Organic Strawberry

This  morning, as I bit into a wonderfully red, organic strawberry, I wondered, "Where did this uninvited element of my physical being come from? I eat well in general, exercise five times a week, and serve as the family sentinel of all things proactive." Extra pounds? Several. Stress? Honestly. Perhaps three years, or ten.

With my second bite, I anticipated the four medical procedures I needed to fit into my workday in this new investigation within which I find myself floundering. The goal: to thoroughly identify and properly rid myself of an invasive lump in my chest. No one has flagged an unnatural level of estrogen in all the years they've been drawing my blood. So I'll always wonder, "from whence has it come?" And I likely will never, ever know.

I have no family history of this. I don't drink alcohol. I don't smoke. My environment for the past 18 years is the same as my neighbor's, who's lived here for 30. And as one of the kids' teachers wrote, "Who's got time for such a thing?" That wouldn't be me. But stop the clock, anyway, no matter what's on the agenda. This is presenting itself a near-total transformation, certainly, of mind and emotion. Perhaps only a slight alteration of this baggage I call my physical body, in the full scope of things. But it's a big deal.

So. Here it is. Here am I. And the next step, after I get my wee brain wrapped around all this, comes the hard part. The careful unwrapping and re-wrapping of my soul.

Paper Work

Nitty gritty family stuff. Don't read if uninterested. And if you've never "been there" I might just want to trade lives.

I'm in the house with two of the three children. The other adult is off on the second business trip in a week, and I've just returned from driving the eldest to college 1,000 miles away, where other adult managed to meet us for about 24 hours to help get settled in before jet-setting off to said business meeting. Safety and general food intake supervision was provided here at home, but household management -- not. We didn't expect it to be, but I haven't given up hope that one day, before I am dead, these children will notice when stuff is piled and scummy or out of place or simply missing. Especially the must-haves of life, gone missing.

The first two nights back after full day’s work and new days of school, "we" here were able to pull some stuff together. I made lists and gentle requests for pile haulers to disseminate accumulations of household stuff, caught up with laundry, re-discovered the kitchen counter tops. With lists (who dragged out what, you see. Claim honestly if you were the one who left the Corel plate on the patio bricks, with the fork stuck into the dried residue of what? Had that been cake with colorful icing?), we did a team scour of the back yard where the neighborhood has been at play: squirt guns, water balloons, folding chairs, throw rugs, tire swing burning hot rubber into the grass in the daytime heat, dried-up paint can with stain from the play set project -- dried brushes bonded inside the cans and needing to get tossed straight into the trash, et cetera. All was eventually beginning to hum at a pitch closer to normal.

So, by late evening I'm on the internet, Skyping with said eldest at college -- classes start tomorrow -- while dabbling on Facebook (I have funny friends!) and suddenly need to head upstairs to take care of some personal business. Quickly. I hit the closest bathroom and realize I'd best not get comfortable there, there's absolutely no paper in the vicinity. The shelf is empty, the cupboard is empty, the top of the tank holds simply a wadded up wash cloth. Even more quickly, I head around the corner to the master bath. 

Did I mention that I had reading material on hand? Indeed, and my response to said reading material was, as one might say, requested ASAP. So I get comfortable. I read and proceed to finish up the paper work in order to move forward to respond in a timely manner to the provider of said reading material. However, it is only at this point that I see there is also no paper in my own bathroom. Conveniently, my guess is that kid A saw hall bath void, so headed to master bath, depleted supplies, and walked off with nary a thought to future provision. Two kids are sleeping, yes both A and B (or so they feign). I'm on my own for this one.

Typically, my drawer has a plentiful backup supply. Not tonight. Even the wipes we keep around for handy clean up have been depleted. Woe c'est moi.

Enough said. Before responding to the reading material, before pulling the next load out of the washing machine, I head to the voluminous STASH of t.p. we keep on the main floor and load up three bathrooms with a half dozen rolls a piece. In my room, I insert the fresh roll into its proper place. Into the first bathroom, where said two children frequent most often (except, I guess, when they’re out of paper!), I set most in the cupboard and one fresh roll on the counter. Let’s see if they insert and mount the roll into the dispenser. Sometime before I die.

The Hawk and the Rabbit

     This is a little story of a three-minute encounter that just took place on my back patio after I took out the recycling. I was nearing the back door and heard a high-pitched, three-note little squawking sound. Turned around to see a charcoal grey hawk of some sort in a wing-flapping landing position above the right end of my youngest's bike handle, which was leaned against the metal patio table near the shed. (It's supposed to be in the shed when she's done with it.) The hawk was in prime position to view the girls' young Himalayan rabbit, Mica, in his hutch. 
     Mica, on the other hand, was obliviously munching away on a leaf from a bedraggled Brussels sprout plant I'd just fed to him on my way past the garden.
     Monsier hawk (or mademoiselle, I do not claim to know) lingered on the bike handle, cocking its head in jerky little ways. I gauged its size as it perched there -- probably 13 or 14  inches in length, with a beautifully striped black and grey tail and flat-ish head. I wondered if its talons would make little rips in the spongey handle bar cover...

Photo by Jeff Anderson, 
Espaniola, New Mexico


      Next on le hawk's agenda was to investigate something in the pile of dry leaves behind middle daughter's crispy, cold corn stalks against the base of the 6-foot fence. Then up on the edge of the fence, facing little Mica, who continued in his devoted pursuit of consuming the last of the garden leaf.

Back to the leaf pile when le hawk, then up to the fence again. A quick swoop over the fire pit to land on the picnic table for a moment. A few more little head-twitches and off it went to the neighbor's aspen tree at the front of their house.
     Mica, be glad your visitor seemed to know that wire fencing was not worth fussing at. 
     You never know who's going to stop in to pay a visit.

Dreaming & finding

Thanks to you, my good friends, who shared the right kind of positive vibes for an end to this personal trauma of mine (see previous post). In early August, I'd been pushing very hard to juggle a couple of editorial jobs and had guests in the house for part of that time. Meal planning, hiking, hosting a few other relatives passing through, picnicking, kayaking. It was all good, but made for some very busy days.

We bid farewell to guests that Wednesday morning, and work went on as it had been for the remainder of the week. On Friday afternoon, we packed our little bags for a weekend in the city. It was the first time all summer we'd made an effort to frolic as a family of five (the kids had each had one or two particularly satisfying summer adventures, but mom and dad were due!). We parked at a light rail stop and took the train into the heart of downtown. What a little online lodging special, a big ole' hot buffet breakfast and a king sized bed will do! Add that to fun with the kids, someone else doing the cooking for a series of meals, and significant decompression was mine.

Saturday night, I closed my book and fell promptly asleep. It was sometime not long before sunrise, I believe, when I dreamed that I held one of the bird plates in my hands. The weight and the slickness of the glaze felt real. When I woke, I reviewed what I had seen in my dream and felt a solid assurance that I would soon find the lost plates. We enjoyed the remainder of the final day of our mini-vacation and got home early evening. Luggage was unloaded, and I took the time to stash away some picnic gear that had been left in the kitchen since Tuesday. Down to the basement I went, to the room where I have pantry goods and back-up kitchen items, as well as a plethora of art supplies, from acrylics and pastels, drawers full of the kids' art, to glass sheets and tools for making panels of art glass. Tidy this, sort that away (it was clear that a kid or two had been digging into paper supplies as well in recent weeks), and there it was -- the little brown bag with the twine handle, tucked against the blank canvases on an eye-high shelf.  What had been lost was found! Hallelujah :)

Needless to say, the hanging of the shelf took a few more weeks and the completion of a work-related deadline or three. So there we go. A simple thing, indeed. But a monumental simple thing in my little sphere.

 I am happy.

M . I . A .

It's been several weeks since they went missing. I had brought them home on a Sunday afternoon from Crackpots, our local pottery painting shop. And there they sat, on the kitchen table, in all of their shiny, glazed glory. One for each of my daughters, painstakingly drawn and painted over the course of a day the week before:

cardinal for spring; for Nina, my April child
goldfinch for summer; for Zoe, my busy Julymeister
chickadee for winter; for Lily, my snow-loving March child

We all enjoyed them for an hour or so, till it was time to set up for small group. We have a great group of friends from Boulder Mennonite -- twice a month we get together for potluck and sharing. One of the best things (second to the friendships, of course), is the variety of food. Seems like each person enjoys cooking and trying new things. So we have fresh, organic, homemade, distinctive, almost every time.

Here's where things get fuzzy in my memory: Folks were arriving and the table was filling up. It seemed that my little crafty show-and-tell might not be at the top of the list for the evening, so I remember moving the plates, carefully, off the table, to ..... I know not where.

It's killing me. My mother-in-law, one of life's best "diggers and finders", could not find them in my house two weeks ago. My husband has tried to imagine my thought process in that hurried moment, and he's looked in places of soft, stored linens and clothing, cabinets and the like. Nothing. I, thinking I was really on my toes, have looked in all of the same places, and also in the big wooden art "flat file" down in my shop. What more protected space could I have found?

In an act of faith, I painted the shelf my friend Tomas made for me last year to display these plates on (yes, it took me what, 10 months, to find a day to paint) ... I pray for dreams to show me where my hands placed them after I lifted them off the kitchen table ... nothing.

So now I need a cadre of dedicated friends to join me in wishing, hoping, praying, that these missing objects of my affection will exit the fog they have been under for the past month and bring me joy once again.  Until they do, this is what I've got: a fuzzy cell phone photo (prior to glazing and firing). Woe is me...

Power - Love - Forgiveness

THIS IS THE REAL DEAL, people. Take a few minutes and read.  Then wear or surround yourself in something orange, Chloe's favorite color. And feel the love...

Teen sentenced for negligent homicide

Posted: Wednesday, Jun 15th, 2011
BY: JULIA WILSON

ALAMOSA — District Judge Martin Gonzales said the sentence of Kyle Stotsky would not bring the Weavers’ daughter back but he could send a message to others that there are consequences for one’s actions.

He sentenced Stotsky to 45 days in Youth Track with credit for six days already served; two years supervised probation; fulltime employment or fulltime enrollment in an educational institution; 500 hours of useful public service; and restitution of $3,881.77 to victim Chloe Weaver’s family and $4,000 to the Victim Compensation fund. The court gave all parties 90 days to finalize the total amount of restitution.

Chloe Weaver, 20, Nederland, and a friend, Craig DenUyl, 24, Kalamazoo, Mich., were out for a Sunday afternoon bicycle ride headed north on County Road 108 when Weaver was hit by a truck driven by Stotsky.

Weaver and DenUyl, members of the Mennonite Volunteer Service in Alamosa, worked at La Puente and on other community projects.

Stotsky fled the scene and was later located at his home.

Originally charged with leaving the scene of an accident, a class three felony; criminally negligent homicide, a class five felony; and careless driving, a traffic offense, he plea bargained and plead guilty to negligent homicide, a class five felony.

The sentencing hearing started with Herm, Cindy and Hope Weaver, Chloe Weaver’s father, mother and sister, giving pre-sentence statements.

Addressing Stotsky, they each expressed the wish that he would become a person who would be dedicated to improving the plight of his fellow men “to continue the work Chloe was doing.”

Their statements were filled with compassion and hope.

“I want you to have the courage to take responsibility for your life and actions, honestly and humbly,” Herm Weaver told him. “I want you to carry on, in some small way, the work Chloe came here to do, to make it a better world.”

District Attorney Dave Mahonee told the court how difficult the case has been.

“It’s clear the life lost was a beautiful life,” Mahonee said. “She was a beautiful young girl who cared about life.”

He said the meeting between the Weavers and Stotsky was incredible.

“The love they showed for Kyle almost brought me to tears,” he said. “It showed the strength of their faith. They don’t want to see Kyle incarcerated but they do want him to have consequences.”

Mahonee suggested 2,000 hours of community service so Stotsky could continue the work Chloe was doing.

“I don’t want him to work with La Puente, they knew Chloe and we don’t necessarily want them to have to deal with Kyle,” he said. “I would like him to be helping people. That was what Chloe was doing.”

Public defender Dan Walzl also expressed the hope that Stotsky could be sentenced to probation and public service. He said substantial public service would “honor the victim.”

Stotsky, in tears, spoke to the family and the court.

“The accident changed my life,” Stotsky said. “I would never intentionally hurt someone. All I can ask for now is forgiveness.”

Gonzales spoke to Stotsky.

“You are 16,” Gonzales said. “The forgiveness of the family has reverberated throughout this case. I am not sure you realize the seriousness of the case. A lack of understanding based on a lack of experience.”

He commented on the victim’s family.

“You have had a shield around you of forgiveness and love by the victims that is phenomenal,” Gonzales said. “They have been your guardian angels. For that you should be thankful. All too often I see victim’s families consumed by hate.”

He talked about the consequences of the accident.

“This is a minor ripple in your life compared to the ripple in the victim’s family lives,” Gonzales said.

“You are remanded to custody.”

another link to read:

* http://www.alamosanews.com/v2_news_articles.php?heading=0&story_id=20996&page=74

Lilacs & Cottonwood

Spring is here. And even on the high plains of Colorado, the weather has warmed enough to get all kinds of juices flowing in trunks and stems and leaves. We've got 11 year-old landscaping in the back yard and I must say, the lilacs (Chinese and Korean dwarf) have filled out and grown so large that with the unusual moisture we've had this spring, the blossoms are lingering and wafting a most heavenly scent across the back yard. I am finding excuses to sit out there to complete tasks -- any kind possible. I know it will end soon, and I'll be missing them again till next year.

On the other hand, we've got the most MONSTROUS cottonwood tree just to the north, at the neighbors. Rumor has it that the developers 30+ years ago were instructed/required to plant only the "cotton-less" variety -- but what did they care? Who would know? A year or two later, they'd be long gone and the rest of us would have to deal with it... Every year it produces an amazing profusion of lofty white fluffiness that sticks to everything -- it walks in with you on the bottom of your flip flops and balls up on the carpets. It plants itself next to the broccoli in the garden and puts down roots right along with the tomatoes and nasturtiums, it floats into the cars and blows into your nostrils whether you kept your windows closed overnight or not... Last year this same neighbor had piles of it a foot deep on her deck. I'm guessing some of our mulched corners easily matched that, plus a yard speckled with chicken-like "feathers" sticking into the dew. Walk out if you dare!

Based on other tree work we've had done over the years, the size of this engorged behemoth alone (estimated height 100 feet with multiple trunks at least 2 feet in diameter) would run close to $4,000 to have it removed. In the meantime, guess what my husband has just discovered? Cottonwood lofties are highly flammable. At first he used the word "explosive", but I think that was just his testosterone talking. At first he simply made use of the propane lighter but now, I see he must have run to the hardware store, he's cruising the lawn with something called a Bernz-O-matic power cell . I've never seen such a thing. (Please, hide it from the children!)

I don't want this season to end. But I cannot wait for all the cotton fluff to ball up, get soaked down, become one with the lawn and preferably get mowed down to size if each little seed ball has plans for grandeur and long-term growth. We'll be weeding or torching the rest.