Snow!

It finally snowed here in the great state of Utah. I've been wondering where winter was. The eastern part of the United States is getting more winter than it wanted and we are stuck in perpetual spring.

Now this sounds kind of good. I mean spring - sunshine, flowers, green grass... but no, that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about spring before all that happens. Spring when it's stopped snowing, but there are still no leaves on the trees, no flowers and there's definitely no green. Early spring - grey spring- spring before anything has sprung.

Just when I'd given up on winter and decided we weren't having one, it happened.

This is the wonder of Utah. In the night time, while we were asleep, tiny snowflakes began to fall - dry flakes that can barely be seen. They didn't fall en masse. They seemed very casual about the whole affair. They gently slid down the sky and by sheer incomprehensible numbers slowly covered the ground and trees and created a beautiful winter scene in heaps and heaps of snow.

Utah powder is what they call it. Ideal for skiing and sledding and snowboarding. It's dry and fun to play in and a person doesn't come inside drenched to the bone in consequence. I think it's pretty amazing stuff. Not great for snowballs and snowmen - it doesn't pack well because it is dry snow.

The way I see it, if it's going to be winter and it's going to be cold, then it may as well snow and make the world beautiful too.

New Beginnings

Life gets tough sometimes. Adversity is part of our experience.
Sometimes good things happen.

I have lupus. It's been in remission so long the doctor suggested I try going outside a bit again. Now this doesn't mean I get to go crazy. I go out in the early morning and come in before it even has a chance to get hot.

I dig around in the dirt, pull out weeds and water stuff. My yard is starting to look ok again just from the little bit of time I put in every morning. I'm starting to feel okay again too, just from that little bit of time that I can commune with nature. It's remarkable. People weren't meant to stay inside all the time.

There have been fruits of my labors. Literally. I've had strawberries, sweet cherries, raspberries, sour cherries and now peaches. Nothing tastes like sun ripened fruit straight out of my own yard, weeded, watered and cared for by me.

When tough things happen, I like to go outside and work in my yard. I can't express how grateful I am to have this outlet opened back up to me. Being sick is no fun, but having an important coping mechanism removed at the same time makes it almost unbearable. For me doing nothing but sitting in a chair outside is paradise and one I hope will never be taken away again.

Beautiful Utah

People wonder sometimes what it's like to live in Utah. If you ask me, it's a beautiful place to live. (But don't ask my siblings or parents, they'll tell you different.)

I went up American Fork Canyon last month and I thought it'd be fun to post some pictures, a little sampler of what's up there.

We went on a couple hikes.

And had a picnic.

There were wildflowers, trees, streams and rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.

I can't think of a better way to spend a day.

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Phillip or Phillipina?

My son and his friends found an abandoned duckling down a sewer drain.

What is it about kids who think mom can fix everything including motherless ducklings?

So it's eight o'clock at night, I've already called animal control and gotten the after hours dispatcher, the police station called to let me know the best chance for the little thing was to keep him at least overnight.

We looked online to see how to take care of him and learned returning it to a water front meant almost certain death. We put him in a bucket with some hay underfoot and a water crock with clean rocks in the bottom so he wouldn't drown and made a cornmeal mush for food and set up a heat lamp that was purchased years ago for a science project.

And then I prayed. A lot.  A long sleepless night ensued.

Next day was full of doctor appointments. Because going to doctors all the time is the unpleasant reality of our lives. In between, I've got to figure out what to do with this little duck.

He's not looking so good. He's so lonely I don't know if he's going to make it.  He keeps languishing and wants someone's hand by him constantly.

I set my son the task of calling all over to see if there was an organization somewhere who takes in baby ducks while I'm dealing with doctors.

Animal Control did not, everywhere he called did not. Is this little creature going to die on my watch?

My children are so sure we'll find a solution. I love that about them.

We own bunnies. When they have problems we take them to an exotic vet. As I look at this little fluffy one who is cuddling up to my son's hand it occurs to me to call our vet.

They take ducks. They have a duck rehabilitater! Suddenly I love my vet! They are the most wonderful people on the planet. I can't believe they haven't achieved sainthood.

We pack him up and my son comforts him on the ride there. If he moves his hand away the little guy peeps at him to come back.

We get to the vet and they welcome him. They tell us it's a good thing he is there because they have another little duck who needs a friend. I love the vet even more. They have a friend for our little guy.

They share an incubator cuddled together.

With this ordeal behind us my kids finally decide he needs a name. We won't have him anymore, but I realize by naming him, they know he will live. We can all feel that. So they name him Phillip. After a moment's thought I say, 'Or Phillipina.'

The Truth About Butterflies

Phobias are weird things. A person can suddenly become afraid of anything, anything at all, no matter how ridiculous -- or how sweet and innocent.

Well, I'm here to say butterflies are not as sweet as everyone thinks or as innocent. For one thing, they have a diabolical sense of humor.

I had a friend who would sit very, very still in a field full of butterflies for hours on end in the ecstatic hope one would land on her. It never worked. Then she'd try to catch one.

They'd flutter all around her, woosh past her and you could almost hear them say, "Oh, almost got me that time! Almost! Whoohoo, over here, oop, almost had me!" laughing and taunting.

But let me tell you, I could be sitting with not a butterfly in sight, enjoying my day, minding my own business when the next thing I know I've got one on my arm. And believe me, when you've got a butterfly on your arm, you know.

They have poky little feet and nothing else feels like a butterfly foot.
I know how it goes. I know what they say.

One butterfly sees another, jabs him with an elbow and says,

"Hey, Erle."

"Yeah, Stan?"

"You smell what I smell?"

"I dunno."

"Fear pheromones. That there's fear, Erle. Take a deep whiff and breathe that in, you don't get to smell that everyday."

"Yeah. That smells good. That's cause we're butterflies, ain't it Stan? That's cause we're fierce, ain't we Stan?"

Stan rubs his chin with his nasty little butterfly foot."You know what I'm gonna to do? Land on her!"

"You can't! That's against the butterfly code!"

"Butterfly code don't say nothing about landing on no people what are scared."

"I dunno. That don't seem ee-lusive to me. Butterfly code says we gotta be ee-lusive."

"Oh yeah? Watch!"

You want to know something about butterflies? They have tiny little hooks in their feet. Those little suckers can hang on like nobody's business and it takes a lot of flapping, jumping around and screaming to get one off.

"Whooooo! That there's one wild ride! You gotta try that!"

Another thing about butterflies. They're fearless.

"My turn, Stan!"

Have you ever tried to dodge a butterfly? They don't exactly fly around in predictable patterns. It's not like running from a bee you've managed to disgruntle.

"That's right Erle, keep her off kilter! Ha, ha, she don't know which end's up no how!"

Next thing I know, I've got to go through the whole exercise again, after which I feel like I've run a marathon, because on top of all the necessary screaming and jolting maneuvers it takes to get the thing off, my heart's already in panic stricken overdrive from the very presence of the horrid little beasts.

Meanwhile, Erle and Stan are having the laugh of their life and considering their day well spent.
Although phobias are bizarre and take some unusual forms, the good thing about them is, they don't have to be permanent. After twenty or so years of expensive intensive therapy, a butterfly can cross my path and I may not even notice it.

It certainly doesn't make my heart pound or do any other remarkable things to my system. I wouldn't even mind if one landed on my arm, because I always found bugs fascinating, and it would be interesting to get a closer look at it.

I do find it highly suspicious, that after years of being landed on by who knows how many butterflies, not one butterfly has landed on me since I've gotten over this phobia, not one.

Mountains

I grew up in the Mid West near Lake Erie. It was humid, lush and green. It's all I'd ever seen and all I'd ever known.

When I was young, my family decided to go on a trip that would take us into the Appalachian Mountains. These were enchanting times. I was actually going to see something I had never seen before -- mountains!

I was practically quivering with excitement. Mountains were something I'd always wanted to see and my family was always raving about how beautiful the Appalachian Mountains, in particular, were.

We got into the car and drove. I waited impatiently to see the mountains, my eyes pasted to the window. I was afraid to blink. We drove into rolling hills, and more rolling hills and more rolling hills.

I asked when we would get to the mountains. To my utter horror, I was informed we were in the mountains.

I looked around. They were covered, completely covered in trees! I couldn't see the mountain at all! Nothing but vegetation all around! These were mountains?????? What!???

All I could see were a bunch of trees! I didn't want to see trees! I saw trees every day of my life! They were everywhere! There was nothing new, or novel about a bunch of trees!

Where were the rocks? Where were the crags and rills? All covered by massive vegetation! NOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOoooooo!!!!!!!!!!

When I was nearly 20 I moved to Utah. I got off the plane, and besides being instantly in love with the total lack of humidity (this is a topic for another day) I could see something that made my heart leap in joy.

Mountains! With rocks! Gobs of rocks, tons of rocks, gazillions of rocks! And not a tree on them! (I was wrong about this, I was later to find out, there are trees on them, you just have to get closer to know that.)

Now here, here were mountains! The real deal! Rugged, huge, and majestic, rising up from the valley floor in rocky wonder!

Imagine my excitement when my family came to Utah for a visit a couple years later and I could show them these amazing, beautiful, real, rocky mountains!

'Look!' I said, 'You can see the mountains! Aren't they amazing?'

'They're ugly,' they said, 'Where are the trees?'

That was when I realized I'd been switched at birth.

The Killing Season

It's that time of year again. The birds are singing, flowers are on the trees, tulips and daffodils are waving in the breeze and the lawn is turning green.

For some people, it's the season of renewal and hope. For others, it's the killing season, not of animals, not of people-- of plants.

It's also that time of year when every legitimate plant in my yard is quaking in their boots. They would run for their lives but they are frozen in fear, unable to move, caught in rigid terror. There are huge creatures bumbling around amongst them and not one of them is safe.

Unless of course, they are a weed. Weeds have nothing to fear from us.

Gardening used to be a hobby of mine. I had originally hired someone to make a design for my yard, but when gas lines and electric lines ended up being in incompatible places to the design, I chucked it; started from scratch, and designed my own.

I planted trees and shrubs, vines and perennials and patiently waited for it all to grow, mature and look stunning. And it did look beautiful. Until I found out I had lupus, and couldn't go outside any more.

Then it was up to the other members of the household to take care of the yard.

Then came death. Lots of it.

There are people in this house (who will remain nameless in order to protect the guilty) who do not like to weed, do not like yard work of any kind and wish we lived in the middle of a cement ocean.
Not only that, but the care and maintenance of plants seems to be some kind of mystic, incomprehensible science that only the select few have the ability to decipher. The survival of plants comes only from pure chance, a capricious whim of the earth gods.

The answer to this problem is to panic and pour something on everything. Preferably something that isn't compatible with any kind of life.

Are there weeds around the trees? Yes. Pour stuff on it. Look. More weeds around the trees. Pour more stuff on them. And more weeds and more stuff.

And when the trees aren't looking so good, pour stuff on them too.

'Why is the tree dead? We did everything we were supposed to do to this tree! We poured stuff on it's roots. We sprayed it with stuff. It should be thriving! What do you mean it absorbed the weed killer we poured on the weeds around it? We poured it on the weeds, not the tree! Only dumb trees would drink weed killer! We can't help it if our trees are completely unintelligent!'

And so another tree dies. Everything lovely dies.

In the meantime the weeds are still there, standing green, tall and proud, laughing at us. They chug up weed killer; lick their chops, and ask for more like a certain ethnicity drinking certain ethnic alcoholic beverages.

(Okay, so I've been told I have to be politically correct here. This is a family friendly site, remember? I say one little borderline thing about a specific group and I get nasty messages. I'll probably hear from the weeds -- Who are you to call plants 'weeds'? How do you know what determines a 'weed' and a 'plant'? Are you vegetable matter? No! All plants deserve life! You're nothing but a judgemental, *%#@&%*#, weedaphobe! Weedist!)

Only the hardy lives at this address. If you want to see what absolutely cannot be killed in our climate, take a tour of our yard. Take some clippings, you'll have plants that no amount of abuse, neglect and misguided TLC can kill!

And if they keep pouring chemicals on the ground everywhere, we may end up with mutant species yet unknown to science or man. Think of the bragging rights you'd have crowning your garden with some of that!

My design is gone. The subtlety is gone. Most of the plants are gone too. Forget colors, textures and size, I'm happy with anything that can survive the onslaught.

My yard still looks stunning. Not in the same way though, more in a can't-tear-my-eyes-away-horrified-fascination kind of way, wherein the viewer is stunned. Yes. Speechless.

Baby It's Cold Outside

I'm freezing.

Freezing.

As in, the frozen tundra of the arctic has nothing on me.

I'm wearing so many clothes I can't move.

I'm piled under so many blankets I can hardly breathe.

And I'm still freezing.

And yet....

I'm alive. I didn't sign up for a life of comfort. I'm here for the full experience. The good stuff. The bad stuff. And everything in between. I want it all. Before the 'here' of this life maybe I envied the ability to feel cold, to feel anything. Perhaps I should embrace the diversity of hot, warm, cold, comfort and discomfort.

I take a moment and notice things. The prickles of cold on the backs of my hands. The crisp air that moves in and out of my lungs. The goose bumps on my arms. It's sharp. It's harsh. It's life. Would I fully appreciate being toasty without it? Would I have run around in a warm, balmy climate and never realized the beauty of the thermal air that engulfed me? 

This is cold. I breathe it. I think of it. I embrace it. I fully experience it.

Okay. Enough of that. Let's move to Ecuador and never leave. 

Being Cute is a Powerful Weapon

You see this white bunny? You see the pulchritudinous innocence pouring forth from it's fluffy little face?

Is this the face of a diabolical Houdini Bunny? Is this the face of a bunny that would escape his pen in the middle of the night, leading poor little Olivia into iniquity to join into his rebellious break for freedom?

Is this the face of a bunny who would leave behind his litter habits in wild abandon, to prove his point of freedom and ownership, by leaving bunny bombs all over the house?

Is this the face of a bunny who, instead of obediently going back to his pen like sweet Olivia, would make his owners chase him around the house at 3 AM and think it was all a very good game?

Is this the face of a bunny who, after being caught and put in said bunny pen, would have the audacity to ask for a treat?????

You bet it is.

Joy in the Morning

It's the little things that make life so nice. The soft fur on my bunnies as I pet them, the taste of ripe fruit, the smell of lilacs, the color of my peace roses when they are in bloom, a really comfortable place to sit, a good book to read, my kids, time with my husband. Little details throughout the day add up to happiness. A huge house, a large bank account, professional acclaim, none of those things can bring what nature and companionship can.

This morning some quail with their tiny offspring was a source of joy. I ran from window to window to get a good look at them without disturbing them. There are only six this year. But what a miracle those six really are! They'll eat my strawberries, cherries, raspberries and peaches until the babies are full sized and the adults are rippling with fat for the winter but it seems a small price to pay to be able to watch them run in and out of our bushes and for the occasional treat of seeing these teeny little ones scurrying around with their parents. How grateful I am for the little bits of nature that come into my yard and gladden my life!