Seven Years & Two Hermits

Instead of giving each other cards and expensive gifts, David and I have most enjoyed going on trips to celebrate our anniversary. One year it was a Caribbean cruise, last year we had a wonderful trip to Boise. This year we opted for something closer to home, but wanted a destination distinct enough from our normal landscape to feel like a getaway. We chose to drive less than two & a half hours to stay in a rustic cabin at the peaceful Wilderness Lakefront Resort on Broken Bow Lake in Oklahoma.  Hey, it had a full kitchen, so it wasn't too rustic.

Home away from home: Cabin #4

The landscape there is indeed very different from what we might have expected: Towering trees, steep hills, a clean lake, and abundant wildlife. This was a wonderful place to celebrate our seven years of marriage by spending time enjoying a beautiful place together. 

Thanks to a local squirrel for taking our picture.

We also had a fantastic dinner at Abendigo's Restaurant in Hochatown. David had the fire roasted tomato risotto (I sampled it--was outstanding); I had the Signature Steak Filet with bleu cheese glaze, port wine sauce and garlic mashed potatoes. I could've died happy, right there, but gladly did not, as that might have cast a general pall over the weekend. And I wouldn't have gotten to go canoeing. 

Below is evidence that we actually didn't look like hermits the entire weekend. I had the camera set up on the porch and we had to do several takes with me pushing the auto-timer and sprinting in flip-flops down the steps and tearing throught the gravel in the picnic area to the bridge to "act natural" for the picture.

Yep, we've been standing here casually for like, ever.

On Sunday we first had a flat tire, which the owner of WLF was kind enough to fix for us--he's a great guy. After that we took out the resort-provided canoe on the lake for several hours with lunch in the ice chest. I was in back as the awkward rudder. David was in front as the power paddler and harasser of the awkward rudder. It was a lesson in having to work together! We figured it out eventually--mostly, without anyone going overboard or getting smacked in the head with a paddle. I love canoeing!

The Power Paddler, doing what he does.

After canoeing and a rest, we hiked in the McCurtain Co. Wilderness Area, which is where the first picture of this post was taken. It had some steep terrain, with some lovely pine forest. The scent of pine needles and the sound of the wind rushing through them is an ideal condition for peaceful wandering.

J'Non's proximity to local spiders in this photo: 6 inches or less!

A clear stream running through the trail--a good spot to wash the walking sticks.

We checked out on Monday and drove about 20 minutes to Beaver's Bend Resort Park with its trout stream, nature and hiking trails, camping, canoeing, and nature center. They even have a mini-golf course, strangely enough! We plan to go camping there in the future, but we only had time for an afternoon excursion this time. At Beaver's Bend we hiked two scenic trails and drove around to see some of the camping areas.

 

The trout stream is chilly with water coming from the bottom of the lake.

This was a little steeper than I had anticipated. Hmm. And the rocks a little pointy. Hmmm.

So, to avoid the steepest part of the trail where we had to hold onto stuff and climb up over rocks, we decided to hike along the river on our way back. This worked well to a point, but then we started ascending gradually from the river until we found ourselves in the middle of a very steep embankment with no sign of a trail at all. I think we took the mountain goat path.  It was almost a sheer drop to the river (injury guaranteed), or we could try to go up the side of the hill slowly (injury less likely) and hope not to fall like some human Plinko through the sharp rocks and trees down to the river (death, dismemberment). 

We decided we'd better not fall on the way up. So, we took it slow and held onto any available trees as we tried to find good footholds. It's one of those scenarios where you keep thinking "This is so stupid. I can't believe we are doing this," and yet on we went.

Way down yon is the river. The grade is so steep that I can't even see our starting point on the mountain goat path.

Amazingly, we made it in one piece back to the end of the trail to head home and were none the worse for our adventures except for a few stowaway chiggers. Nothing says romantic weekend quite like chigger bites. Except for maybe a roving seed tick or two. These aside, it was a perfect weekend for a couple of hermits in love!

Stealth Salad: Operation Purple Smoothie

You know where I stand on salads. Love, hate--the line can be very fine. And eating spinach on its own? There's no love here. It's a texture thing, the way it feels between the ol' molars. It's a little squeaky. Anyway, at my sister Jennifer's recommendation, I am getting my squeakier greens disguised with berry and banana goodness in a "green" smoothie (but berries make it a much more palatable purple).

Here's where I got my directions:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXr8-jru1KE

I just tried a similar version, in my standard, non-fancy blender, with the following basic recipe:

2 C. Cold Water
5 Collard Leaves (I used the ones growing in my mini-garden in the backyard)
Organic Baby Spinach (fill blender up to top with this)

Whirl on "Puree" setting until all leaves are annihilated. Color will be an alarming shade of green--the exact color of your fresh lawn clippings, in fact.

Add:
1 Banana,
1 C. Yogurt (optional)
2 C. Frozen Berries (I used the tri-berry mix from Costco)
More Spinach--IF you dare!
1/2 tsp. powdered Stevia (optional)

Whirl again until all objects are obliterated into a deep purple.

Other ingredients to add to your smoothies:
Kale
Apples, cored and sliced

I tried it, preparing my tastebuds for the worst, and was shocked to my very toes that it didn't taste at all like berry-flavored lawn. I sampled some more to make sure I wasn't crazy, wrote this down immediately because I was so excited, and slurped down the rest of it.

Another exciting way to clear my dietary conscience. Those brownies sitting on my counter will soon be a mere memory.

Brownies? What? I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.

(Shifty eyes while discreetly raking crumbs from keyboard).

Biking in DC

We went to visit David's sister Debbie and her husband Greg in Washington DC a couple of weeks ago. One morning we had an opportunity to bike some of the usual tourist destinations near the Mall, and in the afternoon biked the beautiful Mt. Vernon trailway with some friends.

Ridin' on the Metro, with Debbie's Schwinn cruiser.

Thanks for the hydration packs, Momma Sue!

In the afternoon I had my first real bike wreck (anything without blood really doesn't count). About halfway through the ride, just a half mile from the turnaround point at Mount Vernon, I let my front tire get off the asphalt ledge into gravel. Of course overcorrection ensued on the wet path, and my left elbow, hip, and knee pitched in to help me out with the forward momentum problem I seemed to be having as I crashed.

Thanks, Knee!

Thanks, Elbow!

Little accidents like this really make you appreciate your skin layers protecting your nerves from the pain of water and air. I hope there was at least spectacular flailing and artistic color for the four people riding right behind me (slowest person typically sets pace). The only thing better than a bike wreck is for there to be lots of witnesses. Awesome.

Audience Members: Justin, Alisha, Ryan
(Who, incidentally, could all probably crush me like a bug with one of their calf muscles. Fortunately though, all very nice people).

The Baring Of One's Soul: (On Writing)

Writing can be a very public activity. Even the act of writing something down privately means that you realize that someday someone else might read it. I could be flattened by a truck tomorrow, and then some unfortunate soul would have to go through my things: my letters, my writing folders, my prayer notebooks. As a writer with a chronic editing complex, I have always at some level been aware of this and write my first drafts for the possibility of an audience other than the one originally intended.

The written word is a powerful thing, telling unauthorized tales between the lines, and has even more value when we have something to lose. In this very blog, I write more humor posts than anything, but I have very little to lose in doing so. Oh, sure, I may lose some dignity in my self-deprecation, but it shouldn't cause any permanent damage. But to write about the deep things which give me pause or pangs? Offering these up for public consumption is cause for greater anxiety and is much more difficult. Greater depth in subject dictates greater agony in revision as well. Conveying the nuance becomes more important as a writer becomes emotionally invested and desires a response in the life of someone else; the reader.

I had a great creative writing teacher, Dr. Randy Prus, who used to tell us that sentimentality was like a dog returning to its own vomit. I love this simile because it helps me stem the tide of pathos somewhat, and at the very least to keep it a little more real. There is certainly a place for sentiment, but in proportion. I don’t do syrupy.

Themes of so many works of fiction and works of life are the search for fulfillment, love, happiness. These seem to be the mirage in the distance for so many--searching everywhere to fill the void within us. Haven't we all been lost there at some point? Replacing the emptiness with whatever can make us forget for a time: food, entertainments, addictions, sarcasm, competition, consumption. Distractions. But the best times in my own life have never been related to things or objects or entertainments. They have been lit by the glow of happiness I felt when I was with those that loved me, and those whom I loved in return. They are my life.

And the writing. I've always thought it was much easier for me personally to write in the face of difficulty than in happiness. Turmoil is much easier to explore without sounding clichéd than joy (again, the sentiment). I wonder why that is? I'm saddened to think that humans relate to pain & suffering more than happiness--is it because we are accustomed to having the other shoe drop? Because we have empathy or compassion which has developed over the years as we also have hurt, have felt alone, and have cried ourselves to sleep with the pain of living?

When my heart is heavy, I think that I cannot make it relive all those hard times just for the sake of writing something meaningful. But I realize that those times are part of me. As much or more so than the good. The trials and sore heart is where the shape of my character has mostly been carved. So do they make me bitter? Do they make me sad? Do they make me strong? Do they make me judgmental? Do they make me compassionate? Yes, all. And I have to choose to overcome that which needs overcoming; to try and make sense of the imperfection that I am; to seek contentment in those aspects of my life I cannot change, while working to identify and correct the variables. All of this informs the writing which is the most difficult but most necessary to share. I’ll try to be brave enough to give you my best along the way.

Off the Wagon

I'm back from a twelve-day trip from Dallas to Kentucky, D.C., Tennessee, and back to Kentucky. I had a wonderful time, but I'm very glad to be home! I will be posting at some point on some of the adventures there, if I can squeeze some creativity from my brain. Nice visual, eh?

Comfort Food

When I'm feeling low, it directly influences what foods I want to prepare and eat. Do you feel the same? I don't head for sweets or chocolate, but instead crave those foods which were part of my childhood: My grandmother's soup with saltines, corn meal mush with butter and sweetener, and my mom's pinto beans with buttered cornbread. Whole-grain pancakes and macaroni & cheese I pretty much crave all the time, so I don't add them to this list officially. Today I'd like to introduce you to the soup.

Granny only ever made one soup that I recall, so if she said she was making soup for dinner everyone knew exactly what to expect. Thus it is so clearly associated in my memory with her. Sometimes we would make cornbread to go with it, but more often than not, we'd have saltine crackers instead, putting about five or so on each of our plates but having the open cracker sleeve handy for refills.

My grandmother was such a comfort to me for most of my life, and I can't make the soup now without thinking of her and the wonderful sensations I always experienced in sitting down to eat this meal with her and the family--the fragrance of steam rising from the bowls, the thin, hollow sound of crackers breaking into pieces, the spoons gently scraping against the sides of porcelain or stoneware, the soft whistle of air as we cooled each spoonful, and the flavor that tasted like home. The familiarity of Pat Sajak in the background and the ding of letters on the board. What a blessing! (Granny, family, and soup--not Wheel, you understand, although in general I think it a fine program).

I was such a thin little child, but I could eat at least two full bowls of this soup, and if allowed, probably a third. Where did it all go? Straight to my heart, of course, and has remained for all these years. My mom recently told me about being in the hospital after delivering one of my older brothers. The hospital food was terrible, but they wanted her to eat a certain amount every day in order to be released. She finally told them that if they would let her go home and have some of her mother's soup, she might live. They did and she did.



Granny's Soup

Basic ingredients:
1 lb. lean ground beef
1 large white onion, diced
2-3 lb. red potatoes, scrubbed and diced (amount depends on size of family and taste!)
salt and pepper to taste
water

Optional ingredients:
2 cloves fresh garlic, minced
1-2 carrot, sliced
1 can diced tomato (Rotel will make it very spicy)
1-2 c. frozen corn (or one can)
1-2 squash or zucchini, chopped
4 T. Butter
Ketchup

Directions:
1. Brown ground beef in large pot with salt, and add chopped onion when beef is about half done.
2. When beef is fully cooked, spoon off whatever grease weighs on your conscience.
3. Add diced potatoes and sliced carrots; cover with water (water line should be about 1" above ingredients).
4. Bring to a boil, lower heat to medium and cover, stirring occasionally until potatoes are beginning to soften. Add squash, corn, tomatoes, butter, salt, pepper; cover and return to a simmer.
5. Soup is ready when vegetables are soft. Adjust salt & pepper to taste. Soup will thicken over several days of reheating. Don't freeze it--the texture of the potatoes will change.
6. If you want a little punch to it and are feeling reckless, stir about two tablespoons of ketchup into the soup in your bowl. Oh yeah.
7. Share with your loved ones, with plenty of crackers between you!

Southern Hospitality

Ok, so maybe we don't have polar bears or electric eels to contend with in Texas. But we got some scary bugs. And weeds. (Can I get a witness?) And Bermuda grass, which I think I'm gonna start calling Bermuda Weed. Yep, that sounds more like it. Anyway, we have to look for our adventures around here in more modest ways than in bear conflicts. That is why we go Dale Gribble on the local fire ant colonies, trying to get inside their heads in the expensive and unwinnable war we have going with them. But this is the New American Way.

"I think they're gonna move toward the Bradford Pear and set up a strategic base camp there. They know that it'll be a weak point for us. I've just got this feeling."

I've poured boiling water on hills, knowing that it would not win the war, but wanting to make them re-think their proximity to my sidewalk. It's tough making the decision to move ahead with it, despite the certainty of casualties in my day lily bed. This is war. Sacrifices are made.

David grew up in Idaho and represents it as the land flowing with milk and honey. He paints a picture of an idyllic childhood, roaming the neighborhoods, hillsides, and forests with his little brother and sister, Mike and Debbie. There were numerous camping trips with his family, all without a single fire-ant encounter.

I even remember a time before fire ants, believe it or not. I grew up in Southern Oklahoma before they had migrated that far North. I remember plenty of other bugs to avoid while growing up, and many varieties of ants. But these usually minded their own business instead of having a preemptive foreign policy of attacking anything that moved. An enjoyable childhood activity of mine was to disturb part of an ant hill so I could see how they repaired it. Fascinating stuff. I enjoyed their unswerving devotion to perfection in making their beautiful hill just as beautiful as before.

But if you do that to fire ants, they just want vengeance, and they'll worry about rebuilding after they have demolished anything living within chomping distance. Less fascinating than exceedingly creepy is the way they boil out of their dens. Yeesh. Idaho is sounding more and more inviting all the time.

Texas is always using size as a marker for the reasons for its greatness. If we're talking beef ribs, belt buckles, or even hair, that's one thing. But insects that are large enough to be chipping in on property taxes? Or large enough to be wearing a seatbelt (nod to Larry)? Alleged friend and Boise resident Pam Blue even goes so far as to so sweetly remind me that they don't even have cockroaches up there. Probably no termites, either. Those Idaho license plates which currently say "Famous For Potatoes" should be boasting "Very Few Bugs." But I bet their beef ribs are really small. And probably tough, too.

Freeverse No. 1

Anymore, I don't write much poetry, or whatever label you'd like to attach to such a liberal use of the word. But I think it's good for people to get out those things which seem too abstract for simple prose; the things which we are still working out in the dim recesses. It also provides a memory bank for those moments which are perhaps not important of themselves, but are a marker for a time and a place that we may forget after a time. It's good to remember.

3/16/01

A life just passed before my eyes,
And another, then another, and
An unlimited number of them;
All driving to some point, all
Having a fibrous network of other lives
Intertwined with theirs,
All believing that indeed,
The world does surround--
No, that the world does spin
In a neat circle around them.

I sit here, inconspicuous
On a balcony overseeing them all,
Knowing that the world does
Not revolve around me, nor
The man cleaning the grime
From the parking garage floor,
Nor the woman cleaning
Invisible dust from the windows
Of the office building across the street.

She is in her world, in a still
And silent boardroom, surrounded
By her thoughts, busy in her work.
There is no thread between us,
Only panes of glass now, and
The static of a city beyond them.
Back indoors, the static seeps in,
But perhaps she cannot hear
Over the static of her own thoughts
The hum of living; silent and deafening.

Roadies

Hi. My name is J'Non, and I'm a roadie:



It's official, since we just purchased a couple of road bikes last Sunday from a local bike shop to replace the mountain bikes which have been taking us sweating and wheezing over hill and dale for the last year. We are retiring my old bike to Northern pastures, and I'm using David's Trek to run errands here in town, since it's still in good shape and is more comfortable for short jaunts.

The newies (nod to Aaron Blue for the neologism) are Specialized brand, Allez models, which is pronounced like "Allay". Mine is an Allez Double, which is so much of an upgrade from the bike I was riding that I cannot truly express my joy at the changes. It rides "like buttah." Oh, yeah.

Since they were out of his size in the Double, David got a discount for an upgrade, the Elite, which has a bit more carbon fiber for a softer ride and slightly better hardware all around.



I'm gonna be honest, I had my heart set on the bike designed for girly sensibilities--the Dolce, which was yellow and white with flowers on the frame and seat. Sigh. It was very pretty. But, unlike most women, I do not have a compact torso. I'm of above-average height, at 5'9" and my proportions are much better suited to men's frames. No flowers for me. But I've decided that I will probably live over this injustice, and I do love my bike.

We rode about 17 miles for our first trip and felt the vast differences in the aerodynamics, the energy economy of using these gears and skinny road tires. The seats take a little getting used to--they are...ahh...firm. I'll have to check the specs again to make sure, but I think they are made out of granite. This is why you buy those bike shorts with the padding in the rear. We don't yet have these, so we have some very bruised rear-ends instead. But hey, the air conditioning is great when you're in a tuck, snacking on your handlebars down a steep hill between 30 and 40mph. A little bruising on the old caboose is totally worth it.

We definitely shaved about 25% off of our previous time, and weren't even totally exhausted when we got home. We'll be trying to increase our stamina and speed so that we can ride with a local group on Sunday mornings. They leave at 6:30 am and go about 34 miles, averaging about 15 mph with no rest stops. These group rides are organized by the shop where we purchased the bikes--Rockwall Cycling. It's a fun place--the people working there are really knowledgeable and passionate about bikes and cycling. You get a sense that they are genuinely excited for you that you are getting this awesome opportunity to ride decent bikes. Welcome to the biking club--it's gonna be a good run.

I love the camaraderie of people who bike. And the calf muscles. You take a few steps into the biking world and you'll start to pick up on the humor, the culture, and the love. And the opportunity for developing amazing calf muscles. You'll see a twinkle in the eyes of those who say with obvious joy, "I'm a roadie," like Kamps, the stocky, athletically-built manager of Rockwall Cycling. He's a Rockwall local who, as of July 2007, does not even own a car. He cycles wherever he needs to go, and probably has a more pleasant daily commute than most people I know. I commented to him that it must be liberating to not have a car payment, and his eyes lit up as he said "And no insurance!" I'm right there with ya, Kamps. Say on, brother.

Tall, cyclist-thin, and twenty-something, Tyler is the sales guy who sold us the bikes, fitted us for them, and answered the million questions we had along the way. He usually commutes about 20 miles to work in Rockwall from Plano on a big bike with fat tires. He says it takes him about an hour each way, which is pretty amazing, considering it takes me about 40 minutes to get to Plano by car. I stole the "snacking on your handlebars" phrase from him without remorse.

I'm thinking that the shop must have a shower facility in the back, because for all this physical commuting, these guys look awfully fresh and squeaky clean. I know what I look like after cycling for 17 miles, and it's not anything that should ever face the public. I'm usually red-faced from exertion for an hour or so afterward, and the sheer volume of sweat is pretty spectacular compared to any other form of exercise I've ever tried. This is not for people who need to look like they have it together. The pictures I included earlier in the post are taken only about 1/4 of the way into our ride. For honesty's sake, I should probably include one of the end of the trip if my vanity will allow it. We'll see.

Farewell, Trans Am

We sold the Batmobile last week, courtesy of a Craigslist posting, and I feel that a farewell is now in order.


Though we will miss the sounds of your snarly exhaust, the adventure of your racing suspension, and the wind and gnats in our hair from the open T-tops, we know that you will have many years of adventures ahead of you in Finland. Perhaps even now you are on a huge boat, sailing across the seas to your new home--a place where your beauty and American muscle will be appreciated even more for its rarity.

Do not cry, dear. You will need your wiper fluid for removing the remains of the numerous Finnish insects that you will exterminate with blunt force trauma by your gleaming brow. Even now, these insects are gamboling about the Finnish countryside and mocking with abandon the teeny cars which swish quietly along the highways. Cheer up, Love--how many of your friends can say that they've flattened Finnish bugs? Hmm? This is the adventure of a lifetime! Bon Voyage!