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.

Ready or Not

Brussel sprouts snap right off the stalk, particularly when it’s super cold. After driving home from Colorado Springs on a blowing blizzardy day, I couldn’t walk past anything still poking through snow in the garden without doing a bit of harvesting. The big brussel plants were already bending over laden with snow, but with a brush of my gloved hand they stood erect. Yep, one glance under and up showed row upon row of tight little brussel balls!

I filled a stainless steel bowl till it was over flowing, the sprouts rolling off into the deepening snow when I wasn’t careful. Before too long my pant legs were soaked and a familiar wet cold seeped into my leather Ariats. In late spring I planted six of these starter plants. By mid-summer they had grown into impressive bushes with massive leaves shading stalks that were pumping out the little sprouts at regular intervals. Just before the snow hit the entire plant seemed to burst into one large cabbage-like head, unfolding like a huge flower celebrating a summer of stirring effort all along its way from distant root to tip top.

I actually thought these plants were done with the last early freeze. The zucchini were splayed out the next morning and the tomatoes and pepper plants all withered and soft. The firmer brussel sprout leaves were drooping so I assumed they, too, had finished, but by afternoon they were fully stretched flat soaking up warmth and coaxing the sun’s rays toward their sturdy stalks. How I love a tenacious plant!

We’ve grilled these babies, steamed plenty, and chucked them in soups. Adding some portabella mushrooms, savory leeks, a little roasted chicken, some fresh sage and then simmering the entire collection produces one of the tastiest fall soups I’ve ever had. The kitchen cabinet is still covered at one end with sage, basil, oregano and marjoram I hastily swept up before the next to last freeze. I’ve fully intended on carefully drying these out and having herbs for the winter, but they rest in the same baskets I placed them in after that hurried harvesting. Oh well, easier to grab for tossing onto the brussel sprouts.

This winter pounced on the front range of Colorado. Ducks have flown right past us, not stopping on their regular migratory routes. Leaves that were just beginning to turn from green to gold found themselves iced and plopping on the ground rather than a colorful, graceful fall descent. Even this early morning as I ploughed my way through two plus feet of snow, I noticed full cottonwood trees with mostly green leaves on sagging, heavy branches. Snow sits atop my garden’s solar lights like a heavy drum major’s plumed hat. Time moves fast enough, and this kind of weather has made me feel like things are fast-forwarding even more.

The days are growing dark and cold so swiftly. I only recently dragged in my last garden hose, and a forgotten plastic sprinkler is already buried somewhere under mounds of snow. I fully intended on spreading some straw around the herbs and roses, but this thought occurred to me when I was hundred miles from Denver listening to the freezing weather forecast. By the time I got home, only the brussel sprouts were visible. Feeling the tiny balls snap off I said my goodbyes to another productive summer garden. Just look at what we can grow if we only take the time and make the space, regardless of the insistence of days to zip by from morning to night amidst a landslide of light instead of allowing dawn and dusk to creep softly in and out of our awareness.

The Best is Yet from Montana

Today is 9/11, a day I remember more for my sister’s birthday than
the tragedies that occurred in the US in 2001. Paula Johnson was
born on this day of 1944 in Gainesville, Texas. My father was away at war, on the Navy ship the USS Enterprise. He didn’t meet his apple cheeked daughter with the golden curls until she was 18 months old.

Paula turned into a gorgeous woman, impressing many with her artistic talents from an early age. Still hanging in my mother's living room is a beautifully framed oil still life of flowers in a vase that Paula painted around age eight. My own house looks like a gallery for the artwork of this sister, with a collection of pieces from more than four decades.

In her late thirties this sister decided to legally change her name to Billy Rae Montana. By then she was picking up a pen as often as a paintbrush, composing some poetry that read with a simplicity and clarity that allowed even her words to turn into pictures. I remember her sitting in front of an old Royal typewriter with tall circular keys that needed a punch to get the ink on the almost transparent typing paper.




I’ve watched this sister for many years, coursing through two marriages and a few other relationships, always loyal to her partners and loving with a ferocity. She’s tenacious, and tried to make her relationships last just as she has been dedicated to every job she has ever held.

BR, as I like to call her, lives alone now with three curious cats and a stodgy old cattle dog, Sargent Pepper. They are an active, homey family, this bright, eccentric sister of mine and her satisfied canine and felines, talking and singing and taking care of each other lovingly.


Billy Rae Montana says she is going to do more artwork soon, choosing to retire in March of 2010 from her work with the small north Texas town of Whitesboro. I am ever so hopeful that her lines of poetry and colors on a canvas will soon grace the world and enhance our perspectives. But like a dear friend and writing colleague of mine recently said, we have to “stay in the room” to establish the discipline necessary for accomplishing our art.

Maybe my sister will use the shed outside her house to set up a space like the author Annie Dillard constructed: no windows, no distractions, nothing on the walls. Annie says from a space of nothing her creativity finds the room to move and grow and expand, allowing her to fill her little work shed with the necessary perspective and the sharp focus that allow her art to form.

This, more than the tri-level, multi-faceted kitty gym that my sister Pamela and I already gave our older sister, is what I wish for Billy Rae Montana on this, her 65th birthday. To “stay in the room” and once again write and paint and allow her creativity to soar across southwestern skies. (photos, including older ones, by Patricia and artwork by BR Montana)

In the Glow of Pegasus

(all photos taken during my wanderings at Graceland)

Storms roll into the San Luis valley mid to late afternoon as shadows lengthen. Wind rushes down the slopes and through the pines thumping the trailer at regular intervals. Scrub jays caw and call along with a swoosh of breezes. Grasses dance like a thousand conductors’ batons keeping beat for nature’s symphony.

Such a contrast to mornings when an idle stillness allows me to hear air slipping through the feathers of crows in flight. Fingers of sunlight slowly stretch across the valley floor, bringing an enticing warmth after a crisp early fall night.

Last night a full show was delivered right around dusk, just a few hours after my arrival here at Graceland, our blessed spot here in this southern Colorado valley. Thick bolts of lightning screeched across the skies leaving the air tingling. I found myself holding my breath while sweet Amber cowered in her doggy bunk, her head buried in pillows.

The beauty of wide open spaces thrills me. Maybe it’s all those years in Texas. These vast places allow me to feel like I can empty out all the clutter from living, enough to then fill up with deep breaths for the month ahead.

Crickets, coyotes, and owls drape the night over me in such a way that sleep comes with ease. If my eyes open while I’m turning in the night, I find the entire universe peering through the open windows on three sides. The Milky Way decorates the dark sky and both familiar and unfamiliar constellations fill any gaps. Presently Pegasus glitters gracefully.

A little more than a couple of decades would suit me fine for the rest of my lifetime. Filling those years with time here in the valley reading, writing, gazing, hiking, looking closely at everything, birding, and being with people I love sounds incredibly rich. Though I still care to travel, having a magical place such as this to surround myself with quiet and mystery and stillness appeals to me now. I feel this all seeping into my cells and then hear my breath slow and deepen, becoming acutely aware of a steady, even pounding of my heart. This, I think, is what allows me to feel so thankfully passionate about being alive.

Revenge of the Zucchini

After a full work weekend, my friend Nancy asked me what I was going to now do for fun.

“Blanche and freeze zucchini,” I answered.

“Whoo-hoo!” she responded, laughing.

I don’t feel like I have a choice. They’re pummeling me every time I walk through the garden, pulsing out of the plants night and day. I can’t keep up with them. I’ll pick a batch one evening, and the next morning Bill tells me he sees more ready to be harvested. I’ve become a slave to my zucchini plants.

This summer started off cool and then the rains began, continuing every afternoon. Great, I thought, until I started noticing the plants remaining small, apparently missing their regular dose of sunshine.

For example, I still don’t have eggplants. By now we’ve usually been grilling those every evening and happily mixing them with zucchini for ratatouille. Even our varieties of pepper plants are only just now becoming ready to harvest, hopefully to soon take salsa-making off the hold list.


And the tomatoes, finally, are turning. I’ve come to expect this in Colorado, clumps of fat, green tomatoes on the vine for weeks, slowly dispelling my memories of juicy, red ones ready in Texas in early July at the latest.

But here, fresh lettuce and sweet strawberries whet our appetite early, and then the lull stretches out as we wait for any more garden goodies, and this year it’s been one long lull.

The zucchini, however, sneaked up on us. One day the tiny plants were sitting unobtrusively on their mounds and the next day I swear the leaves were like patio umbrellas and the zucchini as big as baseball bats. Walking through the garden feels a bit treacherous, with scenes from a potential horror flic “The Revenge of the Zucchini” popping up in my head.


So we stuff these babies, steam them, fry a few (including the blossoms), and bake it in bread and quiche, and I could still use some different recipes (got any?). Last year we got a small freezer, so we’re taking the time to “put some up” as my granny used to say, blanching and freezing. This is hard work even with a food processor to slice them up before dipping them in the boiling water and then scooping the pieces out to toss in a sink full of ice water. The assembly line starts in the garden with the plants rolling out the produce, eventually ending in the oven when something delicious has been created. Often I must remind myself something tasty will come out of all the labor.

Bill thought he’d improve the freezing process this year and avoid the freezer burn we noticed from last year’s crop, so he bought a machine that vacuums and seals bags. Only after two long evenings of blanching and bagging we still haven’t been successful at getting the darn thing to seal our piles of veggies, feeling like further evidence of revenge of the zucchini.


Like with everything else, I remind myself to stop, take a deep breath, and alter my perspective. The zucchini is not out to get me. My garden, of course, is doing just what I want it to do, produce! What a lovely opportunity the garden always provides to give fresh veggies away. And best of all, even if we’re struggling with some new cantankerous kitchen gadget, the times when Bill and I are bumping around together in the kitchen often turn into some of our favorite memories and good laughs for long winter evenings when we reminisce about last summer’s garden.