Have been trying in vain to have a fun "family outing." We typically go nowhere on weekends, and that seems to work fine, but then I wonder how it would be if we ventured out together (instead of apart). Two weekends ago, another disastrous outing to a garden center. Last weekend, we tried the strawberry picking at the CSA farm we subscribe to. We'd get all the organic strawberries we could eat (part of our subscription, already paid for) and the kids could see where our food comes from.
We drove out to the plains and the kids had a little trouble with the long drive, but with the Pirates of the Carribbean soundtrack, it was tolerable. Then we were assigned our "row" to pick, and pick away we did. Box after box was filled. It seemed like such a short row, but when you looked down and started picking, the universe expanded and you'd work and work and pick and pick, then look up and it see you had done only a tiny bit. The kids did great, with pretty good stamina for their age. We were saved at the end by another family that came along to finish off our row. I think we had about 20 pounds of organic strawberries at that point!
Drive back was long, but relatively uneventful. Kids weren't in love with the outing, but we'd done it and now we were drowning in strawberries. We made smoothies, we made jam, we invited friends over for strawberry dacqueries. I went to the store with a list: cream, ice cream, and cream cheese. Next day I made strawberry scones and strawberry cheesecake. Greg thought his excema was exacerbated by them, so he has stopped eating them. Everyday I eat porridge with strawberries and cream. The kids have a few bowls a day. Thank goodness I recently got a freezer. Many, many have been frozen. They are so good, but perhaps too much of a good thing. Strawberries anyone?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Writing
Somehow the computer is not attractive to me these days. I think it was the spring and lure of the garden that first pulled me away, then it was my broken wrist. Now it is the constant interruptions. But I have felt drawn back to post on my blog. I have typed quite a few things, and stuff is always happening that I think would make a good post (like my wrist), but posts are few.
This morning, kid's are at a friend's, so here I am, finally getting things up. Kadin brought home his "writing journal" from kindergarten where he wrote about one sentence a week throughout the year. I realized that in that journal, he had recorded more than I have all year. He documented trips to Ohio, Arizona, Grand Lake, and numerous playdates and computer games. I have lots of these in draft form, have posted none of it, but hope to remedy that over the summer (traditionally my least productive time, but we can dream...). A brief warning that things will be out of order, long, and likely boring, but I want to get them down. One sentence at a time if I have to.
This morning, kid's are at a friend's, so here I am, finally getting things up. Kadin brought home his "writing journal" from kindergarten where he wrote about one sentence a week throughout the year. I realized that in that journal, he had recorded more than I have all year. He documented trips to Ohio, Arizona, Grand Lake, and numerous playdates and computer games. I have lots of these in draft form, have posted none of it, but hope to remedy that over the summer (traditionally my least productive time, but we can dream...). A brief warning that things will be out of order, long, and likely boring, but I want to get them down. One sentence at a time if I have to.
Bear
The kids are pretty low maintenance these days, but I still don’t seem to be able to get anything done. A simple task, such as unloading the dishwasher, has innumerable interruptions: the phone rings, the computer doesn’t work, the cat has peed inappropriately somewhere, a neighbor kid found a baby bird in the backyard, the door is locked/unlocked, it’s windy (Kadin needs constant reassurance when there is the slightest breeze), a cat got out, a balloon needs to be tied, etc. And so it goes.
Case in point, yesterday, at about 9am, as I was trying to go the grocery store (after begging Greg to work at home for an hour so I could get some food in) when I looked out one of the few windows that didn’t have curtains drawn (two reasons: one, it keeps the sun out in the morning, so cooler in the afternoons, and two, Kadin can’t tolerate seeing the leaves blowing…) and noticed a man dressed in khakis with a rifle prowling through the back yard. Hmmm. Because he looked like a ranger and there is indeed a lot of wildlife around here, I did not think he was some violent nut job, but it was definitely something new to notice. I went to call the Department of Wildlife to inquire which kind of wildlife he was tracking, when the phone rang. It was a neighbor saying, “There’s a bear in your backyard, keep the kids inside.” Okay, so it’s a bear. Alas, I did not see it and the ranger had moved on into another neighbor’s backyard and around by the playground and the tennis courts, out of sight.
I needed to keep on task and get to the store, so carried on and as I went out to the car, I saw an older man towing a toddler in a wagon. “Hello,” I said, “Did you hear about the bear?” “Hear about it?” he said, “I just saw it. Does this happen all the time?” Turns out he was a visiting grandfather, just out for a walk with the grandson, and by the playground, he encounters a bear. I assured him that while it didn’t happen all the time, it wasn’t that uncommon (and for dramatic effect added that mountain lions were the more typical excitement in the neighborhood).
I saw the ranger again as I was on my way to the store, and he said he’d just lost the bear around the tennis courts. He was waiting to hear on his radio of another sighting. When I came back from the store 45 minutes later, I saw him down at another intersection, about half-a-mile from the house.
Unfortunately, the bear has discovered that neighborhoods offer all kinds of great opportunities for birdseed, garbage, pet food, and BBQ leftovers. We brought in the hummingbird feeder last night but had just used our new-to-us (via Felicity) barbeque for the first time. Tried to burn off all the extra meat so it was not too attractive. Since it was a hot day, I noticed when I went to bed that all the doors were open. Somehow, the screen between the BBQ and the kitchen seemed just too flimsy, so I shut all the doors and left the windows open. Hot days, screen doors, and barbeque grills seem a pretty common and risky combination when a bear is involved. It would be quite easy for a bear to end up in someone’s house or condo and it doesn’t look good for the bear. Best case scenario is that the bear will be relocated. Worst case scenario is property damage, injury, and/or death, most likely for the bear. Welcome to summer…
Case in point, yesterday, at about 9am, as I was trying to go the grocery store (after begging Greg to work at home for an hour so I could get some food in) when I looked out one of the few windows that didn’t have curtains drawn (two reasons: one, it keeps the sun out in the morning, so cooler in the afternoons, and two, Kadin can’t tolerate seeing the leaves blowing…) and noticed a man dressed in khakis with a rifle prowling through the back yard. Hmmm. Because he looked like a ranger and there is indeed a lot of wildlife around here, I did not think he was some violent nut job, but it was definitely something new to notice. I went to call the Department of Wildlife to inquire which kind of wildlife he was tracking, when the phone rang. It was a neighbor saying, “There’s a bear in your backyard, keep the kids inside.” Okay, so it’s a bear. Alas, I did not see it and the ranger had moved on into another neighbor’s backyard and around by the playground and the tennis courts, out of sight.
I needed to keep on task and get to the store, so carried on and as I went out to the car, I saw an older man towing a toddler in a wagon. “Hello,” I said, “Did you hear about the bear?” “Hear about it?” he said, “I just saw it. Does this happen all the time?” Turns out he was a visiting grandfather, just out for a walk with the grandson, and by the playground, he encounters a bear. I assured him that while it didn’t happen all the time, it wasn’t that uncommon (and for dramatic effect added that mountain lions were the more typical excitement in the neighborhood).
I saw the ranger again as I was on my way to the store, and he said he’d just lost the bear around the tennis courts. He was waiting to hear on his radio of another sighting. When I came back from the store 45 minutes later, I saw him down at another intersection, about half-a-mile from the house.
Unfortunately, the bear has discovered that neighborhoods offer all kinds of great opportunities for birdseed, garbage, pet food, and BBQ leftovers. We brought in the hummingbird feeder last night but had just used our new-to-us (via Felicity) barbeque for the first time. Tried to burn off all the extra meat so it was not too attractive. Since it was a hot day, I noticed when I went to bed that all the doors were open. Somehow, the screen between the BBQ and the kitchen seemed just too flimsy, so I shut all the doors and left the windows open. Hot days, screen doors, and barbeque grills seem a pretty common and risky combination when a bear is involved. It would be quite easy for a bear to end up in someone’s house or condo and it doesn’t look good for the bear. Best case scenario is that the bear will be relocated. Worst case scenario is property damage, injury, and/or death, most likely for the bear. Welcome to summer…
Sunday, April 01, 2007
April First
Every year I enjoy the April Fools stories on NPR's All Things Considered. I have been fooled badly in the past. So tonight I was listening carefully.
With just 15 minutes to go, an interview came on. It was a review of a biography of dancer/choreographer Jerome Robbins. It was odd. The story of his life is odd: very eccentric, very diverse. One of a kind. Strange drug experiences, strange politics, etc. Especially odd was that the author of the biography was Amanda Veil (not sure of spelling, this being radio). They kept repeating the name of the author. Yes, this has to be the joke, I thought: "A Man Ta Veil," how could a biographer have that name? But strange as the story was, it wasn't strange enough.
Last year's April Fools story was a profile of a billionaire who endowed a new "Positive Opera Company" that was commissioning famous composers to rewrite classic operas and make them less tragic and more uplifting, a la Norman Vincent Peal. Now that is the kind of story that could really raise some hackles, opera fans being so fanatical and all. The story of an odd choreographer just didn't have that same punch. No, Amanda Veil it may be, but it was not the story of the day.
The next story though, about the Indigenous Sculpture Society sounded promising. And indeed, it was about a group of sculptors, whose very British spokeswoman, Olira Pofl (or something close to that), explained how they find strangely named towns, like Monkey's Eyebrow, Kentucky, and sculpt that name (in this case giant Monkey's Eyebrows arching over the highway) out of indigenous materials.
It was a little too wacky, not quite believable this year. Still, I fell for it in a different way. Bring a critical ear to every story and you can't help but be fooled.
With just 15 minutes to go, an interview came on. It was a review of a biography of dancer/choreographer Jerome Robbins. It was odd. The story of his life is odd: very eccentric, very diverse. One of a kind. Strange drug experiences, strange politics, etc. Especially odd was that the author of the biography was Amanda Veil (not sure of spelling, this being radio). They kept repeating the name of the author. Yes, this has to be the joke, I thought: "A Man Ta Veil," how could a biographer have that name? But strange as the story was, it wasn't strange enough.
Last year's April Fools story was a profile of a billionaire who endowed a new "Positive Opera Company" that was commissioning famous composers to rewrite classic operas and make them less tragic and more uplifting, a la Norman Vincent Peal. Now that is the kind of story that could really raise some hackles, opera fans being so fanatical and all. The story of an odd choreographer just didn't have that same punch. No, Amanda Veil it may be, but it was not the story of the day.
The next story though, about the Indigenous Sculpture Society sounded promising. And indeed, it was about a group of sculptors, whose very British spokeswoman, Olira Pofl (or something close to that), explained how they find strangely named towns, like Monkey's Eyebrow, Kentucky, and sculpt that name (in this case giant Monkey's Eyebrows arching over the highway) out of indigenous materials.
It was a little too wacky, not quite believable this year. Still, I fell for it in a different way. Bring a critical ear to every story and you can't help but be fooled.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Haiku’s from last night
by Greg and Rees
Haikus are easy
They are very fun to do
Except the last line
My brain is frozen
Like a hammer to the head
With frozen cherries
Even if angry
Put homework on the table
Nicer in morning
Haikus are easy
They are very fun to do
Except the last line
My brain is frozen
Like a hammer to the head
With frozen cherries
Even if angry
Put homework on the table
Nicer in morning
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Two stories
I was listening to the news last night while at the table with Kadin. A story came on about Putin’s recently reinstated military parades in Red Square.
Kadin’s ears perked up and he said, “Red Square, I know Red Square.” Such outbursts are not unusual for him, he really does pay attention.
“Oh, so you know Red Square from Civilization or Age of Empires?” I ask, because he has regular conversations about Admiral Yi Soon-shin, his Turtle Ships, and such.
“Actually,” he says, “I know it from school.”
“You talked about Red Square in school?”
“It’s one of the centers.”
One of the centers, I think. Oh yes, the four tables where the kindergarteners divide into small groups and do activities: Blue Circle, Orange Triangle, Green Rectangle, and Red Square. There it is, right in the middle of the kindergarten classroom, a famous communist center. Has anyone ever made that connection?
****************
Rees has been forgetting to bring home his homework of late. So we have been working on ways to remember.
After school I say, “Do you know what I am going to ask you?”
“Yes, I remembered it,” he says, “I have my homework.”
“Homework: don’t leave school without it, that’s your motto,” I say.
“No,” Rees says, “My motto is: Why walk if you can run?”
Too true.
Kadin’s ears perked up and he said, “Red Square, I know Red Square.” Such outbursts are not unusual for him, he really does pay attention.
“Oh, so you know Red Square from Civilization or Age of Empires?” I ask, because he has regular conversations about Admiral Yi Soon-shin, his Turtle Ships, and such.
“Actually,” he says, “I know it from school.”
“You talked about Red Square in school?”
“It’s one of the centers.”
One of the centers, I think. Oh yes, the four tables where the kindergarteners divide into small groups and do activities: Blue Circle, Orange Triangle, Green Rectangle, and Red Square. There it is, right in the middle of the kindergarten classroom, a famous communist center. Has anyone ever made that connection?
****************
Rees has been forgetting to bring home his homework of late. So we have been working on ways to remember.
After school I say, “Do you know what I am going to ask you?”
“Yes, I remembered it,” he says, “I have my homework.”
“Homework: don’t leave school without it, that’s your motto,” I say.
“No,” Rees says, “My motto is: Why walk if you can run?”
Too true.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Grease
I have been helping with the costumes for Grease, the musical that the 4th and 5th graders at the kids’ school are doing this year. When the musical was first announced, Rees was very excited until he found out that it was not about ancient Greece. He was even less excited when he found out it was all about romance between boys and girls. Now he doesn’t want anything to do with it and won’t even go near one of the circle skirts I am sewing when I need to see if it is approximately the right size. I always felt a little deprived because I had never seen Grease and it was very popular when I was in junior high. It certainly has stuck around.
Apparently the version Rees’ school is doing has been charmingly adapted and sanitized so that it is appropriate for young children. I am dubious. I finally borrowed the DVD and did my annual ironing while watching it. My assessment? It is terrible. I could find very little of value in it. Between the tacky costumes, cheesy dream sequences, and almost unbearable musical production, the story stinks. It’s basically about a sweet girl who is too sweet for her own good. The idea seems to be that you have to join a gang, drink, smoke, and sleep around to be cool, and if the “one you want” goes for the hot dancer from another school, you need become a biker chick. Or something like that. These young couples in relationships that already seem old and tired, getting pregnant or married right out of high school was just depressing to me, not amusing. Having high school graduation be the highlight of their lives made it very clear that it was all going to be down hill from there. I guess I am just jaded. I will be interested to see how this is rehashed for ten-year-olds, something that seems a Herculean task (from a very different sort of Greece).
However, the girls at the school all seem really into it, to be sure. Beauty-school dropout and all. Is that sad or fun? Anyway, I asked Rees, who is in the chorus (as are all the 4th graders), what he needed in the way of a costume. There was a long pause before he replied,
“Um, mom, I think I am going to be a hoplite.”
“A hoplite?” I wrack my brain as the word sounds vaguely familiar. A hoplite is…oh yes, an ancient Greek spearman. You go Rees.
Apparently the version Rees’ school is doing has been charmingly adapted and sanitized so that it is appropriate for young children. I am dubious. I finally borrowed the DVD and did my annual ironing while watching it. My assessment? It is terrible. I could find very little of value in it. Between the tacky costumes, cheesy dream sequences, and almost unbearable musical production, the story stinks. It’s basically about a sweet girl who is too sweet for her own good. The idea seems to be that you have to join a gang, drink, smoke, and sleep around to be cool, and if the “one you want” goes for the hot dancer from another school, you need become a biker chick. Or something like that. These young couples in relationships that already seem old and tired, getting pregnant or married right out of high school was just depressing to me, not amusing. Having high school graduation be the highlight of their lives made it very clear that it was all going to be down hill from there. I guess I am just jaded. I will be interested to see how this is rehashed for ten-year-olds, something that seems a Herculean task (from a very different sort of Greece).
However, the girls at the school all seem really into it, to be sure. Beauty-school dropout and all. Is that sad or fun? Anyway, I asked Rees, who is in the chorus (as are all the 4th graders), what he needed in the way of a costume. There was a long pause before he replied,
“Um, mom, I think I am going to be a hoplite.”
“A hoplite?” I wrack my brain as the word sounds vaguely familiar. A hoplite is…oh yes, an ancient Greek spearman. You go Rees.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Chores
In college I remember hearing a quote attributed to Toni Morrison that went: "Women love their sons and raise their daughters." I thought that was so true! Why is it that girls/women always seem so functional and responsible and boys/men are cut so much slack? Yes, blame it on those soppy, soft-hearted mothers. They loved their sons and raised their daughters.
Then I heard a radio piece recently about how, on average, girls do two hours more housework each week than boys do. The reporter of the story attributed this to leftover sexist stereotypes where women’s domain is the home. They interviewed moms, their daughters, and their sons. Everyone agreed that it wasn't fair, but they all just said that was the way it turned out.
In college I would have agreed that this was due to sexism. Now that I am the mother of sons, I have to defend mothers and say that we are not to blame. Now I know the sad truth: it is not sexism, it is just that boys have zero interest in doing things that you ask them to do. Zero. Ask them to do something practical and watch as their eyes glaze over and their body goes slack. Ask a girl, and they will be interested and give it a try. They may not be thrilled, but they want to be helpful. I see this all the time when I work in my son's classrooms. The girls enjoy the idea of doing the work, doing it neatly, and getting it done. The boys could care less.
In the end, it is just a whole lot easier to ask a girl to do something. With boys it is like pulling teeth. There is so much resistance that it often ends up taking more time than it is worth. It's not that it can't be done, but it truly is tempting not to bother. The basic fact is: you are going to have to work harder to get boys to do the same number of hours of housework. That seems to me to be a much more sensible explanation for why girls tend to do more housework. The idea that it all stems from ingrained sexist attitudes seems more remote. Now that I have sons, I truly believe there are innate differences between the sexes. Our job is not to make things the same, but to make them equal. I’m all for fairness and equal shares, but boy is it an uphill battle.
Then I heard a radio piece recently about how, on average, girls do two hours more housework each week than boys do. The reporter of the story attributed this to leftover sexist stereotypes where women’s domain is the home. They interviewed moms, their daughters, and their sons. Everyone agreed that it wasn't fair, but they all just said that was the way it turned out.
In college I would have agreed that this was due to sexism. Now that I am the mother of sons, I have to defend mothers and say that we are not to blame. Now I know the sad truth: it is not sexism, it is just that boys have zero interest in doing things that you ask them to do. Zero. Ask them to do something practical and watch as their eyes glaze over and their body goes slack. Ask a girl, and they will be interested and give it a try. They may not be thrilled, but they want to be helpful. I see this all the time when I work in my son's classrooms. The girls enjoy the idea of doing the work, doing it neatly, and getting it done. The boys could care less.
In the end, it is just a whole lot easier to ask a girl to do something. With boys it is like pulling teeth. There is so much resistance that it often ends up taking more time than it is worth. It's not that it can't be done, but it truly is tempting not to bother. The basic fact is: you are going to have to work harder to get boys to do the same number of hours of housework. That seems to me to be a much more sensible explanation for why girls tend to do more housework. The idea that it all stems from ingrained sexist attitudes seems more remote. Now that I have sons, I truly believe there are innate differences between the sexes. Our job is not to make things the same, but to make them equal. I’m all for fairness and equal shares, but boy is it an uphill battle.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
More Boulder moments
You know you live in Boulder when…
You go to pick up your child from a playdate at his classmate's house. You follow the directions, find the address, and discover it’s your local yoga ashram. Cool.
You go to your friend's house to sew Halloween costumes after school. She is a practicing Buddhist and has a lama from Bhutan staying with her. You sit and sew and explain the characters of the Lord of the Rings to him. You ask him what he thinks about kids playing with toy weapons. In broken English he replies: "You can't go against nature." Good answer.
You are working at a garage sale at someone else's house when a woman shopping at the sale introduces herself as a neighbor. You explain that this is not your house or even your neighborhood, but she does look familiar. She agrees. You stare at each other, compare notes on schools, etc., but nothing matches. "I feel like I know you, like we have had deep conversations," you say. "Yes," she nods, "I feel that too. Well, I am a professional clairvoyant and an intuitive." Oh great, you think, we probably met in a former life. Finally it hits you, that you know her from your magazine writing class. Yes, yes, that's it! She gives you her card. Another typical acquaintance.
Read more Boulder moments here and here.
You go to pick up your child from a playdate at his classmate's house. You follow the directions, find the address, and discover it’s your local yoga ashram. Cool.
You go to your friend's house to sew Halloween costumes after school. She is a practicing Buddhist and has a lama from Bhutan staying with her. You sit and sew and explain the characters of the Lord of the Rings to him. You ask him what he thinks about kids playing with toy weapons. In broken English he replies: "You can't go against nature." Good answer.
You are working at a garage sale at someone else's house when a woman shopping at the sale introduces herself as a neighbor. You explain that this is not your house or even your neighborhood, but she does look familiar. She agrees. You stare at each other, compare notes on schools, etc., but nothing matches. "I feel like I know you, like we have had deep conversations," you say. "Yes," she nods, "I feel that too. Well, I am a professional clairvoyant and an intuitive." Oh great, you think, we probably met in a former life. Finally it hits you, that you know her from your magazine writing class. Yes, yes, that's it! She gives you her card. Another typical acquaintance.
Read more Boulder moments here and here.
Monday, February 05, 2007
What a difference temperament makes
First Kadin and then Rees have come down with a nasty virus. It starts with a sore throat and fever and moves on to laryngitis, trouble breathing, and a bad cough. I am pretty sure Kadin got it from his friend at school. I was briefed on the progression by this friend's mom. Luckily, or I might have taken Kadin in for a throat culture. He missed three days of school, hung out at home, napped, played on the computer, and generally was amenable and amused himself. He had this terrible wheeze, but didn't seem overly bothered by it and just soldiered on. "Don't you want to cough?" I would ask, and he would shake his head, "It hurts to cough," he would croak. He recovered.
Almost a week to the day later, Rees came down with a bad sore throat then a fever. He too stayed home from school. But he is a different guy with a different temperament. He doesn't really nap. He doesn't really self-entertain, and he is not prone to relaxing. If he has trouble breathing, he works harder at it, feels trapped, starts to panic, tightens up some more and it starts this whole negative feedback cycle. Poor Rees. His eyes wide, sweat on his brow, his chest heaving, he is desperate to breathe, getting worse and worse! If Kadin hadn't had it first I would have rushed Rees off to the emergency room thinking he was going to die. Hoping to avoid such a scenario, and knowing that his tendency is to tense and work harder, I talked him through relaxed breathing: being patient and letting it happen, pausing at the end of the inhalation and the exhalation, long, gentle, slow breaths. Luckily, he listened (for a change), and it worked. Soon, he was breathing normally again.
As he lay on the couch I gave him a little bell since he couldn't call out (he had lost his voice) and he was too tired to walk. Sometimes he would ring the bell if he was having trouble breathing and ask me to talk him through calming down again. Sometimes he would just ring the bell to ask me to be with him. It seems that he could sense as soon as I was in the middle of the really critical part of something and then ring the bell. That's Rees. He needs someone to be involved with everything about him. Alas, he is a difficult patient to have at home. He is resistant to things that might make him feel better like trying a cup of tea or taking a bath. By dinnertime on Friday it was really bad. I'm sure it didn't help that the “high” temperature was in the single digits so the air especially dry. He didn't want to stay home when I went to pick up Kadin from school (a 5 min walk) so went with me for a little bit before deciding to turn back. When we returned from school, he ran out to meet us, panic in his eyes. Running in the frigid air was the wrong approach. His lungs just could not recover. Finally, we made a warm vapor chamber with the shower in the bathroom and that stopped the cycle of panic and calmed his lungs down. I was worried we'd be up all night, but he slept well. In the morning, it took a while of him laying on the floor in the steamy bathroom and asking me to talk him through breathing a few times before he could get up and function. I hope that was the worst of it. And I hope Greg and I don't succumb. It has brought into stark relief what a difference temperament makes. In a survival situation where strength, fast action, and effort is required, Rees would win out every time. In a situation that requires, calm, finesse, and patience, Kadin is the one who will shine.
Almost a week to the day later, Rees came down with a bad sore throat then a fever. He too stayed home from school. But he is a different guy with a different temperament. He doesn't really nap. He doesn't really self-entertain, and he is not prone to relaxing. If he has trouble breathing, he works harder at it, feels trapped, starts to panic, tightens up some more and it starts this whole negative feedback cycle. Poor Rees. His eyes wide, sweat on his brow, his chest heaving, he is desperate to breathe, getting worse and worse! If Kadin hadn't had it first I would have rushed Rees off to the emergency room thinking he was going to die. Hoping to avoid such a scenario, and knowing that his tendency is to tense and work harder, I talked him through relaxed breathing: being patient and letting it happen, pausing at the end of the inhalation and the exhalation, long, gentle, slow breaths. Luckily, he listened (for a change), and it worked. Soon, he was breathing normally again.
As he lay on the couch I gave him a little bell since he couldn't call out (he had lost his voice) and he was too tired to walk. Sometimes he would ring the bell if he was having trouble breathing and ask me to talk him through calming down again. Sometimes he would just ring the bell to ask me to be with him. It seems that he could sense as soon as I was in the middle of the really critical part of something and then ring the bell. That's Rees. He needs someone to be involved with everything about him. Alas, he is a difficult patient to have at home. He is resistant to things that might make him feel better like trying a cup of tea or taking a bath. By dinnertime on Friday it was really bad. I'm sure it didn't help that the “high” temperature was in the single digits so the air especially dry. He didn't want to stay home when I went to pick up Kadin from school (a 5 min walk) so went with me for a little bit before deciding to turn back. When we returned from school, he ran out to meet us, panic in his eyes. Running in the frigid air was the wrong approach. His lungs just could not recover. Finally, we made a warm vapor chamber with the shower in the bathroom and that stopped the cycle of panic and calmed his lungs down. I was worried we'd be up all night, but he slept well. In the morning, it took a while of him laying on the floor in the steamy bathroom and asking me to talk him through breathing a few times before he could get up and function. I hope that was the worst of it. And I hope Greg and I don't succumb. It has brought into stark relief what a difference temperament makes. In a survival situation where strength, fast action, and effort is required, Rees would win out every time. In a situation that requires, calm, finesse, and patience, Kadin is the one who will shine.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Natural history of dust
In the low winter light you become aware of dust. It's a seasonal thing. Dust doesn't seem such a big deal in the summer. I am sure it is still there, but with the sun high in the sky, it is nearly invisible. The winter, with it's low-angled rays brings dust to your attention. You can see it's shadow on surfaces and it is alarming: big, hulking elongated shadows creeping up behind you like giant mutant dust creatures from a horror movie. High up by the ceiling, cobwebs are suddenly backlit. Swirls of dust never seen before are illuminated as they twist though the air.
I am not a big fan of dust, but still, it fascinates me. It's kind of like the weeds in the garden in that, though unwanted, can still teach you things about what grows well where. Weeds can map the water available and the microclimate of different areas. Dust is a map of energy flow. Particles are picked up from high-flow areas and deposited in low-flow areas. You can use this knowledge of energy currents to help you arrange things and prioritize cleaning. Maybe you could even make a clever dust trap behind the door or under that dresser where it always gathers.
And what about what is in the dust? In my kitchen, it is usually filled with goldfish cracker crumbs and the like. In the entry, the grime is more sandy, in the bedroom, more feathery. After we got the cats, it became more furry. Maybe I should set up dust traps in different parts of the house, collect little vials, and compare...
Anyway, I am not alone in this odd idea. Just today I read in the paper that the National Institute of Standards and Technology sells 10 gram samples of "standard house dust" [Standard Reference Material 2585] for $450 a bottle. (Yes! I have a gold mine! Except that the NIST samples are irradiated and somehow expensively processed to prepare them for study. Sigh.) This "standard" house dust is used to give environmental scientists a baseline of chemicals that would normally be found in a house. Just so you know, higher concentrations of toxics were found in American household dust than European household dust. Interesting. I wonder how our house dust compares. And I've noticed that the dust is different in the different places we've lived. In more urban areas it is darker, blacker. Out here in Colorado it is a sandy tan color.
So before you throw open your windows on the first warm day of spring and whisk it away, think about what you can learn from the dust in your home.
And then there’s dryer lint…
I am not a big fan of dust, but still, it fascinates me. It's kind of like the weeds in the garden in that, though unwanted, can still teach you things about what grows well where. Weeds can map the water available and the microclimate of different areas. Dust is a map of energy flow. Particles are picked up from high-flow areas and deposited in low-flow areas. You can use this knowledge of energy currents to help you arrange things and prioritize cleaning. Maybe you could even make a clever dust trap behind the door or under that dresser where it always gathers.
And what about what is in the dust? In my kitchen, it is usually filled with goldfish cracker crumbs and the like. In the entry, the grime is more sandy, in the bedroom, more feathery. After we got the cats, it became more furry. Maybe I should set up dust traps in different parts of the house, collect little vials, and compare...
Anyway, I am not alone in this odd idea. Just today I read in the paper that the National Institute of Standards and Technology sells 10 gram samples of "standard house dust" [Standard Reference Material 2585] for $450 a bottle. (Yes! I have a gold mine! Except that the NIST samples are irradiated and somehow expensively processed to prepare them for study. Sigh.) This "standard" house dust is used to give environmental scientists a baseline of chemicals that would normally be found in a house. Just so you know, higher concentrations of toxics were found in American household dust than European household dust. Interesting. I wonder how our house dust compares. And I've noticed that the dust is different in the different places we've lived. In more urban areas it is darker, blacker. Out here in Colorado it is a sandy tan color.
So before you throw open your windows on the first warm day of spring and whisk it away, think about what you can learn from the dust in your home.
And then there’s dryer lint…
Monday, January 29, 2007
Pearl
I have not written about the cats since they were kittens. I must tell you how Pearl is getting on now that she is almost two. Pearl is still perfect. She is petite and beautiful with delicate features and little tufts of hair at the tips of her large ears that make her look like a pixie. Her coat is slightly curly—wavy really—like an elegant 1920s hairdo. Some would say (actually have said) that she is standoffish and not very friendly, but to me she is perfectly independent. Not like Rex, who most categorize as outgoing and friendly and I categorize as pathologically needy. Pearl does have her odd habits, though. She licks paper. Obsessively licks paper. Rex licks me, which I find annoying, but Pearl prefers paper. I don't know why. And then while Rex will play and retrieve a ball, Pearl carries things. She methodically brings things up from my studio or the laundry closet and deposits them by the front door or on the stairs. It is a real drag to come home and find socks, underwear, and balls of yarn on the doormat. But I guess it beats finding dead and maimed vermin. I have filled many a basket with her nightly haul. At first I thought she was bringing "prey" to show me, but then it occurred to me that maybe it is kittens. Maybe she needs kittens. Maybe she needs something to lick and to carry. She is not fixed and she is very vocal about the fact that something is missing in her life.
And that brings me to her one flaw: her voice. Her attempts at attracting a mate, are, to my ears, repellent. She is like the silent movie actress in Singing in the Rain who is beautiful and elegant, but when the talkies come along, it turns out she has a terrible voice. Pearl, it seems, can only do whiny and loud. There is no persuasion, no finesse, only obnoxious demanding. Rex, the goofy one, has a modulated voice that can sound very charming and almost like he is talking. Pearl has just one horrible sound. Oh well.
A couple of weeks ago I was home working when she just would not let up. She would get right in my face and repeatedly let out her screechy meow. I was getting ready to go out and she redoubled her efforts. What was up? I thought I had just better check downstairs to see if there was some reason for her behavior. I looked, and sure enough, I had left the door to their litter box closed. Ooops. Okay, so I opened that and looked around some more to find that Rex had been shut in my studio the whole time too. So she may be loud and obnoxious, but she was right. I still think she is perfect.
And that brings me to her one flaw: her voice. Her attempts at attracting a mate, are, to my ears, repellent. She is like the silent movie actress in Singing in the Rain who is beautiful and elegant, but when the talkies come along, it turns out she has a terrible voice. Pearl, it seems, can only do whiny and loud. There is no persuasion, no finesse, only obnoxious demanding. Rex, the goofy one, has a modulated voice that can sound very charming and almost like he is talking. Pearl has just one horrible sound. Oh well.
A couple of weeks ago I was home working when she just would not let up. She would get right in my face and repeatedly let out her screechy meow. I was getting ready to go out and she redoubled her efforts. What was up? I thought I had just better check downstairs to see if there was some reason for her behavior. I looked, and sure enough, I had left the door to their litter box closed. Ooops. Okay, so I opened that and looked around some more to find that Rex had been shut in my studio the whole time too. So she may be loud and obnoxious, but she was right. I still think she is perfect.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
More outdoor tips from last weekend’s paper
No Swimming: much of what you know about surviving an avalanche is wrong
Okay, and then there was this skiing piece—
Hucking yourself off your first cliff: jumping off cliffs takes a little practice but isn’t as hard as it may seem
Right, so we’ve got 72-hour marathons, running trails at night, surviving avalanches, and jumping off cliffs. Do any of these sound like good ideas to you? I didn't even write about the 53 year old man who free solos (that's rock climbing without ropes) 1,500 vertical feet every morning. He said the experience was "embiggening" which is right up there with "Danielesque" in my book. Such is life in Boulder. Can't wait to see what's suggested in next weekend's paper.
Okay, and then there was this skiing piece—
Hucking yourself off your first cliff: jumping off cliffs takes a little practice but isn’t as hard as it may seem
Right, so we’ve got 72-hour marathons, running trails at night, surviving avalanches, and jumping off cliffs. Do any of these sound like good ideas to you? I didn't even write about the 53 year old man who free solos (that's rock climbing without ropes) 1,500 vertical feet every morning. He said the experience was "embiggening" which is right up there with "Danielesque" in my book. Such is life in Boulder. Can't wait to see what's suggested in next weekend's paper.
Nocturnal adventure
Yes, we have had quite a bit of snow. For the most part, it has been nice. Colorado snow is usually what snow should be: fluffy, white, and beautiful. Combine that with the warm temperatures that usually follow and lots of solar radiation, and for us, that means snow can be experienced in shirt sleeves and quickly melts off all the roads and pathways. We have not been too inconvenienced by the snow, but, because we’ve had so much, we did have a few days there of icky gray icy stuff. A few more inches of powder over the weekend took care of that. It’s above freezing and sunny again today.
So snow in Colorado I don’t mind so much. But the wind can be brutal. We regularly have 90mph winds in our neighborhood and those days are tough. Or maybe I should say nights, because the winds mostly happen at night, but can go on for days.
It was a week ago and we were in a bit of climactic shock after returning from our tropical vacation with Greg’s family. We were pleased that we were able to drive our car out of the park-and-ride (an uncovered lot with lots of new snow during the interval we were away)—just barely—without getting stuck in the snow for too long. The long day of travel, the snow, tired children, a frozen hatchback door, all conspired to somehow keep us from putting on socks. The snow and the close call getting stuck at the park-and-ride kept us from parking in our driveway, so we walked the last block to the house in flip flops with suitcases and sleeping children. That was a sight I am sure.
The next day we unpacked, moved back in, took down the holiday decorations to prepare for Kadin’s birthday, and hunkered down for the predicted windstorm, safe and cozy in the house. The storms are LOUD. When people say hurricanes sound like a freight train, they are right. Everyone has trouble sleeping on such nights. I am always a bit worried about what might blow away outside or what might blow into the house. Just after Greg and I got into bed and read for a bit, the power went out. So we went to sleep.
At about 2:30 in the morning, Kadin came up to say his leg hurt. I put him back to bed and remembered the visions I’d been having all night of the Christmas tree that I’d put out in front of the house blowing into the window like a javelin or breaking off some of the small new trees I’d planted out front. The snow was gusting up against the windows, the wind was roaring, and outside did not look fit for man or beast. I could see the Christmas tree lashing up against the new sumacs I’d planted. I’ll just do it, I thought, run out and move it to the back. It will only take a second and then I’ll sleep better.
So I put on a coat and shoes, unlocked the deadbolt and dashed out. Luckily it was not too cold and I quickly found a better spot to deposit the tree. Dashed back to the front door to find it…locked. I had forgotten about the lock on the knob. We usually don’t use that and it was dark so I didn’t see that it was locked. No big deal, I’ll go in through the garage. But the garage is electric and the electricity was still out. No dice. So that’s why the kids were sleeping without their night lights…. Okay, so another door. I mentally go through the other doors and know they are all locked as I had just checked them that evening and, since we’d been away, everything was double checked and tight. Fine, I’ll have to wake Greg up with the doorbell. Only—uh oh—no doorbell, that requires power too. It was LOUD with the wind/freight train. I tried knocking, to no avail. I pictured Greg sleeping soundly with five pillows stacked on his head to keep out the sound of the wind. I called and I knocked and the sound got sucked away as soon as it was made. At first I worried that I might wake the kids, then I hoped I would! I had plenty of time to think through options and I couldn’t think of any. Wake a neighbor and call? How could I wake a neighbor if I couldn’t wake Greg? Who would be up if the power was out? Finally I decided to trek around to the back of the house. There was a nice, bright moon. If it weren’t for the wind it would have been peaceful with the white snow and no electric lights. But then I felt very visible, like mountain lion bait. The trek was daunting in 2ft of snow, but luckily the snow had mostly blown away by then into big drifts in the field behind. When I called and knocked on the back, by Greg’s head, he heard me and came to the front door.
“What in the world are you doing out here????” he asked, incredulous, “Do you often walk around in the middle of the night?”
I explained the conspiracy of circumstances. So I survived the windstorm in the end and got back to sleep eventually. The next morning on the walk to school I noticed a strange square in the snow next to our neighbor’s house. Inside were toy dinosaurs and a plastic play fence. How odd that this little set up survived the snow and the wind. Something was missing, though. What used to be there? And then, about 50ft down the path, I saw their wooden sandbox smashed against some boulders. Another 20ft down the path was the awning for the sandbox that had turned into a sail. Whoa.
So snow in Colorado I don’t mind so much. But the wind can be brutal. We regularly have 90mph winds in our neighborhood and those days are tough. Or maybe I should say nights, because the winds mostly happen at night, but can go on for days.
It was a week ago and we were in a bit of climactic shock after returning from our tropical vacation with Greg’s family. We were pleased that we were able to drive our car out of the park-and-ride (an uncovered lot with lots of new snow during the interval we were away)—just barely—without getting stuck in the snow for too long. The long day of travel, the snow, tired children, a frozen hatchback door, all conspired to somehow keep us from putting on socks. The snow and the close call getting stuck at the park-and-ride kept us from parking in our driveway, so we walked the last block to the house in flip flops with suitcases and sleeping children. That was a sight I am sure.
The next day we unpacked, moved back in, took down the holiday decorations to prepare for Kadin’s birthday, and hunkered down for the predicted windstorm, safe and cozy in the house. The storms are LOUD. When people say hurricanes sound like a freight train, they are right. Everyone has trouble sleeping on such nights. I am always a bit worried about what might blow away outside or what might blow into the house. Just after Greg and I got into bed and read for a bit, the power went out. So we went to sleep.
At about 2:30 in the morning, Kadin came up to say his leg hurt. I put him back to bed and remembered the visions I’d been having all night of the Christmas tree that I’d put out in front of the house blowing into the window like a javelin or breaking off some of the small new trees I’d planted out front. The snow was gusting up against the windows, the wind was roaring, and outside did not look fit for man or beast. I could see the Christmas tree lashing up against the new sumacs I’d planted. I’ll just do it, I thought, run out and move it to the back. It will only take a second and then I’ll sleep better.
So I put on a coat and shoes, unlocked the deadbolt and dashed out. Luckily it was not too cold and I quickly found a better spot to deposit the tree. Dashed back to the front door to find it…locked. I had forgotten about the lock on the knob. We usually don’t use that and it was dark so I didn’t see that it was locked. No big deal, I’ll go in through the garage. But the garage is electric and the electricity was still out. No dice. So that’s why the kids were sleeping without their night lights…. Okay, so another door. I mentally go through the other doors and know they are all locked as I had just checked them that evening and, since we’d been away, everything was double checked and tight. Fine, I’ll have to wake Greg up with the doorbell. Only—uh oh—no doorbell, that requires power too. It was LOUD with the wind/freight train. I tried knocking, to no avail. I pictured Greg sleeping soundly with five pillows stacked on his head to keep out the sound of the wind. I called and I knocked and the sound got sucked away as soon as it was made. At first I worried that I might wake the kids, then I hoped I would! I had plenty of time to think through options and I couldn’t think of any. Wake a neighbor and call? How could I wake a neighbor if I couldn’t wake Greg? Who would be up if the power was out? Finally I decided to trek around to the back of the house. There was a nice, bright moon. If it weren’t for the wind it would have been peaceful with the white snow and no electric lights. But then I felt very visible, like mountain lion bait. The trek was daunting in 2ft of snow, but luckily the snow had mostly blown away by then into big drifts in the field behind. When I called and knocked on the back, by Greg’s head, he heard me and came to the front door.
“What in the world are you doing out here????” he asked, incredulous, “Do you often walk around in the middle of the night?”
I explained the conspiracy of circumstances. So I survived the windstorm in the end and got back to sleep eventually. The next morning on the walk to school I noticed a strange square in the snow next to our neighbor’s house. Inside were toy dinosaurs and a plastic play fence. How odd that this little set up survived the snow and the wind. Something was missing, though. What used to be there? And then, about 50ft down the path, I saw their wooden sandbox smashed against some boulders. Another 20ft down the path was the awning for the sandbox that had turned into a sail. Whoa.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Civilization
Kadin is still very enamored of the computer game Civilization where you set up civilizations and they evolve. A year ago he was telling me about how he had invented the alphabet (even though he couldn't read) and pottery and the wheel and so forth. The game is quite sophisticated and word intensive, so I don't know how he gets so much out of it. It has, in fact, taught him to read and much of his worldview comes from this game. When we traveled to England last summer our little preschooler would come up with statements that surprised us such as: "Elizabeth is queen of England. England has a monarchy." We realized he knew this from the game, and in the game it was Elizabeth I, not Elizabeth II, but we weren't about to burst his bubble.
Then there was the time he was playing at a friend's house and his friend's mother was telling them the Hanukkah story about the Macabees and the oil lamp that miraculously burned for eight days. "Now wait a minute," she told me Kadin had said, "Was this in the Middle Ages or the industrial ages? Because they didn't have oil until the industrial ages." She said it stopped her right in her tracks, and she didn't know. Okay, so they didn't have geological oil for energy in the middle ages, but they did have plant and animal oils for lighting. But when were the Macabees?
And then there was the other day when Kadin's civilization was really getting quite advanced. He was in the modern times and was building a space ship. "Dad," said our serious kindergartner as he came out of the office, "I have lots of research labs. They are very useful you know."
Then there was the time he was playing at a friend's house and his friend's mother was telling them the Hanukkah story about the Macabees and the oil lamp that miraculously burned for eight days. "Now wait a minute," she told me Kadin had said, "Was this in the Middle Ages or the industrial ages? Because they didn't have oil until the industrial ages." She said it stopped her right in her tracks, and she didn't know. Okay, so they didn't have geological oil for energy in the middle ages, but they did have plant and animal oils for lighting. But when were the Macabees?
And then there was the other day when Kadin's civilization was really getting quite advanced. He was in the modern times and was building a space ship. "Dad," said our serious kindergartner as he came out of the office, "I have lots of research labs. They are very useful you know."
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Do women’s hands do heavy duty?
Have you ever asked yourself that question? Probably not, but you should.
I was out cutting juniper bushes for a garland and after all the landscaping I did this fall, I needed a new pair of gloves. So I went to the hardware store and looked and looked, but I could not find any gloves labeled “heavy duty” in women's sizes. There were these great, inexpensive, heavy-duty gardening gloves in men's medium or large (there is no men's small, apparently) but nothing comparable in women’s. I was sure I just wasn't seeing correctly, so when a female employee passed and asked if I needed any help, I asked her where the heavy-duty women's gloves were. She sighed and said she had worked as a landscaper for ten years and the glove issue was a constant frustration. You could get either reasonably priced men's gloves that fell off all the time, or expensive women's gloves that didn’t last. She said they just didn't make heavy-duty women's gloves in anything but the $20 version. Even then, she said, the quality was not good and they did not last as long as the same men's gloves. You can get heavy-duty men's gloves for about $5, so could wear out four pair of those for every one of the women's. All the women's gloves were labeled "medium duty” or “light duty.” What is up with that?
I decided on the cheaper pair of men's mediums, picked up a couple other items and went to check out. The guy at the register asked me if I had found everything I needed. "Yes," I said, "Everything except heavy-duty women's gloves."
"I know," he said, "Isn't it crazy how sexist the glove industry is? The manager at the store I used to work in was a woman and she looked everywhere for some heavy-duty women's gloves and wrote to all the manufacturers. They just don't make them."
I had no idea. I guess men don’t do “small” and women don’t do “heavy duty.” Maybe there would be a market if we changed the words. It's time to start a campaign. If anybody out there finds reasonably priced women’s gloves labeled “high intensity,” or some such, that would be great. Small men’s gloves labeled “firm fit” would be fine too.
I was out cutting juniper bushes for a garland and after all the landscaping I did this fall, I needed a new pair of gloves. So I went to the hardware store and looked and looked, but I could not find any gloves labeled “heavy duty” in women's sizes. There were these great, inexpensive, heavy-duty gardening gloves in men's medium or large (there is no men's small, apparently) but nothing comparable in women’s. I was sure I just wasn't seeing correctly, so when a female employee passed and asked if I needed any help, I asked her where the heavy-duty women's gloves were. She sighed and said she had worked as a landscaper for ten years and the glove issue was a constant frustration. You could get either reasonably priced men's gloves that fell off all the time, or expensive women's gloves that didn’t last. She said they just didn't make heavy-duty women's gloves in anything but the $20 version. Even then, she said, the quality was not good and they did not last as long as the same men's gloves. You can get heavy-duty men's gloves for about $5, so could wear out four pair of those for every one of the women's. All the women's gloves were labeled "medium duty” or “light duty.” What is up with that?
I decided on the cheaper pair of men's mediums, picked up a couple other items and went to check out. The guy at the register asked me if I had found everything I needed. "Yes," I said, "Everything except heavy-duty women's gloves."
"I know," he said, "Isn't it crazy how sexist the glove industry is? The manager at the store I used to work in was a woman and she looked everywhere for some heavy-duty women's gloves and wrote to all the manufacturers. They just don't make them."
I had no idea. I guess men don’t do “small” and women don’t do “heavy duty.” Maybe there would be a market if we changed the words. It's time to start a campaign. If anybody out there finds reasonably priced women’s gloves labeled “high intensity,” or some such, that would be great. Small men’s gloves labeled “firm fit” would be fine too.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Quote of the night
Rees just came in and put his head on my shoulder. I said he looked tired and should go to bed. He protested that he was too tired. "Too tired for bed?" I ask, then say, "Rees, do you know what the best way to stop being tired is?" I'm thinking a five letter word. He thinks for a minute then his eyes light up and he triumphantly calls out, "Tea!"
Oh boy, we're in trouble. I have never seen anybody fight sleep like that boy!
Oh boy, we're in trouble. I have never seen anybody fight sleep like that boy!
Danielesque
Recent articles in the local paper have really clarified for me the extent of athleticism in this town. The first article that really stuck with me was about an annual race in honor of an athlete named Daniel. The race is called the Danielesque. The idea is to celebrate a Danielesque way of life: When you have lost the path, "choose the trail that is the furthest, steepest, and most challenging…Charging up some monstrous hill in the midst of a blizzard, that's Danielesque. Putting your head down and pedaling harder against a raging head wind, that's Danielesque…Danielesque also means handling adversity with equanimity, and always paying attention to the needs of others."
What most people would consider "extreme" sports are actually mainstream here. Normal people make physical activity a way of life. Athletic ones do 72-hour marathons. Running a regular marathon—only 26 miles—is normal. Not running is pretty lax.
Then there was the gift-giving guide that highlighted a certain backpack as a nice gift. The selling points of this backpack included, according the paper, special dedicated pockets for your avalanche shovel and probe. That was an eye opener for me. I don’t know about you, but I, for one, take care to avoid avalanche prone areas and think that if you are the kind of person that finds it necessary to carry an avalanche shovel and probe on a regular basis, you are not long on this earth. But these matter-of-fact gift ideas—yes! that's exactly what I've been looking for!—make you question if not spending every weekend high on avalanche prone slopes means you are missing out.
Then there was another article about trail running at night. A seasonal kind of activity it seems. Yes, in Boulder, people don't just run on tracks or roads or treadmills, they run on hiking trails and they run up mountains. And, as if this wasn't enough, they do this at night. My humble opinion? That is a true addict. But as addictions go, at least it has a healthy aspect to it. It's better than being surrounded by alcoholics or compulsive gamblers.
And then there was the hike I did last week up to Bear Peak for the second part of my birthday, when Greg came back in town. Hiking Bear Peak is something I have wanted to do since we moved here. I can see the summit right outside my window and the trail practically starts at our front door. It’s not super high, but above 8,000 ft, and a good 2,000 ft above where we live. We went a long, gradual back route. After hiking for over 3 miles and gaining quite a bit of elevation, we came to a sign that said, “Private Property, NO TRESPASSING.” The next two lines on the sign were pure Boulder: “No hiking, no jogging.” We are half-way up a mountain and they have to specify “no jogging.” Most places it would be “no hunting,” but I guess that is a given around here as the large buck with antlers who stopped and stared at us near the sign attested.
Now I don't know how healthy it is to run 100 miles, but I do think this normalizing of physical activity is healthy. It certainly has rubbed off on me, if in only a small Bear Peakish way. Even when I have to remind myself: running trails at night IS NOT NORMAL! Packing an avalanche shovel and probe IS NOT NORMAL! It’s still fun to imagine: what if it was??
What most people would consider "extreme" sports are actually mainstream here. Normal people make physical activity a way of life. Athletic ones do 72-hour marathons. Running a regular marathon—only 26 miles—is normal. Not running is pretty lax.
Then there was the gift-giving guide that highlighted a certain backpack as a nice gift. The selling points of this backpack included, according the paper, special dedicated pockets for your avalanche shovel and probe. That was an eye opener for me. I don’t know about you, but I, for one, take care to avoid avalanche prone areas and think that if you are the kind of person that finds it necessary to carry an avalanche shovel and probe on a regular basis, you are not long on this earth. But these matter-of-fact gift ideas—yes! that's exactly what I've been looking for!—make you question if not spending every weekend high on avalanche prone slopes means you are missing out.
Then there was another article about trail running at night. A seasonal kind of activity it seems. Yes, in Boulder, people don't just run on tracks or roads or treadmills, they run on hiking trails and they run up mountains. And, as if this wasn't enough, they do this at night. My humble opinion? That is a true addict. But as addictions go, at least it has a healthy aspect to it. It's better than being surrounded by alcoholics or compulsive gamblers.
And then there was the hike I did last week up to Bear Peak for the second part of my birthday, when Greg came back in town. Hiking Bear Peak is something I have wanted to do since we moved here. I can see the summit right outside my window and the trail practically starts at our front door. It’s not super high, but above 8,000 ft, and a good 2,000 ft above where we live. We went a long, gradual back route. After hiking for over 3 miles and gaining quite a bit of elevation, we came to a sign that said, “Private Property, NO TRESPASSING.” The next two lines on the sign were pure Boulder: “No hiking, no jogging.” We are half-way up a mountain and they have to specify “no jogging.” Most places it would be “no hunting,” but I guess that is a given around here as the large buck with antlers who stopped and stared at us near the sign attested.
Now I don't know how healthy it is to run 100 miles, but I do think this normalizing of physical activity is healthy. It certainly has rubbed off on me, if in only a small Bear Peakish way. Even when I have to remind myself: running trails at night IS NOT NORMAL! Packing an avalanche shovel and probe IS NOT NORMAL! It’s still fun to imagine: what if it was??
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Supersize theory
With the holidays approaching I have been thinking about traditions and childhood and in the process have come up with a new theory about supersizing. It goes something like this: when we are younger, we remember things as bigger and more plentiful than they seem to us as adults. Ask a person about their childhood home and it will be plenty big and functional even if in retrospect it seems small and pokey. I've noticed that pots and pans and cookie cutters look smaller to me now than they did when I was a kid. I remember the Narnia stories as huge, long epics when they are really quite short and have relatively simple plots.
So, maybe, as adults, as we are providing for our children, we want them to have what we had as children and in our mind this is bigger and more plentiful than it really was. So every generation, then, things will get proportionally bigger and bigger. More presents, more toys, bigger trees, larger sandwiches. Will it ever end?
So, maybe, as adults, as we are providing for our children, we want them to have what we had as children and in our mind this is bigger and more plentiful than it really was. So every generation, then, things will get proportionally bigger and bigger. More presents, more toys, bigger trees, larger sandwiches. Will it ever end?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)