Ilona

 Ilona

The house I park in front of is a pocket-sized, two-story frame house painted a soft shade of yellow. Mature trees and shrubbery surround the house and an overgrown walk leads to its front door. A cottage, more than a house, I think. An old, bent woman with silver hair pulled back into a bun and wearing a sensible house dress with sensible shoes opens the door. She keeps the glass screen door closed.

I begin my pitch in a louder than normal volume both because I'm speaking to a much older woman and because I'm talking through security glass. 

The woman sizes me up. Deciding I'm a safe person, she pushes her screen door open to hear me better. I start my much-rehearsed introduction all over again. But this time I pace my words more slowly as I can't discern if she looks confused because she is hard of hearing or because she doesn't understand. A minute into my presentation, a small white dog escapes through the open door and into the yard. The woman seems unphased "Come, Maxie!" she tells the dog. "Come here." Her tone is calm and her words are laced with an Eastern European accent.

Maxie is a good dog and returns to the porch. I proceed with the reason for my visit. I ask, "Do you have five minutes to complete a health survey with me on my computer?"

"Come inside," she says.

This have never happened to me in all the weeks I've been doing this job. I've always been left standing on the front porch, balancing my tablet on a stair or a box or some other object. I thank her sincerely for the invite and follow her inside.

The room we enter is filled with all the things one accumulates in a lifetime. The dining table is covered with books and papers and small treasures. The sofa is the only available place to sit. The woman sits there and motions for me to sit beside her.

"Come. Sit." she commands. I obey.

I open my tablet and begin the survey. 

I confirm her address. I ask for her first name. "Ilona" she says and spells her name for me, studying what I enter into my computer. 

How old are you, Ilona?

Eighty-three she answers. I enter the number 83 glancing over at her as I do. She is so small sitting next to me. The sofa has swallowed her in its overstuffed cushions. 

Are you a male or female?

This gives her pause. I've learned to remain quiet and wait for the response to this awkward question, rather than try to explain or justify. Ilona is quiet while she studies her hands in her lap. After whole seconds of silence, "I am woman," she eventually declares. "Always have been."

I smile, log her response and attempt to continue with the survey.

She draws my attention to Maxie across the room and how much he is enjoying his bone. He's eight years old, Ilona says. But small dogs live longer.

I nod.

He's a poodle mix. Poodles are smart dogs.

I agree.

I don't have to teach him anything, Ilona says. "He already knows.

That's great, I say.

She also had another dog and a cat, before, but they both got old and died.  Her husband also died a few years before.

I nod understanding, and pause a bit longer before continuing.

I ask her a long question about tobacco and nicotine use. She emphatically says she never smoked. "Never, ever."

But her father smoked. Smoked incessantly, she says. Died at forty-five. None of her brothers or sisters ever smoked, Ilona explains, because of how they saw their father die. 

But that was back in Hungary, where she grew up. Came to the United States in 1985, she says. "Forty one years ago." I do some quick math and deduce Ilona was already middle aged when she arrived in the US.

I ask if she owns or rents the house we are in. It's one of the survey questions.

Own. Bought it in 1993. She and her husband bought it. It wasn't new then. But newer. Her husband died a few years ago, she tells me again. It's just her in the house now. Just her and Maxie. 

She looks into my eyes when saying this. 

I'm not sure what she hopes to see. "Thank goodness for Maxie, " I say, trying to keep the mood upbeat. 

The survey has me ask if she is currently in the armed forces. I have to ask all questions to everyone, even when the answer is obvious.

No, she tells me. But her son was in the Navy. There's probably a story to share here, but I press on with the survey.

The next three questions all have a forced response:  Excellent, Good, Fair or Poor.  Of all the people I've done this survey with to date, all have responded with either Excellent or Good to all three questions.

"Rate the overall quality of your health, Ilona" I say.  "Is it Excellent? Good? Fair? Or, Poor?"

"Fair," she says.  To me, Ilona looks pretty good for an eighty-three year. old I wonder what health issue she has.

"Rate the overall quality of your life. Excellent? Good? Fair? Poor?"

"Fair," she says again.  And again I wonder why.

"Rate the the overall quality of your social activities and interactions?" I ask the third and last question. Ilona is quiet. I look over at her and she appears to be rereading the question on my computer screen. 

I rephrase. "How is your social life, Ilona?" I'm not sure if she understands the question. "Your family, friends, neighbors?" (In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have rephrased so much.)

"Oh..." her voice trails off.

"Not good," she almost whispers. 

"Poor," she clarifies. "Very poor."

That was the end of my survey. I press a button for the computer to do some calculating based on her responses. She is not selected to participate in the full health study. 

This was just a screening survey, we call it. And unlike those before her who also were not selected, Ilona does not seem relieved. If anything, she seems a little sad to not have been chosen. 

I say my goodbyes. Thank her again for her time. I rub Maxie behind the ears once more and walk back to my car. 

Driving away, I realize I am a little bit sad, too.

Muslim Toilets

Remember my review of the Dutch shelf toilet last summer? Now I bring you my thoughts and impressions of the Muslim toilet. 

Every toilet used in our recent travels in both Indonesia and Malaysia were of this design. Often both a squatty-potty and a western style version were offered. What makes them Muslim, is the adjacent hose. Do not confuse this hose with a bidet. 

In many parts of SE Asia, there is an absence of toilet paper in the bathroom stalls. If there is TP, there is nearly always a nearby covered trashcan where the used TP is to be discretely folded and placed. In my research, I found no mention of any sort of municipal treatment facilities in Indonesia or Malaysia. Wastewater goes to individual septic systems, if it is plumbed to anything at all. My research. also found that what is flushed often travels thru a series of irrigation ditches and is used in the surrounding rice fields.   

We Westerners still use the toilet paper, and hopefully remember to toss it in the can and not the bowl. 

Non-Westerners, however, reach for the hose and spray rather than wipe. These hoses sometimes deliver the water with such force, that if you weren't awake before, you certainly are after! Wiping is not necessary. Which is the Muslim way. In fact, our Western practice of wrapping such flimsy paper in our fingers and coming in close contact with our bum and residual poo, is regarded as both inefficient and disgusting.  

And, after having my bum blasted sparkling clean for a few weeks now, I tend to agree. i.e., "You want me to use this flimsy tissue paper and do WHAT with it?" 

P.S. Lest you forget, I spent the last 23 years of my career working in a large wastewater treatment facility. My brain is forever warped by this experience, with a need to know what happens to our poo after we flush.  This may be an off-color topic for some, but there are legions of us sanitary sewer folks (former and current) who find this sort of info fascinating. I write these words for them.

The Day Before My Surgery

After ten plus years of scheduling, then unscheduling to try a new  intervention, then rescheduling, then unscheduling to try something else, I'm finally going down the rabbit hole.  Tomorrow I am having  the cornea of my left eye removed and a dead person's cornea sewn in its place. A cornea transplant surgery. Not as intense as a kidney transplant or other organ transplants as there is no blood in the eye. The chance of rejection is greatly reduced. However, the recovery time and conditions under which are significantly onerous.  I am a little nervous and thought I'd capture my "before" thoughts and ruminations here. 

How did I get here? Back in 1984 I had elective surgery on my eyes. A precursor to lasik. I had what was called radial keratotomy. Dr. Hines here in Denver performed the procedure. For the first ten or so years after, it was a success. I saw great out of both eyes. 20:20.  Contacts were never an option for me and I was too vain to wear my glasses full time. I always thought my blue eyes were my best feature and I was loathe to want to cover them up with a pair of glasses. My vanity is responsible for where I am now.  

Dr. Hines was all over the TV back then. He advertised himself as the, "Eye doctor of the Denver Broncos".  I mean, wouldn't trust him, right?  And, as predicted, after ten years or so I started to need reading glasses. Then, not as predicted, my left eye began failing me. One doctor said my cornea in that eye looked like bubble wrap. I was back in glasses. My right eye was still doing ok, but the lens in my left eyeglass kept getting thicker and thicker. Can you say "coke bottle"?  I tried what was called Sclera contacts specifically engineered for my one eye. But like the contact lenses of my youth, I was never able to wear them comfortably for more than a couple of hours. The prescription max'd out about three years ago.  Two years ago my cataracts finally grew to be large enough to qualify for surgical removal. I went to my now familiar surgeon for this procedure and he tried his best to modify the new lens to correct some of my cornea issues.  But no luck. 

I basically see only light and shadow out of my left eye. But here's what is amazing about eyesight: your brain will try to make up the deficit for what your eyes can't see. I don't know what I don't see. I think I am seeing something. I think I see everything. It isn't until I get closer, or the light gets brighter or I tilt my head a certain way, that I am able to truly see what it is I'm looking at.  Depth perception is my greatest struggle. Going down stairs is treacherous. Hiking downhill is frustrating. I gave up mountain bike riding several years ago as I could no longer see how far logs in the  trail were, or how far a drop off a rock might be.  Yet I continued driving. Much to the dismay of those who were away of my lack of visual acuity.  I learned if I followed a pair of tail lights at night I could navigate. I learned to always look for the right lane marking as I frequently mis-saw lane markings on my left side. Once, I screeched to a halt thinking I was about to go over a really big bump in the road. A second later I realized it was a shadow and not a bump. So many stories like this. 

After going thru many evaluations to confirm everything behind my cornea is functioning properly, I was approved for this transplant.  It is about a two hour long procedure. I won't be staying overnight. Rather AL will bring me home and stay with me thru my first follow up visit the next day. I have a second follow up visit a week later. Then, assuming all is progressing as it should, I will start returning to my surgeon every two weeks for the next four months to get a stitch here, and a stitch there removed. At four months, I quit going every two weeks, and stay with what ever number of stitches remain until a year post surgery. Then these last stitches are removed. It is only then will we know for sure if the surgery was a success. Sometimes, when the last stitch or two is removed, the cornea will turn into amorphous jelly and I'm back where I started.

So, that's where I've been, and where I'm going. 

I am not as stressed as I thought I'd be. I am definitely distracted and THIS is all I can think about. My social life will be severely restricted in the beginning as I will be at high risk for infection. I also will not be able to lift anything heavy or do any activity that will raise my heart rate, for fear of popping a stitch. I don't know for sure if these restrictions are for the first four months only, or for the whole year. 

It's a crazy commitment, but I feel as though I have no choice. While getting all the preliminary evaluations done, they found the very beginnings of macular degeneration in my right eye. My good eye. It could be decades before I'll be impacted by it, but they don't do this transplant surgery after age 70. As I'll be 68 in February, I think this might be my only chance to preserve what eyesight I have. 

My life will be different afterward. Both short term and long term. If successful, no more double vision or lack of depth perception. If not successful, I guess I'll continue learning all the various ways to adapt. We humans are such adaptable creatures. Thank goodness.

Here's looking at you! (heh-heh-heh)

Shelf Toilets

 Disclaimer: An actual turd was NOT used in the making of the accompanying photo.

During my fourteen days here in The Netherlands, I've experienced some new things, but nothing prepared me for the decidedly Dutch attraction to shelf toilets.

Historically, the inspection shelf toilet design was widely adopted in the Netherlands due to the challenges of disposing waste in a country with a high water table. The shelf design helped facilitate inspection and cleaning of the waste, which was important in areas where drainage systems were limited. 

Having worked a brief lifetime in the water treatment industry, I was amazed to learn that it wasn't until as recently as 2017 that all of Amsterdam was linked to a sanitary sewer system. Prior, all sewage went directly into its canals. Even as modern sewage infrastructure has expanded, many Dutch still prefer the inspection shelf style. There is a perception that these toilets are more hygienic and easier to keep clean compared to standard bowl designs. The shelf design is also seen by some as more water-efficient.

Despite my research into the reasoning behind such a toilet, and my now fourteen days' worth of experience using one, I am not swayed. I look forward to hearing the familiar, "plunk-plunk-ker-PLUNK" sound of my turds hitting the water.

Today

 A friend of mine who 

Wade is not completely sure of yet

Approached.

And as he did, Wade

retreated

Retreated back to my side. 

Pressing into my leg.

Holding my pants.

And in that moment, everything

that ever happened to me

disappeared

And all that remained 

was knowing I am 

This sweet soul's Safe Place

Top Hats

Al typically wears cargo pants or shorts. Says the pockets are his purse. One for his reading glasses. Another for his driving glasses. A pocket for his cell and another for his wallet. Since his back surgery, he has changed from wearing cargo pants to wearing coveralls. As he has to wear a back brace wherever he goes right now, adding that to a pair of cargo pants and belt was just too much. 

Coveralls were the perfect solution. All of the pockets that cargo pants provide, with no need for a belt.

Then Ayla tells me that Abraham Lincoln favored top hats as he could carry stuff in it, under his hat. She said Al didn't need cargo pants or coveralls. 

What he needed was a top hat.

 "I'm in serious trouble if Duluth Trading Company ever comes up with cargo top hats," I said.

A few hours later, Ayla says she entered this idea into ChatGPT. This was Chat's response:

Introducing the Duluth Cargo Top Hat – where rugged style meets functionality! Crafted with durable materials, this hat seamlessly combines the classic top hat elegance with the practicality of cargo pockets. Perfect for those who demand both sophistication and utility, it features multiple pockets for stashing essentials on the go. From outdoor adventures to urban exploration, conquer every terrain with the perfect blend of fashion and function.

 I worry I may have created a market where there previously was none.

Nancy: The Fixer

For reasons I don't know, thoughts of my oldest sister, Nancy, have flooded my mind these past several days. Nancy was thirteen years older than me.  Nancy was pregnant with my first niece, Terri, only weeks after Mom delivered my younger sister, Lydia.  Despite the near constant upheaval and turmoil that dominated Nancy's life, she was always regarded as, "The Fixer," by the immediate family in times of crises.

I considered this role of Nancy's. Why oh why did we seek her counsel during those darkest of times? I may never learn the answer to that question. Regardless, in times of crises, Nancy ALWAYS rose to the occasion. 

She knew what to do. She directed. She delegated. She networked. She always said yes.  How many nights did I spend as a teen at her place when Mom and Dad were their most violent?  Who did Lydia go to when she needed to leave a marriage? Who did Susan send Ray to when he needed a new home? Who did Bill call when he lost his job? Who did Mom lean on when Grandma died?

Yet, Nancy was, by far, the most troubled of us all. The one with  the most heartache and hardship. Drama filled Nancy's life.  

Nancy was a prodigy. A genius. She was morbidly obese and a chain smoker. 

She read Heidi out loud to me when I was in elementary school. She took me to see Rosemary's Baby at the drive-in when I was 13. She let me sleep on her couch so many times in my life. 

All of us knew: You can always stay with Nancy.

So, yeah. I've been thinking a lot about Nancy in recent days. Not sure why. Probably an old age thing.  

If any of you reading this have some similar Reflections of Nancy, please share!

Nancy, w Terri on her lap. Mom (l) Grandma (r)

The Hard Goodbyes are the Hardest

I don't know where to start, so I'll just dive in... Early Wednesday morning July 5, Marzipan was attacked by another animal(s) in our driveway. I found him a short while after the attack quite dead from the injuries he sustained. 

All day long, I kept him inside away from the fireworks and in a separate part of the house, away from the dogs I was caring for. Cats were on one side of the house. Dogs in another. After dark and after several hours of lots and lots of fireworks, things seemed to quiet down. What I did next I will always regret. After begging for whole minutes to go outside, in a moment of poor judgement, I opened the front door and let him out. I intended it to be for only a ten, maybe fifteen, minute break. But, Marzipan never returned.  Several hours later, when I found him, he was stiff, and chewed up by what appears to have been some loose dogs who cornered him in his own damn driveway. 

I'm numb. I'm sick. I'm in a state of disbelief. Given his age, I knew sometime would be his last time, which made me wonder what a Marzipan-less life might be like. How will I walk the dogs knowing he isn't anywhere behind? How will I get to sleep without his warm, purring body against mine? What will it be like to pull up in the driveway and not have him greet me? These all felt like such esoteric questions for "someday". 

But, this day is now. Now starts my life without Marzipan. And I'm not ready.

If you knew Marzipan you maybe understand how his death leaves such a void. He was such a huge personality. When he looks at you, "He looks right into your soul," Tori once said about him. The stories about him are seemingly endless. Like, the time he hitched a ride home in a low-rider. Or, the time the neighbor found Marz inside his house and sleeping on his bed. Or, how willingly he rode in a car. He accompanied me when I walked the dogs as if it was his job. Once, he followed me all the way around Sloans Lake. More than once he followed me to Loretto Heights Park and back. He would follow me anywhere, if I let him. 

But, ever since his death, I continue to see him out of the corner of my eye. Everywhere. In the doorway. On the couch. Outside on the porch.  Crossing the street.... Maybe he isn't all the way gone, yet? I plan to set up an offrenda/shrine like thingy in my front yard, behind the bush where he liked to watch the world go by. I need something tangible.

This grief will come in waves for while and catch me off guard with sweet memories and endless tears. It's just something I have to get thru. No shortcuts allowed. Meanwhile, please know how grateful I am for the kindness each of you showed my cat these many years. So very grateful. 

A guy dressed as a woman was locked up in my neighbor's garage...

I have some very weird next door neighbors. They are the house on the block that the police visit a couple of times a year.  A sea of people come and go all hours of day and night. There is something clearly nefarious going on there. 

Four years ago, the man's wife was found dead when paramedics arrived. This is what the police officer said when he knocked on my door. He wondered if I ever heard any domestic disturbances? 

After she died, the partner she left behind became unmoored. This is when the number of people who came and went dramatically increased. Late night parties happened more frequently. Then, the garage caught fire. The garage that sits a mere eighteen inches from my fence, 36 inches from my house, in flames.  Firefighters, with axes unfurled, raced across my front lawn that cold January and chopped down the double doors of the structure, causing a large flame to issue forth. But it was summarily extinguished with a brigade of fire extinguishers and a fire hose. 

The list is long of unsavory events and questionable house guests that have transpired since.

But what happened today was, by far, the weirdest most unexpected event, EVER.

My newest little foster dog was clearly upset by the people she could hear but not see that were on the other side of the fence. I listened from the back room to hear someone trying to pry and loosen the big garage door open. I heard a woman outside the garage yell, "I think there is a lever to your left that will open it."

Then I hear a voice inside the garage reply.

I decide to go stand next to the fence both to hear better and to maybe see something. The woman continues talking to someone inside the garage. A man with a limp joins her. He pulls a heavy trailer away from the door then uses a crowbar to get the door open. After a bit more pushing and prying, the door finally opens. I hear the guy with limp ask the person inside if they're ok. 

The man and woman step back and a man emerges. He is wearing black sweat pants that sag halfway down his ass. I recognize him as one the quasi street type people that frequent next door. But it is the rest of his outfit that stuns me. He's wearing a wife-beater type white tshirt and on top of that a bright pink fishnet sexy blouse. His hair is done up in pigtails and his face is painted to look like a woman. 

He talks gruff to the other two, directing them how to breakdown whatever had been set up inside.

A large box of items goes into the back of a pick up truck.

A flat panel is stored to the right of the garage. Something else is placed in a pile of junk.

Eventually I quit peering between the slats of the fence and went back inside. 

I have been trying to process ever since what it was that I just saw. 

The Essence of Who I Once Knew

A relative died this week. I wanted to write, “a relative of mine…” then decided that was redundant. But, just to be clear, a relative of mine died this week.  Terri died. My oldest niece. At 58, Terri is just a few months younger than my little sister. In fact, for many years, Terri and said sister, Lydia, were like having two younger sisters. It was framing my relationship to Terri in these terms that I realized the disconnect I feel between the space that Terri once held in my life, to the distant impression that she holds now. How is it that someone once so prominent in your life, can fade into something less than a shadow?

I saw Terri this past fall while traveling thru West Virginia. We met for maybe two hours on a park bench outside her apartment. She didn’t look well then, so her dying this week wasn’t a total shock. Terri was one who enjoyed poor health, my mother would say. She said the same about Terri’s mother, my oldest sister Nancy. Nancy was also afflicted with a host of ailments requiring a myriad of medications. Until she died ten years ago. Terri has been the grieving daughter ever since. 

When Nancy gave birth to Terri back in 1964, I was seven years old. Terri’s father was a married man named Tony C. Nancy was sure Tony would leave his wife for her, but he never did. Terri was born into this world labeled, “illegitimate” to her “unwed mother,” Nancy. 

Terri had a deficit balance in Life from Day One. 

When Terry was still a baby, Nancy married a boy from the neighborhood, Doug Dickerson. Everyone knew the Dickersons. And everyone knew that Doug Dickerson suffered a traumatic brain injury when he was twelve and was run over on Pecos Street by a Safeway truck. He suffered from seizures and was considered a bit slow. Nevertheless, he and Nancy married and Doug took to parenting Terri in a much more responsible manner than many of us expected.

But Doug wasn’t emotionally mature enough to handle the pressures of married life, especially married life to my sister Nancy. He found a way to resolve some of their arguments was to stop taking his epilepsy medicine. The inevitable seizure distracted Nancy from whatever issue they were having and the problem was solved. Or so Doug believed. Three or four years later, Doug had had so many self- induced seizures that in a meeting with the family doctor and clergy, a divorce was recommended. They divorced amicably and Doug continued seeing Terri on weekends as her dad.

A few years passed and Nancy found love again. This time to Don Mitchell. Nancy was over the moon smitten with this man. When Terri visited Doug he told her that,her “if your mother marries that man, I will kill myself.” Terri begged her mother not to marry Don. Nancy reassured Terri that her daddy was hurt but he would get over it.  A few weeks later, Don and Nancy are married. Soon after, Doug has a seizure. This time, when he falls, he hits his head wrong. He dies five days later.

It was under these circumstances that Terri was to start a relationship with her new step dad, Don Mitchell.

The next several years were very tumultuous. Don was a recovered alcoholic. Two more children were born, Ed and Rob. Somewhere between Ed and Rob’s birth, Don fell off the wagon. I want to add, “and resumed drinking,” then realized that would be redundant. But if you aren’t sure which wagon Don fell off, it was the drinking wagon. The family moved from Denver to Omaha to Des Moines back to Denver. Don lost his job. Don got violent so Nancy left with the kids. Don apologized so Nancy moved back with the kids. Repeat. At one point, Nancy flees Don and goes to West Virginia to the safe harbor of her old high school best friend. Don follows them there, gets sober - - for good, this time - - and they resume their marriage. During this time, Terri grows from tomboy to butchy teen, to full on lesbian young adult. She acuses Don of sexually molesting her. The truth was never determined one way or another. 

In her early twenties and living with one of her first serious girlfriends is Houston, Terri is grabbed late at night from a 7-11 parking lot and taken to the bare bones apartment of two brothers and repeatedly raped by these two men for hours. They removed her clothes and carved on her stomach with a knife. Terri still had these scars many years later of this night. She tried to escape but they caught her and abused her even more violently. In her testimony in court she said she remembers lying on the carpet in the room without furniture. On the wall over her head was a picture of Jesus and on the other wall, looking straight at her, was a picture of a young girl in pigtails. A school photo, maybe.

Terri was eventually able to escape. She ran and ran in the dark, totally naked. A man on his way into work spied her clutching a dumpster and called out for her to stay there. He did not try to approach. He called the police and she soon was rescued. But she was never the same. She slept for whole weeks on my mother’s couch. Head under a blanket. Sometimes we’d stare at the blanket checking for breathfalls. She slowly worked her way out from under the blanket, and back into the world. But she was never able to have a healthy relationship. She wasn't able to hold a job. She was always getting hurt on the job. A Worker’s Compensation claim. And doctor visit after doctor visit wouldn’t be able to treat her pain. Eventually, and more than once, she convinced a surgeon to remove the nerve in question. A handful of years later, Terri was too disabled to work. She qualified for Social Security. She’s been in the system ever since. 

In more recent years, I saw Terri in 2003 when I visited Nancy one afternoon in West Virginia. Terri was there for the visit. Then I saw her again when Terri surprised us all by coming to Colorado for my mother/her grandmother's 90th birthday. I saw Terri again, and for the last time, in late September of ‘21.  I wrestled mightily if I wanted to even do that visit. I wish I could explain why. I’m super glad now I decided to visit her. I kept our conversation upbeat. I tried to find the positive in every hurt Terri brought to surface. I glossed over her words. I didn’t reveal anything deep and personal about me. All elevator stories.

But we visited. And when I left, I was sure to tell her that I loved her. 

What I wish I could say to Terri is, how sad her sad life makes me. She never was given a fair shake. Never once.  And I will always wonder why. 

Hoping you’ve got it easier now, sweet Terri. I love you.

Touching the Nightmare

I've spent an unprecedented and unexpected amount of time alone in recent months.

Pandemic aside, travelling for 122 days with only my dog and cat as traveling

companions (no offense Zoey and Marz), provided seemingly endless hours for

me to get inside my own head.  The thoughts and memories that revealed themselves when given the time and space to surface, were too often, terrifying and ugly. Yet it is these memories that so deeply define who I am and how I see the world. I tried to be brave and allow myself to remember what I have pushed so deeply inside.

    

I considered how I intend to euthanize myself rather than linger. Will I recognize when that time is?

I regretted that I didn't do more to find a way for Mom to keep her cat. 

I more fully realize, now, how the smaller our world becomes, the more important our

pets are.The only form of physical touch I receive on a regular basis anymore is from my animals.

I took that one tangible comfort away from Mom when I removed Gus.

I bravely allowed myself to recall how she would scream from the other room for us to come help when Dad was beating her. Why did I remain frozen in the bedroom? Never once did I come to her aid. Never once did I stand between her and Dad. Instead, I always did as he said: I took Lydia to our room, closed the door, turned on the TV and made "damn sure" we stayed there.

Every time.

I remembered how, once the physical fighting stopped, he'd hide her glasses and teeth. He was constantly afraid of her leaving him. She would stay in bed all day the next day. Often with her head under the pillow. Toothless and blind.

I forgot this little tidbit about their fights until this summer, when one stretch of road, or tree, or overlook, or something, brought it all back in technicolor. The furniture. The smells. Bowman Biscuit (later, Keebler) was a short walk from home. Every afternoon my ramshackle, blue collar neighborhood was filled with the luscious scent of baking bread and cookies. But I digress…     

I remembered her screams. The sounds of breaking glass, chairs falling, Mom being shoved against the wall, or thrown to the floor. The light and shadow filling our darkened bedroom from the old black and white TV. Lydia on the bunk below me, silent. Me in the bunk above, feeling my insides turn a little sick.  

These are the sorts of memories that come back to me when I’m left inside my own head.  

Arethusa Falls

After the day of hiking blunders I made the day before, I awoke the next day resolved to hike to Arethusa Falls. This day, however, was overcast, so I hung close to campsite in the morning, trying to decipher the clouds.  There was to be some altitude gain on this hike and I didn't want to be caught in a heavy rainstorm or lightening at the top of some mountain. I waited until nine o’clock. and given the lack of wind and the fact the clouds weren't getting any darker, I decided to go for it. 

We walked the two lane highway to the trailhead and found ourselves going up a steep, rocky incline from the get-go. I get cocky when a trail that isn't high in the Rockies. Sure, this goes up a few thousand feet feet in a short span of distance, but its not at 10,000 feet, is it? Every time, such steep hikes at low elevations consistently kick my butt. 

You'd think I'd learn some humility. 

This trail was no different. we went up and up and more up. No zig-zags. No hairpin turns. Just up. Over boulders and trees and huge roots. Up and up and more up.  At the trailhead, the sign said the hike was "moderate" and one should plan on one hour to get up to the falls and one hour down. I soon adjusted this for me and my conditioning to anticipate closer to an hour and a half up and two hours down.

After going up for over an hour, Zoey and I finally encountered a couple on their way down. When I asked if we were close to the falls, and saw the pity that filled their faces, I knew that we were not. The first part of the trail was over roots and boulders. The second part of the trail was over recently positioned trail logs. Huge trail logs. Some hit me above the knee, and I climbed over these on my hands and knees. Three trail logs were too big even for Zoey. She gave a mighty effort to get up and over them, but I ended up having to go back down over the log and assist her arthritic hips up and over.

I don't want to tell the other people who hike this trail that Arethusa Falls was a bit of a disappointment. But, they were. True. They are the tallest falls in the state. But I was hoping to get much closer to them than the trail allowed.  

There was such a great distance between the top of the trail and the falls, that there wasn't any thunderous sound of water or any cool mist to cool my overheated body. It was pretty, but not as dramatic as hoped. The trail reminded me a bit of the Hanging Lake trail outside of Glenwood Springs, Colorado. But the end result was nothing close to the endorphin high one feels when finally reaching Hanging Lake and the waterfalls that tumble into it.  

Then we had the dreaded downhill trek. Dreaded, because my right knee doesn't support me when stepping down steep steps, so every step down had to be taken with my left knee absorbing my body weight.  Oh how I wished I had some climbing sticks! Zoey does better if she goes first down and I let her take the lead again which she did with gusto until she almost went tumbling down the side of the hill into a steep ravine. She didn't didn't recognize the soft shoulder of the right side of the trail and lost her footing and fell off the trail with only me holding her leash. Between her furtive scrambling with her hind legs, and the adrenaline pumping through my body willing my hands to not let go of her leash, she somehow managed to regain her footing and get back up on the trail. She never approached the right side of the trail the rest of the way down.

In the end, the trail up took us two hours, to reach the top and took us three hours to get down. My legs were like jelly when we finally reached the bottom of the trail.  Zoey and I savored our last bit of water before hobbling along the road back to our campsite.  As though the gods were holding their collective breaths while we hiked, as soon as we reached out campsite, the clouds opened up and it began to rain. It rained steadily all night long.

While in New Hampshire - Part I

(Working title option 1: The Day Zoey Became a Service Dog)

(Working title option 2: Why to Begin a Hike at the Trail's Head)

We arrived at the Dry River Campground in Crawford Notch State Park late afternoon Monday. It was a nice campground with about thirty large spots surrounded by large hardwood trees. I got a trail map of the area from the Ranger-less Ranger station and studied how we might hike to one of the waterfalls that this area is known for. The map indicated that there were two approaches to the waterfall trail. One was to walk 0.5 mile along the highway to that particular trailhead. The other approach was to take what the map called a, "connector trail" that started at the back of the campground and ran 0.6 mile thru the woods ending at the desired trailhead.  I opted to take the slightly longer hike thru the woods and avoid the highway. 

Zoey and I easily found where the connector trail connected to the campground and began to follow the blue marks painted on the trees. It was a level path and I smiled at how easy this trail was to follow and how seemingly unnecessary the blue markers seemed to be. Soon, however, the trail took a turn and crossed a boulder field. These large granite boulders are the remains of glacial melting eons ago, leaving behind these huge river rocks. Also adding to the challenge were many large fallen trees that also now lay like debris in our path.  Once we were out of this boulder field, we resumed following the blue marks, which were now fewer and further between. Between the exposed tree roots, deep underbrush and the persistent river rocks on steroids, the trail was now a physical challenge.  The path was not nearly as discernible. I tried to walk towards a blue mark and stop there until I could spot the next blue mark before proceeding deeper into these woods.  A few times, though, this was not possible. No blue mark could be seen in the distance. These trail markers were no longer just on trees. Sometimes the mark was on a boulder. Other times it was painted directly on the rock where we walked. I would scan in one direction looking first high, and then low. Then in another direction, looking high, then low. When I could not spot the next blue mark, I found something notable in the spot where i stood, and then counted out my paces into the woods, turning to retrace my steps if my effort did not result in locating a blue trail marker. 

After over an hour of walking like this, I finally came upon a trail sign. Much to my dismay, it read my destination remained 0.5 miles ahead. How could we have walked for an hour and only advanced 0.1 mile? I later learned there were three different connector trails and I had somehow manged to navigate from one to the other, mid hike. I did take some comfort in knowing that we were, at least, still walking in the right direction. 

Our trek continued to become increasingly more difficult with the underbrush becoming thicker. I got off course at one point. I scanned and paced and scanned again. But no blue marks. So I paced off more steps and scanned again. Then paced off even more steps.  I turned to retrace my steps to the last known blue mark and was unable to locate it. I began to feel a sense of panic, right before I found a big blue mark on the ground, one I did not see before.  I looked ahead in the direction I thought the trail must go, and spotted another blue mark in the distance. We were back on the path!

I dropped Zoey's leash and let her follow freely behind me.  I was fairly certain we were the only ones in these woods and holding on to her leash while navigating over rocks and trees and exposed roots was becoming hazardous. However, her leash now dragging created sounds that had me turn around frequently thinking I was hearing someone approaching from behind. After about a half dozen unnecessary stops to turn around and canvass the woods behind us, only to find nothing, I began to ignore these sounds. We continued to shinny ourselves up over boulders and downed trees.

Then I realized I no longer heard Zoey behind me. I turned around to call her and was startled to see a man standing several yards behind me holding on to Zoey.

I said, "Oh! You scared me!"

He laughed and said, "Such a good dog." Then he let go of her leash and she came quickly towards me. I was annoyed by him not apologizing for frightening me and perplexed by him holding on to Zoey. The man continued to approach. He was wearing hiking gear and carried a day pack, so his presence in these woods seemed intentional, which gave me some reassurance. 

"I didn't hear you come up behind me," I said, offering him another chance to apologize for his poor hiking etiquette. Again he ignored me. Then I noticed he was wearing ear buds so I reasoned he probably didn't hear my admonishments. Once he was passed us and was a few yards ahead I said (assuming he wouldn't hear this either), "Will these woods ever end?"

"Eventually," he called back, while still in full stride into the trees ahead.

"Ass hole," I muttered.

Zoey was eager to follow this man. I didn't blame her. He looked like he knew where he was going - - and I obviously did not. I held on to her leash and let him get ahead and out of sight before proceeding.  I kept looking for the blue marks while Zoey held her nose firmly to the ground obviously tracking the man who we encountered. Not too soon after, I lost sight of the blue marks again and resumed my methodical pacing and retracing process. At one point, Zoey jerked me to the left in a direction that didn't feel right, but when I looked up, there was the elusive blue mark. I decided I'd let her lead and she confidently led me to the next blue mark. 

And the next. 

And the next.

It was Zoey's nose that got us out of those woods and back to the road where this connector trail supposedly officially started. Unlike my trail map, the trail's head had a warning posted: "Due to heavy rains in this area, portions are washed out. Take care and be sure to tell someone of your hiking plans before proceeding." 

It took us three and half hours to slog our way through these woods to the road. We still had the waterfall trail to hike. I looked at Zoey and she at me. We walked back to the campsite instead.

The Numbers Are In

On Thursday, July 1, 2021, I left Denver with the intention of being gone six weeks. On Saturday, July 31, 2021, I returned to Denver. Four weeks + three days. 31 days.

During those 31 days on the road, I spent:

    $919 fuel

      581 lodging (incl campground fees, motels (4) and HH donations)

      206 Vet bill (Zoey got into a tussle w another dog. This is the other dog's vet bill)

        68 new battery for Scamp

$ 1,774      TOTAL COST for 31 days on road; $57/day

Blessed Vulnerability

People often ask me if I am frightened to travel alone as I do, with just my dog and cat as my companions. I say, no. I am not frightened. I am not afraid to venture to places I have never been. I am not afraid to camp in designated campsites. I am not afraid of having car trouble or getting lost or talking to strangers at rest stops, gas stations or along whatever trail I may be hiking. But that doesn't mean all is carefree or that I approach my travels with a devil-may-care attitude. Quite the contrary. I accept my vulnerability and try to minimize any misfortune by researching routes and destinations with great care.  

Recently, however,  I mis-planned, poorly researched and rested on my arrogant laurels for one brief segment of my travels.  Spoiler alert: The Universe sent an angel named Michael E. who gallantly rescued me from my series of poor decisions. Here is what this kind soul looks like:

Dimmie invited me to camp on her recently purchased ten acres of mountain land. Her property was, sort of, en route to my intended destination. i read the first few lines of her directions and watched the video she posted of her road. "Four wheel drive not necessary," she wrote. "Just take it slow as there can be a few ruts here and there."  This where my arrogance came into play. The directions were to take highway 285 south to Johnson Village. Turn south to Salida. Turn west towards Gunnison until County Road 76. I stopped reading the details as I was so very familiar with this area. I thought I'd read about the last leg up to her property once  I reached County Road 76. What Dimmie did not write, nor did I bother to research, is that County Road 76 is on the Other Side of Monarch Pass, almost all of the way to Gunnison.  

Once I did eventually reach County Road 76, I had no cell signal and had to rely on her directions that I copied by hand from her online post. I gave myself smug kudos for planning for the lack of cell service in this old school way and continued confidently up the county road. Sixteen miles later, I found the Quartz Creek Properties sign as promised and turned left onto the dirt road that would take me to Dimmie's camping spot.

It was to be a four-mile climb uphill. Very UP hill. Within the first mile I knew I was in over my head. My front tires spun in the dirt and gravel, trying desperately to find footing. The engine roared as it fought to drag my 1600 pound trailer. (Mental note, the video didn't make the road look this steep.)  I soon learned that a running start was needed to crest each little incline. I continued white knuckling my way up until a curve in the road caused me to let up on the gas, and that was all she wrote. My van could not go up another inch. When I put it into park to consider what to do next, I could feel the gear slipping and the trailer's weight causing us to begin inching downhill in reverse. A few yards back at the curve, there was a wide spot in the road. I thought if I could drive back down hill to that point, I could at least be out of the way of any oncoming traffic. In my rattled state of mind I failed to turn the front tires in the right direction and all too soon found myself with a jack knife travel trailer that was just inches from slipping into the ditch. My situation looked something like this: 

Or maybe more like this:

I put the van into park. 

I pulled the emergency brake as hard as I could. 

And then I tried really hard not to have a complete melt down.  

I looked something like this:

Or maybe more like this:

And that is when Michael found me. He and his girlfriend came roaring up the dirt road in his four wheel drive truck. They hopped out of the truck and began to assess my situation. "Do you have any chocks?" he asked.

Chocks! Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that?  What I did, instead, in those few minutes I spent hyperventilating before Michael's arrival was to extend my recently repaired front jack in effort to stop the trailer from pulling itself and the van into the ditch.  This decision leaves me with having to repair my front trailer hitch jack, again. Sorry, Chris Shive (= another story for another time).

"Yes! I have chocks in the trailer!" I exclaimed a little too excitedly. "I just need to unlock the door." But the keys to the trailer were no where to be found. As I looked in the glove box, my pockets, the middle compartment, the passenger side floor and anywhere else I could think of for the keys to get the chocks, Michael quietly came up with a plan. "I can't find my keys," I lamented to him a little too distraught-fully. Michael told me all would be fine.  Not to worry. Just to breathe.  I felt my knees begin to buckle and thought I might vomit. In that same moment, I reached into my pocket for a fifth time and, voila!  There were the keys.

With the chocks securely in place, Michael presented me with his plan.  He would unhitch my van from the trailer and hitch it to his truck. Then he would drive my trailer uphill to my destination with me following behind in my van.  By then a second vehicle came along and this other driver helped Michael wrestle my trailer free from my van. I drove it up and around the corner to the to the next wide spot. After securing Zoey and Marzipan inside the van, I walked back downhill to assist hitching my trailer to Michael's truck. Soon we were ready to resume the uphill climb.  

I only had the intersection of where to find Dimmie's access road written in my notes and Michael was not aware of all the names the property developer had assigned to the roads.  At one point, he decided to not continue uphill and scramble across a thick meadow to ask at the cabin he spotted if those people knew the intersection I sought. Much to my delight, the woman answering Michael's knock was Dimmie herself. 

My trailer was deposited on the designated camping spot in short order. Dimmie was so confused. She first thought I invited two more friends up for the weekend. When she realized we three just met, she then thought that I hired Michael to haul my trailer up the hill. It took several attempts until Dimmie grasped the magnitude of Michael's kindness.  I tried in vain to give Michael cash but not only did he refuse, but looked a little offended by the offer.  Then he did me one better. He asked when I planned to head back down hill. I said bright and early Saturday, two days from then.  "Great!" he said. "I have lots to do on Saturday being that's the day Pitkin is having their annual Fireman's Ball and all. But I'll be back here at seven o'clock Saturday morning to get you safely back down the hill."

I stammered, and insisted that that would not be necessary. But he wouldn't hear otherwise.

And, two days later, Michael arrived as promised, just as the morning sun was beginning to lighten the lupine-filled meadow that lies in front of Dimmie's cabin. 

Her view looks a lot like this.

Michael drove slow and sure the four miles down to County Road 76. Just before reaching that welcome stretch of asphalt, he pulled over and helped me re-hitch my trailer to my van. He grew up in California, but spent his summers visiting his grandfather who lived in Pitkin. He moved to Pitkin four years previous. Bought a hundred year old house that he is refinishing. He paints signs for a living, and was looking forward to the festivities the town of Pitkin planned for that day, as he is one of the town's volunteer firefighters, and all.  After an exchange of emails and phone numbers, my animals and I continued on our journey west, leaving Michael standing in the road, waving us goodbye.

This is what the town of Pitkin looks like:

This is it's sign welcoming all. I can attest that their welcome is sincere. 

Michael E. of Pitkin is one of its legends.

Why I Drove 650 Miles in One Day to Taos, New Mexico, and Back

I've been looking for a camper trailer since before the pandemic hit. This virus has only fueled my desire to obtain a camper trailer. They're self contained, thereby reducing viral exposure to/from others. I have looked at a dozen different trailers in person since March. And I've perused hundreds of ads. I've messaged 30-40 trailer owners selling theirs, asking questions such as, "Do you have a clear title?" "When is the last time the bearings were packed?" I'm not entirely sure what the second question means, but I was advised to ask it, so I do. If nothing else, it makes me sound just a little bit more informed.

Perception is everything.

Most everything I saw in my price range was in need of some work, and I'm not a DIY fixer-upper sort by any stretch of the imagination. Then, I rented a thirty year old Scamp trailer to drive around on a recent family reunion in the mountains. I never towed a trailer before so I was a little apprehensive, but it all worked out. My vehicle was able to tow the trailer and I was able to manage towing a trailer on the road. After this experience, I became laser-focused on wanting a small Scamp-like trailer.

I realized I was going to have to increase my budget to get such trailer, and that I was probably going to have to travel out of state to find one. I saw used Scamps for sale in Texas and Utah, and a few in California, but none in Colorado. Then! One such beauty popped up on Scamp Finder site in Tres Piedras, New Mexico.  I looked up Tres Piedras on the map and saw it was thirty miles northwest of Taos. Taos is a five hour drive from Denver, so this meant I could, conceivably, drive to see the trailer, buy it and drive back with it, all in the same day. I don't drive after dark, so I always have to plan my road trips around sunrise and sunset times.

I messaged the owner LOTS before making the trip. She sounded like a lovely young woman. She and her two goats just moved to Tres Piedras from Spokane. She wanted to sell her Scamp to raise money for projects on new little New Mexican ranchette she purchased. She had a clear title. The bearings were just packed last summer. She said she had maintenance records for all the professional maintenance and repairs she had done to her Scamp. The trailer sounded PERFECT. The woman sounded honest. She revealed, after plans to come see the trailer were already made, that the cover to sunroof and cover to battery had both blown off. She offered a $500 price reduction if I'd receive as is, as getting the part in her remote part of the world was not easy.  I called around. The cover, and labor to replace, would run me approx $175. Her $500 price reduction seemed more than generous. She assured me it had been stored water tight since loosing the sunroof cover and that she'd be sure to make the opening in the roof road-worthy before I arrived.

On Wednesday, I got a cashier's check for our agreed upon price and fully serviced my own vehicle in preparation of hauling my new Scamp trailer home with me the next day.

On Thursday, Zoey and I left the house at sunrise and drove from 5:30 - 11:30 all the way to Tres Piedras, with two brief potty breaks along the way. About an hour and half from our destination, I texted the owner our status. She texted back that her dad was there making sure the sunroof was all sealed and she was busy gathering all of her maintenance records and other paper work.

Excellent, I thought.

Shortly after sending that text, we entered an extended No Service Zone for cell reception. I was glad I texted her when I did. I followed her directions, continuing south on the two lane highway about five minutes beyond Tres Piedras, to FSR 222. Then I drove along a poorly maintained rocky/dirt road about a quarter mile until I saw the sign directing me to her site number. Over a rock and down a steep short hill later, I spotted the Scamp in front of a rustic wood house (?) and knew I was in the right place.

The road leading to her ranchette.

An older man met me as I drove towards the house structure. Her father, I assumed. Nice man, but he had lost quite a bit of his hearing and all conversations with him were a struggle, always culminating in screaming the key words of whatever was being said.  Dad showed me around the trailer for the first five or ten minutes, with the young woman not making an appearance. After asking more questions than he could answer, he went into the house to retrieve the young woman. She was as friendly in person as she had been on the phone. She had a ladder positioned next to the trailer so I could see how they had sealed the sun roof.   

This was my first serious disappointment. The 16 X 23 inch hole in roof was covered with only a couple sheets of saran wrap and secured with masking tape. I immediately expressed concern. I brought duct tape with me. I mean, who doesn't bring duct tape with them on road trips, right? I got up on the roof to try and secure the plastic wrap. I was on the very top step of ladder and extended half a body length across the roof. Eventually, the young woman offered to help.

Then she showed me how the hot water heater worked. She said she didn't want to demonstrate turning it off, as it was busy making hot water in that moment. I didn't understand but decided to let it go, for now. I asked how to drain the hot water tank if I didn't want to haul the extra water weight. She confessed she had no idea. Inside the trailer, she showed me how water comes out of the sink. I asked how to drain that tank so I didn't carry that water weight. Again, she didn't know. I was disappointed to see that the shower dominated the floor plan. It was the first thing seen when entering the trailer. It also took up critical space if two people wanted to sit at dinette. The shower rendered the 2nd dinette seat inaccessible. I was less and less impressed with this hot shower feature. Also, of the four interior lights, three didn't turn on. This led to a screaming conversation with Dad about what he had done with the battery to make the lights not come on. After much yelling of repeated words it was determined that he didn't know what he had done with the battery to make the lights not work. Maybe the fuse was blown again? (All I heard was, "again".) The young woman screamed back at her dad that she didn't know where the fuse box was.

As she and her dad tried to troubleshoot the lighting situation, I sat at the cramped dinette to examine her maintenance records. Of the large pile of paperwork she left for me, it only contained two maintenance records from the previous July. That was all. No other records. When asked about prior records,  she said that she spent nearly $1,000 to make the trailer road-worthy as she had never taken it anywhere in the two years she owned it. I was under the impression she owned this trailer for many years. Her short-term ownership brought to rise a whole bunch of other unknowns. I looked under the trailer and saw worn our wood, exposed screws and rust. I was starting to get worried.

It was decided that, maybe, if we hook the trailer up to my van, it might cause the battery to turn on the lights. That didn't make any sense, but it didn't matter as it was then we discovered my electrical hook up in my van was not the same electrical hookup she had for the trailer. There was NO WAY I was going to try hauling this trailer 325 miles back to Denver with no brake lights. It was suggested I might get a converter at the U Haul in Taos. The young woman called the U haul place and, despite the poor phone connection, was able to discern that they did have such a converter. Zoey and I drove the thirty-two miles on into Taos to get the converter.

This thirty-two mile drive was thru a lot of desolate nowhere. But we did pass by an interesting "Earth ship" colony of half-buried berm homes. It seemed like a hold-over either from old bomb shelter days or the hippie era. As one looked across the stubble and sage brush covered range, houses like these popped up much like prairie dogs.  Here are some pics:

Earth ship (top) and berm home (bottom)

We also drove across a bridge that spans what is called The Rio Grande Gorge. This was the only time in our thirty mile road trip that we saw signs of humanity. Otherwise, this land is barren and almost other-worldly.

It took a bit of time to locate the Uhaul place. I was becoming cognizant of how much daylight I was burning trying to get this converter. Once back at the ranchette with the converter, it was quickly evident that this was the WRONG converter. The dad wanted to know why I bought the wrong one. I felt defensive. It was suggested that the dad go back to Taos and get the right converter from WalMart and that me and Zoey could "camp" there at the ranchette and wait for morning.  By now, clouds formed overhead. An afternoon rain shower was in the making. I went back inside the trailer to examine the sunroof one more time. I remained concerned how I was going to keep this trailer dry should the clouds open up.

It was all too much. I no longer felt excited. Instead, I felt only concern for this purchase. It was going to cost me every dollar I had managed to save to buy this. I wasn't willing to let go of all my savings for a trailer that only gave me concern.  I told them my decision to not buy the trailer, put Zoey back in the van and headed home. I decided to try and drive the entire distance before sunset as I didn't want this profoundly disappointing road trip to last a minute longer than necessary.

On the drive back home, I went thru the five stages of grief before coming to some clarity. I decided I really did want to own a camper trailer and that I really did want this camper trailer to be small and manageable with minimal frills. More important, I didn't want the stress and worry about what might break or fall off while using this camper trailer. I realized that feeling confident about my trailer is more important to me than saving a few dollars.

On Friday morning, I called Scamp Trailers in Backus, Minnesota and ordered me a brand new, thirteen foot Scamp that will be built per my specifications. Scamp only builds to order. There is no show-room or dealers. My trailer should be ready for pick-up in late March. Ayla likened this timeline to me being pregnant.

Long story short: I am expecting a new trailer in eight months... and I am so excited!