthetic delusion.
     For the next several days, we travelled with her around the world, visiting strange creatures, venturing through magical doors and boxes and windows, and talking to invisible beings. It was a side of Mama we had never seen, a loopy, drunken, foggy-headed version, and although it was a little disturbing to listen to her drug-induced ramblings, it was in a weird sense also quite funny. We encouraged her anesthetic delusions with great gusto, and with a cathartic sense of sick humor, laughed our way back to normal. It was the only way we knew how to survive as we helped Mama heal, buried loved ones, and still made it to french class each day.
     She quickly bounced back, became the queen of rehab, and within two weeks was back home and safely ensconced in the matching lift-off recliner that Dad had purchased for her while she was in the hospital.  Side-by-side, they could now sit together and look out the window at a garden that had been completely purged of all vines and climbing tendrils, a vase of Queen Elizabeth roses sitting prettily on the table beside them.
   
   
    

     

Oui! Oui! OUI!!!!!!!!!

    WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR THE FOLLOWING INTERNATIONAL NEWS FLASH.....
REPORTING FROM SOUTH CAROLINA.....

     Oui! Oui! OUI!!!!!!!!!!!
     Our gal did it!! La classe française était terminée et qu'elle n'est pas morte! The french class is over and she did not die!! Not only that, but she passed the exit exam on her first attempt and aced the class. After three semesters of angst, drama, tears, and fears; after sleepless nights and countless hours in study jail; after all the agony and pain; she made it! Not only did she make it, she crossed the finish line with an "A" for the semester and a passing grade on all four sections of the exit exam. Our gal can now speak, read, write, and listen en francais. Il est fini!!

               I think that gal needs une petite treat for such a feat, and so we're headin' to Pa-rieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!  Merci me, who'da thunk it? Après trois semestres difficiles de classe française, Paris, nous voilà!!!!!!!
     Yes ma'am, we am, avec un grand "Ooh-la-la"..... the  college gals are going international.
      Ain't life tres grande?
   

Mary Lapsley and her french professor



Blue Pajamas

     When I was nine years old,  my Aunt Virginia presented me with a beautiful pair of blue pajamas for my birthday.  I was a diehard tomboy at the time, spending my days running through the woods in cut off blue jeans and sneakers, climbing trees and pretending I was my brother's brother. I was chunky and awkward and never a delicate porcelain beauty, but somewhere underneath the short hair and skinned up knees, a girly-girl bone was beginning to form, and Aunt Virginia must have known that.  I loved those pajamas so much that on my tenth birthday, she once again presented me with a new pair of blue pajamas, and once again, I was delighted. When she continued the theme on my eleventh birthday, the hint of a tradition was beginning to appear.
      For the next forty years, on every single birthday, my favorite gift came from Aunt Virginia.  I would pick up her beautifully wrapped box, gently shake the package, hold it up to my ear and rattle it around a few times, then proudly proclaim with my birthday ESP, "I'll bet these are blue pajamas!" For anyone not in on the secret, they were amazed when I ripped off the paper and lifted up a pair of blue pajamas. Over the years, she gave me blue pajamas in every style, shade, fabric and pattern known to man. From granny gowns to baby-doll nighties; cotton to flannel; long, short, and in-between; those blue pajamas helped me tick off each passing year. 
      By the time I was in my early twenties, it was not so much the pajamas that I loved as it was the tradition, the annual ritual that Aunt Virginia had continued throughout the years. When I married and had children, the box from Aunt Virginia became their favorite part of my birthday.  As toddlers, they were amazed at the sixth sense their mother possessed, and my uncanny ability to guess the contents of a securely wrapped package never failed to impress. As they matured and grew to understand the true magic of things like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy, the birthday box from Aunt Virginia fell into the category of "things we believe in because of love."   And we all loved Aunt Virginia.
      Her forty years of diligently shopping for blue pajamas only hinted at the depth of her love for others and her determination to live a righteous life.  As a first-generation Irish-American, she was fierce in her faith, loyal in her love, and generous in her graciousness.  Married for sixty-seven years to a misplaced Wisconsin boy, she ran a tight ship at home and kept Uncle Henry in line. With her razor sharp mind, she never forgot a birthday, appointment, meeting, or important event. She balanced their finances down to the penny, planted every garden under the proper sign, and ran a household tighter than the Queen's Palace. As age crept up on them, she managed their daily medications like a pharmacy, with notes in her perfect penmanship attached to each prescription, with instructions on exactly how and when to take their pills. She was a warrior when it came to overseeing Uncle Henry's diet, measuring every bite and gram that passed his lips, limiting his sweets and snacks, serving only perfectly balanced and apportioned meals. When the doctor restricted his salt intake, she was so diligent in his diet that we swore Aunt Virginia even counted the grains of salt Uncle Henry was allowed to have with each meal.
      Uncle Henry loved to grumble about the short leash she kept him on, but we all knew that leash was more like his life-line. They would fuss and carry on in the way that only people who have endured six decades together are allowed to, and their bickering did nothing more than reveal their fondness for one another. Five years his senior, Aunt Virginia doted on Uncle Henry like a mother hen, and he adored his red-headed, sharp-minded "Ginger."
      At the age of 93, Aunt Virginia spent this last week in her typical fashion. Never one to shun hard work,  she tended to her garden of tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, beans, and squash.  She whipped up a batch of date balls to deliver to  my mother who was in the hospital with a broken hip. She wrapped several birthday presents and meticulously labeled each one, then did the laundry, tidied up the house, and went to a doctor's appointment. On Monday morning, Uncle Henry was being somewhat ornery and she laughingly threatened to place him in a nursing home if he didn't behave.  By lunchtime, he had settled down, so following their usual routine, they drove to Hardees  for a hamburger. She cooked supper that evening, as she did each night, a simple feat, perhaps, but impressive for someone in their nineties. Gardening, baking, visiting, caring, loving-ordinary tasks in the full life of an nonagenarian.   
    When the phone rings at 4 am, you don't expect good news. The moment the call came,  my feet hit the ground before my eyes opened, and I answered after the first ring with a foggy "Hello?"
     "This is Chester Regional Medical Center...." the call began, and I panicked as I ran through a list of possibilities.
    "Who? Who is it?" was all I could get out before they told me it was Aunt Virginia. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys, roared through several red lights, and  ran through the double doors of the Emergency Room at 4:15.
     Surrounded by a team of doctors and nurses, with Uncle Henry sitting close by and holding her hand, I could see her freshly permed curls which still held a hint of red.  She was connected to a menagerie of tubes and IV's, an oxygen mask covered her sweet face, and the screen of a monitor recorded her  weakening vital statistics.  I quietly crossed the room to stand on the other side of the bed, where I could hold her free hand and stroke her forehead. I listened as the doctor gravely filled me in on her condition. She had suffered a heart attack earlier in the evening, probably some time after supper. When she finally admitted to Uncle Henry that she needed to go to the hospital, she had insisted on changing from her nightgown into her day clothes before the ambulance arrived. This Irish lass would not be leaving her home improperly attired.  Alert and sharp as ever, she had given the doctor her full medical history upon admission, amazing them all with her keen memory.
       The doctor warned me that her condition was deteriorating, but I laughed and told him he didn't know Aunt Virginia.  Her years may have been many, but her spirit was young and strong, and I clung to the hope that she would open her eyes and say, "Henry, take me back home."   I leaned over to kiss her and to tell her that I was there, that she was not alone, that we all loved her.  A lump filled my throat and a tear slid down my face when I reached out to straighten her sheets-- Aunt Virginia was dressed in a blue  hospital gown.

      It was a profound privilege to stand guard by Aunt Virginia and hold her hand as she slipped into the arms of her Lord.  To be there with her, for her, and by her; to witness the end of ninety-three years of a faithful and beautiful life; to stand sentinel when the angels came to usher her home--it was a keenly powerful and holy moment. Years of memories ran through my mind as I stood there, still not quite grasping the fact that the gentle woman we all loved had left us. But  in the midst of my sorrow and tears, as I held her hand and cried, I had to smile, knowing that Aunt Virginia had gone home to glory wearing blue pajamas.

Head West, Young Man (Part III)

     We woke early the next morning, our bodies still on East Coast time, and although the clock said 7:00, we felt rested and ready to head out into the park.  Eager to get Bro one last good, hot meal before he moved into his park headquarters, we headed to the dining room of the Inn, where I filled him up on eggs, bacon, oatmeal, fruit, juice, and lots of steaming hot coffee. With the satisfaction that a mother feels when she knows her offspring are well-fed, we got into our separate cars and set off for Lake Yellowstone.  The extra time we had gained from our early start meant we could take the longer Madison-Norris-Canyon route through the park and hopefully catch a glimpse of something interesting as we caravaned around the upper loop.
     I had the beginnings of a small lump in my throat as we drove off in our separate cars, sadly aware that our time together was quickly coming to an end.  I would spend several more days in the park, running errands, sightseeing, trying to grab a quick moment or two with Bro after his work day ended, but it wouldn't be the same as our trip cross-country together.  He would be settling into a new environment and certainly didn't need or want his mother hovering around. Before we left for the lake, I asked him if he wanted me to stay out of sight while he checked into park headquarters, not wanting to embarrass him in front of his new work mates, willing to be invisible if needed. I almost cried when he laughed at me and said, "Of course not. You're not going to embarrass me. That's stupid." Oh, how I love that boy!
     We arrived at the cluster of rustic cabins that served as the office, equipment room, training area, and staff headquarters.  Several rangers were seated around buckets of supplies, busily mending gill nets and taking inventory of equipment that was being hauled out of winter storage.  They were friendly, relaxed, and easy to talk to, obviously very happy with their work environment and pleased that a new crop of interns was arriving to help.  Cole offered to drive us to the "fish dorm"  which was located about a mile down the road. He had been a college intern last summer and was now a seasonal employee, a step-up from his last position but not quite full time. The rangers were quick to tell me that many interns returned as park employees, and I imagined Bro calling home at the end of summer to tell us that medical school had been ditched for a career as a ranger.

       The dorm was located in the employee residential area, a small community within the park where year-round and seasonal employees had cabins and homes.  Typical of national park facilities, the dorm was a dark brown, stained wood structure with several parking spaces lining the front, basic but solid and purely functional.  I was impressed with the large kitchen-- several sinks, four refrigerators, ample cabinet and counter top space, and a separate dining area off to the side.  Cole quickly informed us that the kitchen was a definite upgrade from last year, thanks to the fire started by a careless intern, a young man whose career with the national park system was short-lived after he burned down the kitchen.

       The dorm had eight bedrooms, with one hall designated as "Male" and the other as "Female." Until that moment, I had simply assumed that all the fishing interns would be "male", but about that  time, a blond girl named April walked out of her dorm room and said "Hi!." Well, so much for that theory, I thought, as I shook her very-female-hand and introduced myself. The thought of a co-ed dorm certainly put a twist on my mental concept of Bro's summer experience in Yellowstone, but I noticed that the boys already seemed oblivious to the presence of the opposite sex as they were too busy examining hand-tied caddis and nymphs and comparing a large assortment of fly-tying equipment.
      Dorm-style bathrooms and shower stalls were located on each hall, and the sleeping quarters opened into a large living area where a television, bookcase, sofa and chairs lined the walls. Jay and Dominique had already settled into their rooms at the end of the "Male" hall, Bro selected his room--lucky number four-- and began to move in.  As he unloaded supplies from the car, I made up his bed, unpacked his duffel bags, and folded clothes into his dresser.  It took much less time than I had anticipated for him to move in, and as the last load was positioned into his room, I knew it was time for me to head out. We said quick goodbyes, trying not to get locked into the land my nephew has termed "goodbye purgatory" (a hovering world of drawn-out farewells, multiple hugs and repetitive goodbyes from which we often seem unable to escape).
     I was alone now, in the park on my own, and actually a little excited about the prospect of a few days on my very own schedule, doing exactly what I wanted, a solitary traveller.  I could stop and take as many pictures as I liked, could gaze for hours at the scenery, could wander and meander and backtrack and lolly gag as much I wanted, without having to answer to a single, solitary soul. This could be fun.
     I had promised my family I would not do anything stupid while I was alone in the park, that I would not hike back trails or get off the beaten path, talk to strangers or pick up hitchhikers,  wouldn't chase bears or try to touch a buffalo, and I really meant to abide by those promises.  I started off on the right track, driving slowly through Hayden Valley, past Mary Mountain, snapping pictures from a respectable distance. I turned into the lower rim drive that led into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone and only briefly pulled a "tourist" moment when I stopped the car in the middle of the road to take a  river picture from the bridge.  There were no cars in front of me or behind me,  the road was deserted, so it wasn't actually a dumb move. I did it rather quickly and figured it would not count as the "one stupid thing" that I had secretly allotted myself.
     The "one stupid thing" happened the next day-- a morning I had planned to spend covering every inch of the boardwalks and trails that lined Old Faithful.  The area is numerous with cone geysers, fountain geysers, and geo-thermal pools,  and if you are really lucky, you can time your visit to see many of the geysers erupting. This was going to be a very lucky day for me, all because I happened upon a group of "geyser gazers". These individuals are dead-serious about their geysers. They spend hours watching eruptions and talking about eruptions. They drive from miles around and plan vacations around geysers. Some volunteer in the park to keep detailed accounts of the geysers, and they  walk around with little notepads and pencils, marking the start and stop time of each eruption, annotating the complex histories of each of the major and minor geysers. They sit for hours waiting for thermal activity to begin, armed with water bottles, hats, cameras, and snacks. Gazers can tell you more details about each geyser than most people want or need to know.

Future Geyser Gazer

      I had no idea that geysers could be so addictive, but  I learned quickly after I stumbled upon the group gathered in front of Grand Geyser. I had just finished watching Old Faithful go off and was ambling on down the boardwalk. Nothing was happening at this particular point, but a small band of people had claimed the front row of benches that lined the viewing area by Grand, one of the biggest fountain geysers in the park. They were busily looking at their watches and scribbling in notebooks, and I was curious as to what had them so engrossed. I sat down beside a well-equipped woman, asked what everyone was so interested in, and learned that Grand was scheduled to erupt within 45 minutes.This was evident because the smaller vent beside Grand was active, with small eruptions occurring every 18 minutes, a signal that Grand was building up to blow. Directly behind us, Castle was in full glory, blowing water and steam in the air for it's full and impressive 45 minute eruption, the longest in the park.  The gazers informed me that the timing today was perfect to see all the major geysers erupt and that I was welcome to follow them on their quest. I joined their group and headed to Beehive, Anemone, Plume, Solitary, and Turban. We watched Riverside, where the water blew horizontally across the river, then  trotted quickly up to catch Daisy. As we walked, the gazers taught me about various thermal activity and the different patterns and signals that lead up to an eruption. They pointed out which geysers are active and which are asleep and which ones have not shown activity for extended periods.
      After trailing the gazers all morning, I decided to branch off on my own and head over to Morning Glory Pool, a thermal spring that used to be as blue and beautiful as the flower for which it was named.
    "Oh, you're going to see that dirty old pool?" a gazer named Tom asked. "It's a mess now.  If you want to see something pretty, you need to go up to Artemesia, it's beautiful, sapphire blue, and not many people know where it is."
         I had heard that Morning Glory had lost it's beauty, a victim of homicide by tourism.  Visitors to the park, enamored with the seemingly endless depth of the cerulean pool, were tempted to throw things into the water in a quest to reach the center of the earth.  As a result, many of the vents and springs that fed the pool had become clogged, and Morning Glory was dying a slow and ugly death. I was shocked at the change from my last visit. There was not a speck of brilliant blue left, and the previously crystalline water had become a contaminated, murky brown puddle of algae.
      Tom had been correct. Morning Glory was a mess, and I wanted to find the hidden pool and see something beautiful.  His directions to Artemesia had been brief: get off the boardwalk at Morning Glory, take the trail into the woods until the deep patch of snow (about two feet deep and 100 yards long), stay in the footprints in the snow, then just go on down the trail until you find Artemesia.   It sounded easy to find and I set off on my own.

  And that was the one stupid thing I did.  I wouldn't have taken the path if I had know when I started how remote the trail was or how deep into the forest it went.  I became a little leary as I walked down the narrow, isolated path and into the woods. I had assumed that as soon as I got past the snow patch, Artemesia would be just on the other side. What Tom had neglected to tell me was that after the snow, the trail would open into  a pasture full of grazing buffalo-- huge, horned beasts that eyed me suspiciously as I cautiously stepped around them.  The pasture led to a forested trail of old growth timber and heavy underbrush, territory that screamed "Be Bear Aware! Be Bear Aware!" with each step I took.  I had been quiet in the buffalo pasture, but in the forest, I clapped and yelled and sang "Go away bears, please, no bears, Dear Lord don't let me get eaten by a bear.."  I made as much noise as one scared, lonely woman can make in the woods, stomping and hooting and hollering to warn any roaming bear that I was there and did not wish to make their acquaintance.  

      At the top of the trail, the woods opened up onto a cliff that offered a breathtaking view of mountains in the distance and the river valley below.  I walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down. About twenty feet below, the deep blue and crystal clear waters of Artemesia sparkled in the sun, a gentle mist rising as the warm waters met the crisp, cool air.  I forgot about my fear as I stared into the bottomless pool, mesmerized by the intensity of the color and the purity of it's depths. The world was quiet and clean here, unspoiled by human hands. This had been worth the hike, and if I made it back to the Inn without getting eaten by a bear, it would have been worth using this moment as my "one stupid thing."

     With a deep breath and a lot of loud clapping and singing, I headed back down the trail, thanking God for showing me Artemesia.

praying like mad that I would not end my cross-country trip in the stomach of a grizzly.