Colorado Compost Blooms

Just to give you a tiny glimpse of my letting-go process amidst this transplant from Colorado back to Texas, I was even teary-eyed this past weekend about leaving my compost. All right, I hear a few faint “Gimme a breaks.” But those insensitive souls obviously haven’t been nursing a compost pile for the last several years. Like with most piles of crap (I considered several words to describe such piles, but this one just seem to fit), these things require some labor!

For the most part, it’s been a one-woman job. Bill has faithfully scraped any remains from his plate into the compost crock container by the sink, woefully admonished when meat scraps, dairy, or eggs tried to slip through. And he did save the cardboard egg cartons for me. Religiously, from one year’s pile to the next I schlepped food remains, Bill’s hair cuttings, dog fur, contents of vacuum bags, and carefully ripped 2” pieces of toilet paper rolls and egg cartons out to the compost. Often the food gunk was way overdue for being deposited in the bin and definitely not a pleasant task of squeezing out of the soft plastic bag (icky, stinky, yucky goo). But dedicated gardener, eco-conscious human I aim at being, I kept at it.

That’s the thing about composting, just like life, we simply have to keep at it. We take what’s left of the acceptable and sometimes unacceptable, sift through the stuff, and decide to leave some of it on the pile to fertilize the next part of our lives. And damn it, this takes a lot of work, doesn’t it? From what I’ve been able to tell so far at a ripe 58 years, every step has held some worth, even when I have to admit (frequently) that I still don’t have things figured out.

Leaving our home and garden on Navajo Street hurts. Naively, we pictured living here the rest of our lives. Really, it was such a comforting thought. The sunny living and dining spaces, roomy kitchen, and peaceful bedrooms soothed us into believing Denver was the last stop on our journey. Add to that pile absolutely remarkable friends that Colorado has just kept on giving, stretched from the blessed San Luis Valley all the way to big D. And while we’re on the San Luis Valley, Graceland has renewed our spirits so faithfully that living without monthly visits here (I’m there now on my last visit until July 2011, heavy sigh) is incredibly difficult to fathom.

But here we go, Bill and I with feisty Gavroche and perky Amber Grace along for the adventure, Texas bound. We head south clear that this is the best choice: living with my elder parents, close to my sisters, to our son and family, closer to Bill’s siblings, and easier drives to Austin and Houston which hold many beloved friends. Suddenly the picture of “the rest of our lives” has disappeared, replaced with where (Whitesboro, TX) and what (elder-care) we’ll be doing for the immediate future. Things we never imagined, yet somehow it all feels just right, like we might be about to bloom. If we just keep tending, believing, and making space for goodness to grow out of life’s compost, it sure seems to do so, and quite beautifully. We feel home comin’ and goin’. Thank you, Colorado, for nourishing and tending us so lovingly during our treasured years here. And Texas, thank y’all for the welcome back.

(Pics by Patricia and family. Angel in San Luis Valley cemetery; this fall's aspens in the valley, me with Mom & Dad this summer.)

Birthday Discoveries

A proper new year begins on a birthday more so than on January first, don’t you think? Often I find myself reviewing the previous year and pondering the next one more when my age changes than when it’s time to tack another number onto last year’s date. When a birthday rounds the corner, I make way for something meaningful, eager to have the additional year translate into wisdom and not just wrinkles.

So it was last Friday morning as I made my way to the mountains for a solitary hike. Beautiful morning, just enough breeze to promise a cooler day, Amber Grace panting and pacing in the back of the car anxious to hit the trail. A friend had recommended Golden Gate Canyon State Park, not 30 minutes away. I thought I knew where it was, but jotted down MapQuest directions just in case.

Despite my hands-free earphone, an early morning birthday call was apparently enough to easily disorient me. Well, that and my navigational skills are frequently challenged. Somehow I missed my turn. Soon after I lost the call while going through a high country tunnel, I realized I was no longer on the right road.

Winding my way up the mountains, about all I could be sure of was that the day was beautiful. With my windows down, the air felt exhilarating. A flash of yellow and red flew directly in front of my car (what bird was that?!) challenging me to keep careful eyes on the road. Maybe I would just find a trailhead on this route for a hike, I thought. Does it really matter if I make it to my original destination? My friend’s description of Golden Gate Canyon lured me on and I kept puttering along.

I considered how my plans for a birthday hike could be thwarted by my loss of direction. How often in my life have I planned on going down one path and ended up somewhere else entirely? Does it matter if my destination changes? When I relax and accept whatever experience is presenting itself with an openness to arrive at a different place than where I originally intended or at a later time, life takes on such a different mood.

After a stop for directions, a detour through Black Hawk, and a longer than expected route, I arrived at the park, and per the ranger was still the first person to purchase a hiking pass that day. Amber and I were both anxious to hit dirt, feeling magic in the morning.

A babbling Colorado stream greeted us. Bossy chatty wrens discouraged us from getting too close to their nest. A breathtaking variety of mountain wildflowers were stretching toward the sun. Butterflies appeared and a busy buzz of other nectar-seeking insects joined the morning bird chorus. Flowers dazzled me with showy interior designs and fleshy mushrooms popped up before my eyes like rabbits out of the magician’s hat.

Later research informed me that I had spotted a Fly Agaric, a spotted magic mushroom once used by the Vikings for intoxication and by others as fly poison. It is also associated with fairies and gnomes (certainly acceptable hiking companions) and also considered a good luck charm much like a four leaf clover. What a good birthday discovery, eh? Other sleek and enticing varieties spotted were gray Grisettes and I think some Russula, an orange poisonous ‘shroom also referred to as ‘the sickener.’

I’m so accustomed to looking up for birds I was surprised but well rewarded to find myself hiking with eyes close to the ground. At least I didn’t trip as much as when my eyes are scanning trees and brush for birds. Ahh, hiking alone one becomes more carefully observant of what nature has to reveal. Once again, however, I began to wonder where I was headed, then reminded myself it was just fine to end up wherever I landed. Aspen eyes watched me carefully and soon the trail opened onto a delicious meadow. Amber peered into the remains of old John Frazier’s log cabin constructed in the late 1800s (so explained by a sign), disappointed to find no one home.

Returning to the trailhead, the gifts of the day continued to present themselves. Both because of and despite my plans, the day had unfolded delightfully in its own quirky way.

(all photos taken on this day's hike)

Ahhh, Man!!!!

Recently listening to my two-year-old grandson, Robbie, earnestly echo the above words left me surprised and even a bit puzzled. He wasn’t trying to be cute or perform for anyone, he was just spontaneously using an expression that he had apparently picked up from the adults around him. Somehow it just didn’t fit: a mere two-year-old with still limited vocabulary uttering this rather adult expression of exasperation. I’m not really sure how to view this newly acquired habit: is he worrying unnecessarily or handling tension appropriately?

Let me give you a few examples. Unaware that a recent visit to the doctor’s office was for a few vaccinations, his mother told me that a glimpse of band aids quickly sent Robbie into a tizzy of “Ah man, ah man, ah man. . .” as he paced in a circle. As a result of previous visits and consequent shots, he was linking the presence of band aids with the shots about to occur. Smart kiddo.

The sleepy toddler was later left at home with his Gramps and Gram visiting from Colorado, instead of with his Texas grandparents who regularly care for him and his six-month-old brother. Cynthia (mom/our daughter-in-law) gently tucked him in bed before leaving for work, while Robbie snoozed away the anxiety of his earlier visit to the doc.

I sat in the living room cradling brother Sammy and trying to make sense of the line-up of remote controls in front of me, hoping to figure out which one might make a huge flat screen TV turn on. Squeaks came from the back room and I hastily handed the baby butterball off to Gramps.

Arriving just in time to help Robbie slide down from the bed, the sight of me prompted another litany of “Ah, mans!” They rolled out of his mouth like a desperate prayer, as he proceeded to methodically search each room for someone, anyone, more familiar than these two strangers that he had seen only a handful of times in his short life.

Still groggy from his nap and earlier vaccinations, he knew for sure something was different from what he was used to and the ‘Ah, mans’ communicated his feelings quite appropriately. Shuffling from one room to the next he murmured “Ah, man” as one empty space after another hit him. Exasperated, he stopped in the living room, looking at his Gramps holding a familiar baby, and then at his Gram softly patting a spot on the couch next to her. “Ah, man!” he whined, but what else to do except crawl next this unfamiliar woman and let her cuddle him to comfort? Somehow he realized it was still home and he was safe.

Shawn (dad/our son) had mentioned to us shortly after our arrival that he and Cynthia had recently realized Robbie was using this expression more and more. He commented that they soon noticed how often they said ‘Ah, man’, hence understanding how Robbie had probably picked up the expression. Despite this preview, however, we were still taken aback when the real deal played out in front of us. It felt a little like that funny E-trade commercial that runs during football games when the little baby, sitting in diapers in front of a computer with mouse in hand, talks stocks like an adult.

Bill (Gramps) and I were soon hearing the frequency of ‘Ah, mans’ in our own everyday conversations as well. We began to wonder if this is a family colloquialism or a trendy cultural habit. Where do these phrases originate anyway? I often say “Hold your horses!” and “Whoa!”, like my own team of ponies is hitched up right out front. Hopefully we won’t be hearing children repeat, “Don’t get your panties in a knot!” (How long is that expression likely to stick around?) And while we’re on it, who decided, “Oh, boy!” usually communicates excitement while, “Ah, man!” most often expresses frustration? Were people using those two expressions 100 years ago?

Robbie could easily be repeating other less appropriate expressions of frustration (assuming, of course, that he ever hears any of these!). He has chosen well, and even his expressive use of a few simple words rather than the predictable two-year-old temper tantrum is a pretty remarkable choice as far as this proud Colorado ‘Gram’ is concerned.