by jphilo | Jul 23, 2010 | Out and About
On the last morning walk Hiram and I took in Idaho, a very noisy bird interrupted our conversation. Hiram located the rude critter in the tippy-top of an evergreen tree. While I whipped out my camera, Hiram also spied the mystery bird of prey’s nest in the next tree over.
Maybe the bird was trying to scare us away from a clutch of eggs. As if the constant ruckus and our lack of desire to scale the tree weren’t enough, one look in the telephoto lens at the bird’s hooked beak would have convinced us to keep our distance. That beak, though slightly blurred by my camera shake, is one wicked weapon.
With weeds to pull, wedding supplies to store, bills to pay, a mother to visit, and a book to write, bird identification isn’t making my top ten list any time soon. So, if you can identify the mystery bird, have at it.
To be honest, my travel recovery is taking too long for this efficiency queen. I’m way behinder than expected going into the weekend. So our encounter with the noisy, conversation stopping, mystery bird has me wondering how and why our feathered friends migrate twice a year. But the bigger question is this: Why do human snow birds voluntarily do the migration thing? It’s hard enough unpacking from a week of vacation. But to open a second house, put everything in place, adjust to a new climate and time zone, get reacquainted with friends – whew! I don’t think I’m up to it.
But someday, I’d like to be free as a bird, like you. So please, human snowbirds, share your travel tricks with non-migratory folks like me. And leave your comments before August 4, when I go to Florida for a few days. I want to become flexible and adventurous before meeting my first alligator!
by jphilo | Jul 21, 2010 | Out and About
Today we are leaving this mountain, and I do not want to leave.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m ready to be home.
Ready for cell service and a birthday call to our daughter.
Ready for two more months of Iowa sweet corn.
Ready for a consistent, daily routine.
Ready for a quiet house.
Ready to dig into the writing of my new book.
Ready to see the midwestern family contingent again.
Ready for lunch with friends.
Ready to return to every day life.
But once we leave here, July of 2011 seems so far away.
Far from youngsters who will be another year older before we gather again.
Far from Idaho’s cool July nights and sunny days.
Far from a breakfast of huckleberry pancakes in the shadow of Huckleberry Mountain.
Far from Hammock Haven.
Far from
morning devotions in the pavilion,
afternoon games in the pavilion,
evening dances in the pavilion.
Far from family in
Ohio,
Korea,
Siberia,
Idaho,
South Dakota,
Colorado,
British Columbia,
Kansas,
Iowa,
Georgia.
Ready to be home.
Too far away.
Time for huckleberry tears, tart and sweet.
Time to say good-bye.
by jphilo | Jul 16, 2010 | Out and About
Sometimes during Family Camp, the panoramic vistas on all sides crowd out everything else. The grand beauty is so grand and distant,
sunrise over the mountains,
blue-black fir trees scaling rocky peaks,
ice cold streams,
stars glowing in the night sky,
bridges spanning sparkling lakes,
that I can’t see small loveliness nearby,
hummingbirds hovering around the pavilion,
the sun hot on bare shoulders,
children’s faces dappled with shadow and light,
conversation amongst family members who see each other once a year,
morning devotions accompanied by bird song.
As I mince down the steep road,
praying my knees last through a morning walk
in the cool, fresh air,
consumed by my personal safety and health,
I almost miss them,
the delicate beauties waiting next to the path.
I look down and see mountain daisies,
slim and shy,
white and soft,
quiet and lovely,
humble and hidden,
swaying in the gentle breeze.
The beauties beside me.
What if I hadn’t seen them?
by jphilo | Jul 15, 2010 | Out and About
One day away from home, and the difference is like night and day:
From wedding week to camp week,
From Iowa to Idaho,
From making decisions to following orders,
From cornfields to mountain views,
From high humidity to low,
From ninety degrees to seventy-five,
From king sized bed to a pop-up camper,
From a full bath to a bath house,
From breakfast alone to breakfast with thirty.
Only three things remain unchanged:
The abundance of mosquitoes,
The joy of family relationships going deep,
The presence of God wherever we gather together and when we part.
One plague,
Two blessings,
Life this week is good indeed.
by jphilo | Jul 6, 2010 | Out and About
I went back home for the Fourth of July weekend. Not to where I live now. Back to where I grew up. Back to the people who knew me way back when. Back to reunionize with the steadily shrinking number of folks who share 1960s and 1970s memories of our home town.
The organizers of the all-school reunion asked me to speak at the Saturday evening program about how our high school prepared me to be an author and speaker. I was happy to oblige, though I expanded the scope of the assignment to include teachers throughout my school years, not just the ones from high school.
I described my first grade self (pictured above with shirt buttoned up by Mom’s capable fingers and hair plastered down with her spit) as accurately as possible. Being back home, I couldn’t leave anything out – not my fingernail chewing, pink eye, cold sores, clumsiness, or propensity to pick my nose and eat my boogers – so the back homers had a good idea of the raw material our valiant teachers had to work with. In my case, and I suspect in many others, they didn’t have much.
This morning, I described the speech to my daughter. How the booger line got the biggest laugh. How I cried at the end while thanking teachers for giving me the skills to do what I do. She said, “You remember your school years with more fondness than I do.”
I thought for a moment and said, “Now I do. But not when I was your age. Give yourself time, sweetie. The fondness will come.”
She nodded a little dubiously, and I didn’t know how to tell her how her perspective will change over the next three decades. How the skills her toughest teachers insisted she learned will be the skills she appreciates the most. How her compassion will grow toward classmates, even toward those who took out their insecurities on her. How her awareness of the gracious gifts given her will make her humble instead of proud. How her passing acquaintance with classmates will transform into a highly exclusive club that gathers infrequently. How she will want to see the members because they remember what she remembers.
Because they knew her then, and they smile to see her now.
Because when she’s with them, she’s where she grew up.
Because she’s back home.
by jphilo | Jun 8, 2010 | Out and About
Ever heard of chicken mint ice cream? I hadn’t either until last weekend when four-year-old Brennen, a cowboy in training, introduced Cindy and me to the delectable treat. The chicken mint discovery occurred after supper, which was after the four-wheeler stunt video, which was after the Uncle Shawn story, which was after the tower demolition, which was after the bike riding demonstration, so maybe I should back up a little.
Brennen and his two-year-old brother Shawn are the grandkids of Gerald and Becky, our Harding County hosts over the weekend. When we arrived Friday, they were at Grandma and Grandpa’s house to greet us, along with their mom Natalie, baby sister Alexis and Grandma Becky. Those two little boys were pretty eager to have company and had planned a plethora of activities for us.
First on the list was Brennen demonstrating his newly acquired bike riding skills. He was pretty sure his ability to ride without training wheels would leave a memorable impression, but Cindy and I were shaking with laughter before he and his tag-along little brother, Shawn headed out the door. Too excited to pay attention to details, Shawn grabbed the first pair of boots available, never mind that they were two sizes too big and came up to his knees. Brennen didn’t even look down as he put his boots on the wrong feet.
“How about you boys stand in front of the door, and I’ll take a picture of you in those fancy boots,” I suggested. The little wranglers were happy to oblige.
I have to admit, Brennen’s bike demonstration was amazing, along with Shawn’s herculean efforts at digging dirt from a pile by the driveway and collapsing dramatically from the effort. But the fun was only beginning. Back inside, the boys showed us how to build a tall tower from blocks and knock it down.
Then Grandma Becky, perhaps in need of a moment of quiet and wanting to pass on the memory of her son who died six years ago, asked me to tell them a story about being their Uncle Shawn’s teacher. They listened intently as I described Shawn at age six taking me for a ride in the pick up to show off the stock tank he’d helped install on the hill in the pasture. He also made me get out to open all the gates on the way there and close them on the way back. When we reached the last gate, he waved and his eyes twinkled as he drove off without me. Grandma Becky said Brennen’s face was deeply thoughtful throughout the story. Perhaps Uncle Shawn’s daring sets a dangerous precedent. Hmm.
Before supper, we watched a four-wheeler stunt video. From what I observed, the interest level of the viewers was in inverse proportion to their ages. It captivated Brennen and Shawn, and the only thing able to drag them away from it to the supper table was the promise of ice cream cones for dessert.
Brennen altruistically volunteered to haul the ice cream containers from the freezer to the ice cream cone box sitting on the counter. “Which kind do you want?” he asked. “We have regular, root beer which is my favorite, and chicken mint.”
“Chicken mint?” Cindy asked.
Brennen held up the box so we could see the picture of a bowl of mint green ice cream flecked with brown. “Chocolate chip mint is hard to say,” Natalie explained.
“I’ll take chicken mint,” we said in unison.
“It’s really good,” our dessert chef approved. He was right. Cindy and I agree it was the best chicken mint ice cream we ever tasted. Who could ask for anything more?
