It’s about a ten minute walk, or a five minute run, from my house to the park bench. Some days the houses I walk past are empty, other days they teem with life. Today I passed a man on his cell phone, pacing in quick bursts across his driveway.
“No baby, it’s not like that…. Come on, don’t be an ass…. I told you…. Look sugar cakes, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
My first question is who in the world would go out with a guy who called her an ass and sugar cakes. My second thought is that he cheated on his girlfriend and she got wind of it. He isn’t doing a very good job of oiling his way out of his mess. I didn’t stay to see the end result.
I’m jogging today, trying to outrun the massive storm boiling in from the southwest. I’m running toward it, casting a wary eye upward, gauging how long I can stay out at my bench before I need to beeline it back home. It’s a rather odd feeling. The sun is shining brilliantly in a mostly clear sky. The early tendrils of white clouds haven’t reached the sun just yet. I’m in shorts and sunglasses but I perhaps should have brought an umbrella. The outer reaches of the storm cloud just took over the sun. I slide my shades up to the top of my head.
A few brave women are scurrying along the path, walking happy dogs. All of them are walking briskly away from the storm, their usually relaxed paces quickened. They all, knowingly or unknowingly cast glances behind them, checking the progress of the clouds.
I probably shouldn’t still be out here, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped but for some reason I don’t want to let the storm intimidate me. So, for kicks and giggles I start jogging toward it, playing chicken. It will win of course, but for my brief instant of defiance I felt free. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see life’s storms brewing on the horizon and have the chance to outrun them as well?
I may have dared the storm a bit too long, if I want to get home before the hail, for that is undoubtedly what these black clouds are carrying, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. The man is gone. Either his ex-girlfriend hung up on him or he’s continuing his pleading inside thanks to the storm.
Tulips and daffodils and crocus and hyacinth don't even acknowledge my presence as I sprint past them. The sky is inky black now but I’m almost home. I put on a last burst of speed. Just as I step onto my covered front porch, the sky booms and lets loose a torrent of hail. The white balls bounce harmlessly a few feet away.
I smile.
I beat you.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Blog Prompt #5
People die here.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Place Entry #5
There is a difference between sitting on a bench and actually exploring the place. From the bench, geese are majestically serene, the breeze is a chilly nuisance, and mud sits there, begging to be included in the story. All of these things are seen as “through a glass darkly.” It isn’t until I actually get onto the field in earnest that these things become more than observations.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Blog Prompt #4
The heart of our valley is the Boise River. It was drew the initial explorers and settlers to the area, an oasis in the middle of the desert. But, as always happens, rivers take years of abuse before anyone realizes it has to stop. Up until the 1960’s the shoreline around the river served as a dumping ground for trash, industrial waste, and sewage. By 1964, we finally realized that this was not a good thing and decided to do something about it. At the suggestion of a consultant, we looked toward building a “green belt” that would run next to the river and be open for public use. No longer would trucks dump cement or the zoo spray out its cages on the river’s banks.
A community effort to undo all of the damage launched in earnest and some of the land was donated to the city. It developed quickly and people loved it. They loved it, and the river so much, that in 1990 they came up with an annual summer event called the Boise River Festival. In addition to a parade down the river, there were fireworks, concerts, food and trinket stands, activities, and hot air balloons. After a few years, the city recognized that having that many people on the banks of the river to watch the parade was eroding the soil, killing the flora, and chasing off wildlife, so they moved the parade to the streets. Until its demise in 2003, the River Festival was the highlight of the summer in Boise. There was a great deal of public outcry when it was cancelled in 2004, but the parks breathed a sigh of relief. With that many consumer minded people concentrated in one area their needs trump nature’s needs.
Today, our Greenbelt is a 26 mile long biking and walking trail that connects nine parks and hundreds of people between Lucky Peak Dam south of Boise, and almost to Meridian, a town twenty minutes north of Boise. It is maintained by Parks and Recreation and now the dozens of people and groups dedicated to making it as clean as possible. Wildlife is flourishing in the river and near it and plants enjoy mostly unimpeded growth. A community organization called Watershed Watch heads to the river every April, when the water gushes at 6,600 cubic feet per second, to test pH, oxygen, bacteria, and macroinvertebrates.
In the summer, hundreds of people float and swim the river, fishermen fish for trout, exercisers jog, run, walk, or cycle the pathways. Ornithologists come to see and hear the Belted Kingfishers, Violet Green Swallows, Euraisan Wigeon, and Lewis’s Woodpeckers. Families come to picnic and to teach their children about the river, and how to take care of it, like my parents taught me. The Boise River is our life blood. Without it, there is no Boise.
When I was a kid my parents used to take me there to splash around in small eddies. As a teenager, my dad and I went on long bike rides, bonding with each other and enjoying nature. As a college student, my mom and I would walk the Greenbelt, catching up on life. Today, my husband and I live in Meridian, but I still go back to the Greenbelt every summer to take in the smells, the sights and the sounds. I feel at home here surrounded by the rush of water, the laughter of small children, the wiz of bike tires and the bird calls- The Black Capped Chickadee and the Pied billed Grebe. But most of all, I love the Northern Flicker. I hear these by the canal behind our house in the summer and every time, I am transported to summers on the Greenbelt with my family.
http://www.cityofboise.org/Departments/Parks/ParksAndFacilities/Parks/page18151.aspx
A community effort to undo all of the damage launched in earnest and some of the land was donated to the city. It developed quickly and people loved it. They loved it, and the river so much, that in 1990 they came up with an annual summer event called the Boise River Festival. In addition to a parade down the river, there were fireworks, concerts, food and trinket stands, activities, and hot air balloons. After a few years, the city recognized that having that many people on the banks of the river to watch the parade was eroding the soil, killing the flora, and chasing off wildlife, so they moved the parade to the streets. Until its demise in 2003, the River Festival was the highlight of the summer in Boise. There was a great deal of public outcry when it was cancelled in 2004, but the parks breathed a sigh of relief. With that many consumer minded people concentrated in one area their needs trump nature’s needs.
Today, our Greenbelt is a 26 mile long biking and walking trail that connects nine parks and hundreds of people between Lucky Peak Dam south of Boise, and almost to Meridian, a town twenty minutes north of Boise. It is maintained by Parks and Recreation and now the dozens of people and groups dedicated to making it as clean as possible. Wildlife is flourishing in the river and near it and plants enjoy mostly unimpeded growth. A community organization called Watershed Watch heads to the river every April, when the water gushes at 6,600 cubic feet per second, to test pH, oxygen, bacteria, and macroinvertebrates.
In the summer, hundreds of people float and swim the river, fishermen fish for trout, exercisers jog, run, walk, or cycle the pathways. Ornithologists come to see and hear the Belted Kingfishers, Violet Green Swallows, Euraisan Wigeon, and Lewis’s Woodpeckers. Families come to picnic and to teach their children about the river, and how to take care of it, like my parents taught me. The Boise River is our life blood. Without it, there is no Boise.
When I was a kid my parents used to take me there to splash around in small eddies. As a teenager, my dad and I went on long bike rides, bonding with each other and enjoying nature. As a college student, my mom and I would walk the Greenbelt, catching up on life. Today, my husband and I live in Meridian, but I still go back to the Greenbelt every summer to take in the smells, the sights and the sounds. I feel at home here surrounded by the rush of water, the laughter of small children, the wiz of bike tires and the bird calls- The Black Capped Chickadee and the Pied billed Grebe. But most of all, I love the Northern Flicker. I hear these by the canal behind our house in the summer and every time, I am transported to summers on the Greenbelt with my family.
http://www.cityofboise.org/Departments/Parks/ParksAndFacilities/Parks/page18151.aspx
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