A Tasty Summer Treat

Contrary to what you may think because of my lack of posting in the last few months, life has not stopped dead in its tracks as my blogging has. This is the balancing act that I can't juggle well, in fact, that I struggle with: how to continue full force through each sunrise to sunset, fully attentive to every moment and then attempt to stop, retrace, and pick a particularly poignant part of my day to reflect upon. Lately there have been many and stopping to write feels like a chore. I don't want to diminish the effect of the memory, try to recreate the laughter, colors, views and turn it into work. But then what I forget is the beauty of the words. They exist forever. I can always go back and experience vividly a moment of sheer delight by simply reading my own thoughts on paper. I need to write to create those treasures I can pull out of my diary or computer when the rains of a Northwest winter return and I forget how we danced in the dust of summer. Or when it's dark in December I can reminisce through written reflection on the brightness of early morning sun while drinking coffee on my deck--how everything felt like it would fade before August's end because of the sun's rays sucking the moisture out of green grass, golden wood, and bleaching colors out of the plastic bubble wand laid to rest in the yard.

Honestly, I don't expect myself to record it all I would miss too much. I mentally take stock of an instant and cross my fingers I won't forget. There have been many wonderful moments in the last months. A trip to the horse races in Seattle with my Mom Phoebe's graduation, recital, swim meets. A week on Terrapin, Hunter's visit to University of Utah, Sailor's birthday extravaganza, and first round of swimming lessons. String Summit, our yearly camping/music festival. Picking plenty from the garden, and dinners with friends. I have a slide show running through my head of snapshots that are some of my favorite and these have not necessarily made it to film. Most recent is a fleeting minute yesterday that made me close my eyes, try to imprint what I saw through my eyes as best I could on my brain, and then spit it out with laugh from deep my heart.

Sailor had our two neighbor girls, ages 5 and 3, over an

d they were playing in an area of the yard not visible to me while I chatted with a friend. It was 90 something degrees and early evening and we were all sweaty and tired, my hair was a messy bouquet perched high on my head to keep it from curling tighter from dampness around my neck. When I turned the corner of the house I saw what to

me is the essence of being four. Sailor was stark naked from the waist up. Her delicious, creamy white skin on her belly shockingly bright in the fading light. Covering her bottom half was the largest tutu imaginable for her size bursting out from just below her waist while streams of pale pink, purple, yellow and blue tulle cascaded down to her ankles to reveal her pudgy toes peeking out from underneath the giant shade. When I called her name she turned, ruffling the tutu in the warm breeze and exposing her gorgeous self she squeaked with delight, "We're dressing up!" and there all three of them were, princesses grinning from ear to ear, lost in an imaginary fairy land leaving the rest of us behind. Now that's what I call a summer treat.

Morning Run

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Rubber soles meeting asphalt on a quiet morning run. The rain has subsided for a moment and a cool, light breeze occasionally blows pleasing my sweaty face as I lift it to fill my lungs with another long breath of crisp, earthy Oregon air. Thwap. Thwap. My soles grind then displace a few of the small pebbles below my pounding feet. Breathe. There, around the back of that tree, a robin watches me go by unaltered in its quest for whatever lurks near the trunk of the stoic oak he quietly hides behind. Birds move in such quick, jerky motion and with purpose but cautious nevertheless. I, however, thwap, thwap, thwap. Slow, steady, and strive to reach the state of consciousness where I am purely thoughtful and less aware of the legs attached to my body. The soreness in my knees, the oddness of my gait, the weight upon my feet, the quickness of my breath. I’m almost there, rising to meet nature on a meaningful level of awareness. Feeling better, like all of the old air is flushed out and the new brought in. Smells like the forest, of dirt and pine needles. Everything is bright even though it is overcast. More spright sparrows searching for worms watching me from afar.

I look down at my companion, Maggie. The jingle of her collar reminds me of her presence. No complaints, steady jog, happy dog. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. I listen carefully now to birds chirping and even hear a rooster crow over the streaming bluegrass music turned low, spilling into my psyche from minuscule speakers plugged into the bend of my ear canals. It's a perfect combination: banjo, guitar, mandolin, and...breathe in. I take in another mouthful of tasty, moist air. I turn my head in all directions for a full view of the valley I live in. Lush. Vibrant green, endless fields of fertile soil absorbing the misty rain and reaching, reaching for any light available.

A breeze blows, curling the leafy crops in one direction, then the other. I can hear the wind travel from a distance, over the grassy fields, then meet my structure, and continue beyond. I hear a car in the distance behind me, approaching fast. We guide ourselves into the muddy shoulder, enjoying the added cushioning provided by the saturated ground, a relief from the unforgiving road that throws all of our force immediately back at us. Misty rain begins to fall, the droplets hold on to my face, my sunglasses for a moment, then drip to rest on the gravel below. They provide the ideal relief for my salty, glowing skin. A natural cleansing.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Now beginning a hill. Focus, push through. Keep breathing. I thrust open my chest, pull my shoulders back and lift my head then visualize filling my lungs. Don’t stop. Make it to the top, slow your pace. Think beyond, find a thought to take me to the end. Jingle. Jingle. How's Maggie? I glance, following the red leash from where it loosely sits in my hand down to the white, shaggy Westie dashing across the ground. She is keeping up. Clearly, she is tired but determined to continue despite the weight of her twelve-pound frame burdening her four short legs and tiny paws. I need her tenacity to push me onward. Her tongue is out, she looks at me with no emotion now, just focused. Click, click, click, click her bare feet scrape the pavement. Off in the distance across the field, I hear the "moo" of a lonely cow.

Finally, we’ve made it past the crest and I slow down. Time to breathe. Time for Maggie to breathe. Our walk morphed into a run we both embraced. Here comes the sun, hazy behind a light grey cloud. The blood is rushing throughout my body in a happy dance of renewal. I feel exhilarated. We walk now, more like prance, to cool down. Ah, Maggie spots a grey squirrel. She pulls the leash taut then whines as she follows the busy-tailed creature's every move. It scampers up a tree, then across a telephone wire. We both watch intently as it maneuvers itself with its fate in flux. Maggie retreats, not defeated but realizes the grey squirrel is out of her reach and brings her attention back to the sidewalk. The squirrel waits until we've passed underneath, then continues on its narrow path across the street.

Suddenly, the red trim of the house appears on the horizon. I smile. Maggie's step quickens. Comfort comes to mind. Dry, warmth, drinking water. The rain has subsided and someone nearby just started their mower. Another deep breath before I open the gate and release Maggie to find her bed inside and relax. This spring day in a quiet country town, alive with nature, bursting with color and new life has now officially begun.

Phoebe for President

This week voters in Oregon are casting their ballots not only for the governor primary candidates but Mt. Angel teens are choosing next year's freshman class president at Kennedy High School. Phoebe decided to run for the leadership position and her preparations have been underway all week including the necessary campaign procedures: designing posters and speech writing. No propaganda-filled newspaper ads, phone calls, or television appearances. She's making her first run at politics based on just who Phoebe is as a person. Au natural.

I, of course, would vote for Phoebe but decided I would list all of the reasons she would make a perfect candidate for the position.

Phoebe's work ethic is this: give whatever you have to do everything you've got, then enjoy yourself as a reward for accomplishing your goals.

Her passion about an issue directly leads her to be proactive about it. She believes in herself and the causes she is behind. She will fight until the bitter end (believe me, I know this first hand).

She is thoughtful about everyone and NEVER manipulative.

She makes good choices, period.

She can debate and defend her position on a subject better than most adults. I was blown away at the argument she presented the other day while trying to convince me to allow her to have texting as an option on her phone. She even got into my psyche and told me how I was thinking (and of course, how it was wrong). I had to admit, she came at me from many convincing angles but Mom held her ground.

She likes to learn and is a good listener.

She cares. Better yet, she loves from her heart but keeps herself well protected from being hurt.

She is honest, reliable, funny and if you're lucky-enough--a true friend.

Plus, of course. She is smart, witty, loves good music (and is talented), and just plain adorable.

Phoebe used these lines from John Lennon in her speech, "A dream you dream alone is only a dream. A dream you dream together is reality." When Phoebe was little we used to say, "In Phoebe's-World.....(everything is seen in technicolor, money grows on trees, pajamas are worn all the time, people hoola-hoop all day, etc.)". But in Phoebe's grown-up world today, everybody deserves a chance to achieve their goals and she is leader who can help her peers get a little closer to reaching them.

So, vote for Phoebe Mt. Angel Middle School 8th graders! And if the rest of you want to cast your vote or add a comment please do it by becoming a 'Jen's Friend' here on Straight from Hill, Facebook Phoebe, or send an e-mail to hills@terrapintrips.com. May the best candidate win!

Bury Me in My Prom Dress

The sun broke through the early-morning clouds two Saturdays ago providing the perfect spring day for Prom 2010. While it felt fairly ordinary to the rest of the family, Hunter was cheery and clearly looking forward to an evening out with "his girl"(as Sailor puts it), Julia. His plans were set: pictures, then driving into Salem to eat at Bentley's, then prom and an after-party/bonfire.

The previous week had been eventful. The tasks included going to measure for and pick out the tux, order the corsage, and figure out transportation. Phoebe and I spent an entire day with Julia talking endlessly about color and dresses, shoes and accessories. At one point, I remembered that tucked away deep in one of my closets I still had my prom dress. "No WAY!!" Julia and Phoebe said in unison, "Go get it! We want to see!" Rod said, " "Wow, why would you keep something like THAT?" Clearly, he had never thought twice about his nights at prom while I remembered details like it was yesterday. I was excited to finally have a reason to pull it out and show it off.

The build-up before my own prom had been four years in the making. At the all-girls Catholic school I went to, we hosted only a senior prom so students had the opportunity to go to the elegant event only once. My prom was at the Renaissance Center in Detroit which at that time had recently been built and was a hot Motor City attraction. I had a boyfriend, but things were fizzling out and I was much more interested in having a terrific evening with my best girlfriends. My dress was simple, big surprise, but elegant. It was a white, spaghetti strap dress with an empire waist, a tiered, ruffled skirt , and was finished with a pink bow that tied in front. We had a memorable night, and wrapped things up with a breakfast party at a friend's house. Then the dress went to rest under a plastic bag for 26 (can that be right?) years.

I brought the precious item out from the plastic grave it was hidden in. There it was, complete with champagne spills still in tact and a ratty ribbon that hung lifeless like it hadn't had air for, well, 20 years. Julia said, "It's really not that bad." Phoebe just said, "Ewwwww!" Hunter shook his head, looked sweetly at me with that, "Oh, Mom why do you have to be so sensitive?" look and a warm smile. It was then that Rod had an epiphany. He realized when I revealed the attire from my past that prom is a major event for the girl, maybe not as much for the boy. In fact, he couldn't even remember who he went to prom with!

As the days neared Prom 2010, I witnessed Hunter rolling his eyes whenever we'd start talking about times and places, flowers and pictures, parties and cars. He had no patience for the repeated discussions about the same issues over and over. So, Rod sat Hunter down, explained how important this was ("I mean, look, Hunter, your mother saved this dress this entire time!") and from that point forward, Hunter didn't complain one bit about the attention that was being given to the details and planning for one night.

The well-dressed couple had a wonderful night. We rented a luxury car to shuffle Hunter and Julia to and from Salem where prom was held, and they agreed to let Rod be the chauffeur in order to satisfy our concerns of being safe for the big night. Dressed in black from head to foot, Rod looked like he was straight out of a mob movie when he opened the doors and guided his son and date into the fancy Cadillac SUV. They rode in a caravan behind the Hummer limo rented by ten other Mt. Angel couples and by the end of the night Rod and the other chauffeur were sharing driving info. Too funny. I think Rod has a future behind the wheel in retirement, don't you?

So, while saving that prom dress for a special occasion was self-indulgent and a bit out of the ordinary, it provided about five minutes of laughter and then went back under the plastic bag that survived years of neglect and multiple moves. Maybe when it's Phoebe's turn for prom I'll bring it out of the closet again. I'm not so sure the threads on the dress can hold out until Sailor hits 16. When Rod and I chuckled about it later he asked, "What are you going to do with it now?" I said, "Bury me in my prom dress." At least it has a purpose for hanging around. Of course, I had to ask Julia to at least think about keeping hers. Now, what should I do with my wedding gown?

Oceans Emotions

Yesterday, I cried quietly watching a film in a nearly empty theatre. I was positioned in a high-back, comfy seat with Sailor perched at the edge of her cushion on my right and my Mom on the left. The giant screen over us flashed beautiful scenery, shocking moments of disbelief, and touching love scenes. But you won't see any of the featured actors and actresses marching the red carpet or pictured on the cover of grocery store tabloids anytime soon.

You might be wondering if it was a "chick flick", a true story drama, or an adventure film but it was none of the sort. The film we saw was Oceans, a Disney Nature film that was released in celebration of Earth Day. Please go see it, if you haven't yet. The footage under the mass of blue water that most of us see from shore of unusual sea life, majestic whales, hilarious penguins, acrobatic dolphins, fighting crabs, adorable sea otters provided entertainment better than any dramatic film I've seen recently.

I was giddy with excitement when I told others about memorable scenes much more so than when I saw Brad Pitt for the first time in Thelma and Louise. I realize it is because this was the first time I have seen non-mammal, undersea life act with sense, determination, and skill. Watching crusteaceans like shrimp, lobsters and crab search for food and protect their shelter with purpose was phenomenal. I had always thought they were less able to reason, more reactive then active. Clearly, I was wrong.

It was such a positive feeling to know that there are places in the ocean that are untouched by human hands. I felt a twinge of jealousy while watching the dolphins flip, chase, play, and feed in their great blue world. How wonderful to live life in the moment, letting nature take its course and do what you need to do only when you need to do it. And what an incredible playground they have!

I remember as a child bawling through scenes in Benji, Bambi, The Black Stallion and later through Seabiscuit and Free Willy. Animals, just by their nature of being innocent and unable to speak to humans, instantly capture my heart whenever featured on film. I've always been curious about their thoughts and as I child I absorbed books about gorillas and chimpanzees, filled my room with stuffed creatures, watched Wild Kingdom religiously, and dreamed about a future writing for National Geographic or as a veterinarian.

So, then, why was I crying this time ? It was the sheer beauty of massive whales breaking through the blue to show all their glory as they breeched near feeding grounds that brought the lump in my throat. The sweetness of a mother sea lion urging her calf into the water to teach it to swim caused the warm, salty droplets to roll down from my eyes and rest into the creases of my mouth. My tears left tracks, too, because I remember dearly days and amazing nights I spent sailing on the ocean, rocking up and down with each wave gazing at the horizon and discovering the beauty of silence. I miss the serenity, the closeness to nature that just being there among whales and dolphins provides. And finally, I wept because I did not hold true to the vision of myself that I had while dreaming as an adolescent.

Now when I watch the purposeful actions of wild animals, I can't help but contemplate human behavior--everything from family relationships to large socio-economic and environmental issues. Frankly, we humans have screwed up. We have selfishly thrown garbage and poisonous waste into the ocean thinking that it just goes away. But we've been dumping

in someone else's environment. Creatures whose life is centered on survival. We have threatened species and created a massive heap of trash in the Pacific. Dead dolphins, whales, and seals are discarded everyday from massive fishing nets belonging to humans trying to make a living. And here we are faced with another oil spill, larger than the last. Pierce Brosnan in the voiceover during the movie said, "The cries (for help) of the endangered species may never be heard." Those are the biggest reasons I had to reach for a tattered kleenex from my pocket to wipe my wet face. I felt responsible for these actions. How do I justify these horrific actions to the little girl in my past who loved animals so much?

Oceans doesn't dwell on punishing us. The movie tactfully mentions threatened species and touches on pollution in the sea, but more importantly shows what exists for us to preserve. What beauty there is that we need to take action to protect. The film felt motivating in an organic way, not in a stuffy, "green" marketing manner but through giving us a vision into the world that lies beneath us and surrounds us. It is our responsibility to take care of not only ourselves, but the gift of the earth that we are blessed to dwell upon and those that we share it with. It is, for lack of a better term, human nature that gives us compassion. So listen to your heart and take care. Because that's what we're supposed to do.

In Perfect Harmony

A Visit with Jerry

"I'm a writer," I said to the deep, fast-talking voice on the other end of the telephone line. "Of what?", the man asked, obviously curious. I blurted immediately back at the nosey stranger, "of non-fiction." It was mid-morning on a Wednesday and I decided to answer the multiple post-card requests from my high school (Our Lady of Mercy) alumni association to call and update personal information. The man assigned to my call asked basic questions to summarize my life since the '80s and we had finally landed on the details of my present-day endeavors. "It's true," I smiled and thought to myself. In three words I successfully put an answer in all of the long blank lines I will face after the question "employment"on applications and questionnaires in my future.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a guy named Jerry Garcia, believe it or not. He was gathering my details to put into a book the publishing company plans to sell to Mercy graduates who have the desire to read about their fellow classmates' lives. "Oh, that's cool," Jerry said when I revealed my profession. I smiled at myself thinking he's going to say "groovy" in his next breath. But he didn't have a chance. I eagerly jumped in. It was my turn to be the interrogator and I just had to ask, "Is Jerry Garcia really your name?" He chuckled an almost perfect replica of the real Garcia's raspy smoker's rolling giggle with a "Yep," hidden in there somewhere adding that he, like the original, was from the same generation and from southern California. We plowed through his lists of questions while I imagined Jerry's bouncing wild, grey curls, round glasses and wide, bearded face taking notes about my life on his computer.

Towards the end of our conversation, he tried to sell me the "Facebook book" of all the alumni of my high school in hard or soft cover. I declined and he eventually respected my choice. I didn't really have to explain that high school was a long time ago and I didn't feel the need to share my personal history or read about anyone else's. After all, as the real Jerry once sang, "There is a road, no simple highway, between the dawn and the dark of night, and if you go, no one may follow, that path is for your steps alone.”

"Thanks, Jerry, " I said like I'd been wanting to say that all of my life, wearing a self-proclaimed hippie grin from ear to ear as I hung up the phone. The conversation was a pleasant, surreal surprise and I did appreciate the uncanny connection with the name behind one of my musical faves. Not to mention the music that since this encounter has been streaming through my head. Was he really named Jerry? Was it his way of remaining anonymous? Was he using this name as a marketing tool to make me talk? How many Jerry Garcia's are there in the world? I don't know, and it really doesn't matter. He made my Wednesday. So, if that's ever me making calls on the other line......I'm Amelia Earhart. Who are you?