When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief

“When the tears are coming, take my handkerchief.” Jurgen Moltmann, 89, a highly respected theologian in Germany, wrote these words in a letter, in which he enclosed a white handkerchief. The letter went to Kelly Gissendaner, who lives in Georgia, and who thought it was the most touching gift she had received in a very long time. Moltmann understands tears. As a young man during World War II, he joined Hitler’s army and later spent 3 years in a British POW camp, where he had much time to reflect on his country’s crimes and the horror of the Holocaust. His remorse was so great, he reported later, that he wished he had died on the battlefield. He began to read the Bible, and later said that Christ found him during this prison term, which was an “existential experience of healing our wounded souls.”

It’s not surprising that Moltmann and Gissendaner made a powerful connection. Kelly read his work in a theological studies program for women prisoners. She found his writings--especially The Theology of Hope--to be a powerful catalyst in her own healing. Kelly, who is 47 years old, has been on death row for 18 years. She was convicted of convincing her lover to murder her husband in 1997, a crime she has expressed deep remorse for. “I lost all judgment,” she wrote in her petition for clemency earlier this year. “I will never understand how I let myself fall into such evil, but I have learned firsthand that no one, not even me, is beyond redemption through God’s grace and mercy”.

Tonight, though I’m alone in my cabin, sitting at my computer,  I feel part of vigils taking place throughout the country, particularly outside the prison where Kelly will be executed if her last appeal fails. Earlier today the Georgia Board of Pardons and Paroles held another clemency hearing. It ended with another rejection of her petition to change her sentence to life in prison—despite a last-minute appeal from Pope Francis. He  had asked the board “to commute the sentence to one that would better express both justice and mercy.” Hours after that decision, Kelly’s three children and many other supporters wait and hope and pray.

I’m not sure why Kelly’s story touches me so deeply. It’s not a matter of having my religious beliefs validated.Though I have a Catholic background, I am no longer a part of a Christian institution or community.  I describe myself as a secular Buddhist—again, not part of a sangha (group of practitioners), but a lover of the Eightfold Path nonetheless. Like many Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists, I do think there is a great power in forgiveness and recognition of the human ability to heal, change and grow. Kelly’s story, which I first read in the news earlier this year, is an illustration of this. She graduated from the theology program in 2011—Moltmann attended the ceremony—and she has since counseled many other women prisoners, making a difference in their lives. No one disputes this.

Nor is my strong interest in Kelly’s story a result of direct experience with the US death penalty system. Yet, somehow the existence of the death penalty horrifies me in a way I can’t quite explain. No doubt it’s partly the idea of state-sanctioned premeditated murder. Tonight it feels like an armed stalker is on the loose and most likely cannot be stopped. Sister Helen Prejean, whose work was portrayed in the film Dead Man Walking, likens the process to a freeze-frame. “The state is freeze-framed in killing.”

During the past year, I’ve learned much from the Coloradans for Alternatives to the Death Penalty Foundation (CADP), which hopes to make Colorado one of the growing number of states that ban capital punishment. Already 19 states have done so, and others retain it without using it. There are about 3000 inmates on death row in the US and about 40 are executed every year. A handful of states are responsible for most of the executions. There is much evidence that the death penalty is unfair and ineffective. Since DNA testing became available, 330 prisoners have been exonerated, 20 of whom were on death row, according to The Innocence Project. As CADP asserts, “Colorado’s death penalty is a failed public policy that is beyond repair. The death penalty risks the lives of the innocent, exacts a huge toll on the families of murder victims, traumatizes the guards and wardens forced to perform executions in our names, is unfairly applied, and costs millions in taxpayer dollars.”

With the growth of the anti-death-penalty movement, I wonder how far we can be from a time when the U.S. joins the long list of countries which have banned capital punishment (140). That time will probably not be in time for Kelly Gissandaner. It's now past midnight in Georgia, and the latest CNN report says a new execution time has not been set. The last appeal—centering on the concept of proportionality—is still pending. There is still hope, faint as it might be. If and when the State of Georgia executes her, as they will likely do soon, I hope she will have the white handkerchief from Jurgen Moltmann, along with the certain knowledge that she is loved and has lived well. For her mourners, the tears and the struggle will continue.

Yoga and flowers at Paradise Gardens

The season turned this past week, officially shifting from summer to fall on the calendar—a process that started much earlier and still continues, as colors turn and temperatures drop. I’m enjoying both, while at the same time, taking out summer memories, like smooth stones in a pocket. Today I’m turning over one of my favorites—visits to Paradise Gardens here in Florissant. Here I love to indulge two of my passions—garden appreciation and yoga.

Paradise Gardens is the name of the home and garden of Karen Anderson and her husband, Mike McCartney. They’ve been living on this forested land for 38 years. For the first 18 years, they lived in a small house, without electricity or running water—an accomplishment that Thoreau would certainly acknowledge and applaud if he visited our consumer-driven century. Karen started small with gardening, planting in a space that is now her herb garden.

Over time, the cabin and amenities developed, and Karen brought their high altitude acres into bloom. She’s known locally as “The Plant Lady”—deservedly so, as gardening is her passion. She has shared her knowledge and plants with just about everyone who consults her about growing stuff in rocky soil at 9000 feet. Would-be gardeners can attend a class, phone for an appointment or come to one of her open houses. My first visit was a couple of years ago during the annual greenhouse tour sponsored by the The Harvest Center. I was totally charmed from the moment I stepped onto her winding paths.

There are structures too, including a small shed, where Karen displays her artwork as well as plants. 

Raised beds contain outdoor plants, and a greenhouse is essential for extending the short growing season here.

For Karen, gardening involves much practical attention to the needs of plants—location, soil, nourishment. It’s also a spiritual practice. She’s approaches her work with awareness of The Great Law—or seven-generation concept. “Plant it Forward”, in other words. Basically that means thinking about how our actions will affect others—and the planet—through the next seven generations. Accordingly, that means gardening nature’s way, without the use of chemical pesticides or fertilizers, focusing on organic ways to build the soil and conserve moisture. 

Karen’s spiritual orientation also drew her to yoga. Her long-time friend, Debbie Winking, teaches yoga classes locally. I attend them as often as I can during the summer. At least a couple of times during the season—often at the full or new moon—they have a yoga day (or eve) at the gardens. Participants come from Debbie’s classes and the number is usually small—10 or fewer. That allows us to gather around the pond (a converted satellite dish) or in open spots on the lawn, where we lay our mats. My last visit was in August, the evening full moon. In July we stretched one morning under the sun after introductions and a sharing circle.

Yoga outdoors feels special. So many things do, but a practice designed to promote relaxation and gratitude feels, well, especially special. Science backs up that common experience.  Beautiful scenery stimulates those pleasure-enhancing endorphins in our brains. Ester Sternberg, in her book Healing Spaces: The Science of Place and Well-being (Harvard University Press, 2009), asserts that touching green or a sandy beach produces even more stimulation, which in turn promotes healing.

At our yoga sessions, Debbie reminds us that standing barefoot on uneven ground helps with balance—an important component of yoga practice for so many of us. Standing in the Tree Pose, I realize that my balance is not nearly as good as I want it to be. I vow to do this more often. 

Sometimes evening yoga events are rained out, but this August we were lucky. No drops at all, as we saw the moon rise, glimpsing its travels as we continued stretching or holding poses. The evening ended with our going inside Karen and Mike’s comfortable home for tea and snacks and conversation. Then came my 40-minute ride back home through the darkness, keeping an eye on the moon and all attention on the road and deer-inhabited roadside. A yoga mind was essential for that.

This photo, taken in 2014, shows Debbie (left) and Karen holding Buttons, her canine companion. 

Writing this September day in 2015, I turn that yoga day memory stone over in my mental pocket, thinking back with gratitude and forward with hopes for another season of yoga and flowers next year.

Toys weRen't Us

One thing about entering early old age is the realization that your childhood was a very long time ago—well over half a century. Like most memories, it eventually fades into a series of moments, snapshots of times connected to salient emotions, usually happening in summer. I was a lucky kid, with many happy mental snapshots to muse over now. I grew up in the 50’s, in Hammond, Indiana, a satellite city of Chicago. My parents moved there when I was 5. They bought a small house with a front and back yard, and in an era of free-range parenting as the norm, I spent most of the summer outdoors. My sister, Joanie, was almost 6 years younger, so I remember hanging out mostly with other little girls my age who lived across the street from me.

When I heard that the History Colorado Center in Denver was holding a Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit this year, I wasn’t sure it would be all that relevant. What I remember more than toys were activities. During my first 10 years of life, I jumped rope, rode my bike, roller skated, played hop scotch, splashed in an inflatable kids’ pool, spent hours searching for 4-leaf clover or watching grasshoppers on the fence, took our dog Ginger for walks, twirled my hula hoop, or poured sand in the sandbox. On hot summer days, my mom would turn the sprinkler on and Eileen and I would run through it. Here we are, with me trying to make a funny face that turned into a grimace, yet I was having just as much fun as my friend. When I was older I played badminton in Cheryl’s backyard across the street, regrettably the only sport I practiced.

I did have some toys, however. When I was very young, I had this baby doll. 

Other dolls came later, though I don’t remember being that obsessed with them, except during a paper-doll phase. For the most part, I enjoyed being a little tomboy.

Of course, you could say my hula hoop and jump rope were toys. Both of these icons are now in the National Toy Hall of Fame. In addition, I had Tinker Toys, jacks, pick-up sticks, marbles, and a yoyo, plus various games such as playing cards, Chinese checkers, Cootie, and Mr. Potatohead. So yes, I had reason to go to the History Colorado exhibit last month to see what childhood memories might be teased out. The exhibit is divided into decades. As I walked in, I re-entered the 50s and was entranced. For my readers who also grew up in the 50s, take a look at these images:

Cootie—still selling into the early 21st century(!)—is a roll and move tabletop game, where chance not skill rules. In 2003 it was added to the Toy Industry Association’s Century of Toys list—a list of the “100 most memorable and creative toys” of the 20th century.

Paper dolls were offered in McCall’s magazine each month, and many other cut-out books followed.

The hula hoop, a product of the late 50s, is definitely a crossover—from century to century, from child to adult. Wikipedia has a fascinating account of the postmodern revival of this toy with ancient roots. In this photo, I was more like the girl in the center, swiveling my hips inside just one hoop.

Special mention goes to this one: Mr. Potato Head. Special because it was the first toy marketed directly to children through TV ads; that was in 1952. Though the admen were rank amateurs compared to their counterparts today, it worked. Millions were sold (at 98 cents each) in the first year. I had one of the early versions, which required me to get a real potato from my mom. Later the kit came with a plastic body and parts conforming to toy safety regulations of the early 60s.

Were yesterday’s toys better or equal to the toys of today, produced in far more colors, with  far more sophisticated bells and whistles? It’s tempting to say yes. A friend who teaches pre-schoolers says classic toys were good for kids because they were simple; they only did one thing. We were required to manipulate them ourselves, using our imagination. That seems true enough, as the list of award-winners in the National Toy Hall of Fame confirm the value of many. Criteria for induction include icon status, longevity, discovery, and innovation.” Some of my favorites among the inductees: marbles, Monopoly, the Duncan yoyo, Tinker Toys, Etch a Sketch, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head, the jigsaw puzzle, Checkers, the cardboard box, and playing cards.

However, looking back, we can see that the 50s were not toy paradise—at least not for everyone. As the History Colorado exhibit points out, there was no concept of “culturally sensitive” toys. Cowboy and Indian games were prevalent—with all of the stereotypes reflected in the Westerns shown on TV. (I confess I loved many of those shows, especially the singing cowboy, Gene Autry, as well as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.) 

I like to think my stereotypes of Native Americans were at least positive ones. After a Wisconsin family vacation when I was 10, I became fascinated with moccasins, deerskin dresses, and the long black hair on an Indian doll my parents bought me. 

Only one black-skinned doll was marketed during this era. In 1949 Florida businesswoman Sara Lee Creech wanted to make a doll that promoted positive images of African-Americans among children of all races. She had watched a group of black kids playing with white dolls and thought they should have other choices. Her efforts drew praise from many, including author Zora Neale Hurston and former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.  Unfortunately, the doll did not sell well and there was also a problem with the materials used. But for a time (until 1953), parents could order one from the Sears catalog for $6.95. In those days, no one talked about gender stereotyping either. Fortunately, my doll stage pre-dated hyper-feminine Barbie, and my literary heroine—the intrepid sleuth Nancy Drew—never dressed as a princess. 

Today parents have thousands of choices in Toys R Us or other retail shops—with higher price tags, of course—but also with far more sophisticated materials and technology. Not to mention electronics. (Anyone remember the first electronic toy? Yes, “Simon” in 1978!) Are kids today engaged in more complex ways than we were? Do they have more fun? Do they feel more frustrated because their parents  can’t afford the toys they see advertised? Do they tend to be more or less active? Are they totally spoiled because there are fewer kids and more doting relatives? Do they see accurate representations of gender or ethnicity in the toys they receive? I’d love to hear your opinions, no matter how partial.

I make no judgment about the toys of the 21st century, as I haven’t shopped for toys in a long while. Such a profusion of choices would probably make me dizzy if I entered a store. For assessments of value, we might just have to wait for the test of time—the Toy of Fame inductees of the future.

If you’re in or near Denver, try to catch the Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit before it closes October 4.

Leaving on the hummingbird highway

There are only two hummingbirds remaining near the cabin today. They made brief visits to one of my two feeders and now-scraggly hanging basket of flowers. This scene is a far cry from a week or so ago, when resident broadtails were crowding the feeders, draining them in a day. They were getting ready to migrate, and now most of them have, flying off on their long journey to the central highlands of Mexico, where they’ll spend the winter. It seems so quiet. During the summer, when I slept with windows open, I woke up to their chirping/whistling/buzzing as they began to soak up sugar-water carbohydrates before a morning of insect-catching. Now if I want to hear their distinctive sound, I’ll have to go online for a brief recording; until, that is, they and I return next spring.

Next spring, they’ll be here first, at least the males will, searching for a territory. They arrive in Florissant in early May. Hardy little birds, as snow is not uncommon in the high country in May. I’ll probably arrive a few weeks to a month later. I too will migrate this fall—north to Denver, where I’ve had a small apartment since last fall. Though I enjoy city life very much, I truly love this country cabin nest, where I spent most of this summer. The hummers’ departure reminds me that I’ll be leaving soon too—a bit later, though, probably mid-October.

For me and the broadtails—which among all hummingbird species live at the highest elevation—summer at 8700 feet (2650 meters) provides a perfect habitat. There are nectar-filled wildflowers and a small cottonwood grove—food and proper nesting shelter for them, and lots of beauty for me. Wildflowers were plentiful this year due the above-average spring rainfall, but even in years when they aren’t, the returning hummers can count on a network of human servants who run up a shocking sugar tab at the supermarket on their behalf.

Though I’d love to have a true scientific mind, I don’t. Mornings, coffee cup in hand, I’ll watch the birds at the feeder, admiring their beautiful colors—the metallic blue-green of the females’ backs and the bright red gorget (think gorgeous) of the males, sparkling in the sun.

Here’s an illustration of a male and female by Arthur Singer from The Life of the Hummingbird (A.F. Skutch, 1973).

After watching these birds for awhile, likely as not, I’ll then cross the living room to watch the clouds through the sliding glass doors or head out to the greenhouse or go on a walk with Linda and her dogs. In the early evening, I do pretty much the same kind of viewing, as likely as not, as the broadtails arrive to fuel their metabolism for a cool night in torpor at high altitude. 

By scientific mind, I mean curiosity, passion for learning, observational skills, and patience. To the extent that I have those qualities, they show up in other areas. Fortunately, there are many bird lovers, trained scientists and citizen-scientists who have contributed knowledge I would most likely never discover on my own.

One of the first studies to support the idea that a hummer can eat twice its weight in sugar every day, was done by Althea R. Sherman. In 1907, from her doorway in Iowa, she trained free ruby throats to drink a sugar solution placed in an artificial flower. Measuring carefully, she found that a single bird drank syrup containing from 4.5 to 5.8 grams of sugar. She misjudged the average weight of a bird, however, leading to what was later shown to be an overestimate. Years later another experimenter found that a bird could drink twice its weight in syrup, but less than half its weight in pure sugar. 

During the height of my hummers’ feeding frenzy, I wondered if I were creating sugar addicts, like encouraging teenagers to gulp soda instead of water or juice. Fortunately, experts have dispelled that fear. According to the popular website, hummingbird net, a solution of 1 part sugar to 4 parts water is very similar to the sucrose content of nectar. Even more reassuring was the fact that ordinary white sugar—the bane of human health—is the best choice for hummers. Turbadino, a kind of raw sugar sold in health food stores, may contain a toxic level of iron, while honey ferments too rapidly.

Scientists have learned a lot about gender in hummingbird life also. Female broadtails spend most of their nesting time incubating and then feeding their (usually) single clutch of two eggs. Once hatched, the helpless nestlings need frequent attention before they’re able to fly away 21-26 days later. My broadtail females are definitely “sistuhs doin’ it for themselves”, as males make no pair bonds with them and play no part in chick-rearing. The males’ summer is spent in guarding their feeding territory.  They’re known for their dazzling displays during mating, when 2—3 males form a group called a lek and fly in loops through the air. Females make their choices and mating commences. As the females enter motherhood, the males continue trying to mate with other females. Who is the most successful? I wonder. Most aggressive? Prettiest gorget? Surely there’s a study somewhere that answers that question.

I should mention that I have other summer visitors in addition to the Broadtails. Rufous hummers show up at my feeders in early July. 

They’re known as an aggressive species, seeming bullies who try to dominate the feeders. I hate to speak badly of a bird, but….by July I’ve bonded with my innocent broadtails and find myself feeling quite hostile to the newcomers. I’m not sorry that they’re the first to leave as summer slips by. Scientific migration studies have given me some respect for them, however. They nest as far north as Alaska (!), migrating south, and then continuing on south after their summer stay here—adding up to the longest range of any of the more than 300 identified hummingbird species. Most of them live in the tropics and all are native only to the Western Hemisphere.

Most of the hummers spending the summer here are well on their way to Mexico now. I trust my two stragglers will feel the same hormonal/seasonal tug very soon, as signs of fall are already here—aspens turning gold and night temperatures dipping into the 40sF. According to Bill and Ella Thompson of Enjoying Hummingbirds More (1992), “At least one species of hummingbird is likely to fly over any garden in any state in the US or in southern Canada”. That comforts me as I think of “my” hummers on their aerial highway. Perhaps they have a network, a kind of overground railroad of backyard feeders, familiar to the older birds who’ve made the journey before. I hope so. Their August nectar-guzzling here won’t be enough to get them through the whole trip. Incidentally, hummers live an average of 3–4 years, although a 12-year-old banded broadtail was once observed in Colorado. That’s the current age record.

Later this month The Third Annual International Hummingbird and Birds of Guanajuato will be held in Mexico, in San Miguel de Allende in the State of Guanajuato. There will be festival events for the public in this city where I had the good fortune to sojourn for some extended time during two recent winters. I wish I could be there this year, if only to see the surprise on the tiny faces of any of “my” birds in the vicinity :). There will also be a conference of scholars and students ready to report their latest findings. That’s another comfort—that with human impacts on habitat everywhere, there are scientists and conservation activists monitoring the situation. 

Broadtail hummingbirds are not endangered at this point. With the growth in citizen science and the availability of online data bases, information is emerging that birds are adaptable, perhaps more than we thought. For example, a recent study showed that calliope hummers have been sighted 350 miles off their traditional migration routes. In The Human Age (2014), Diane Ackerman notes an Audubon Society study finding that roughly half of 305 North American birds are wintering 35 miles north of where they wintered 40 years ago.

With my own upcoming migration in mind, I’ve already started making notes for next year, when I hope to spend, once again, much of the summer here at Little Horse. More hummer-friendly flowers near the cabin, for one thing. Meanwhile, I’ll continue to read. One of the most interesting sites I’ve found is birdwatching bliss. It’s maintained by Sonia, an avian scientist who lost her full-time employment in a budget cut. (Fortunately, her husband kept his.) Working part-time as a wildlife technician now, she’s put her passion into this website, which offers concise, up-to-date information about many different birds. Perhaps by next year I’ll be a little closer to having a scientific mind after all.

A conversation with author Joanne Greenberg

Monday was a special day for me and other friends in the Guffey Library Book Club. We had a special guest, writer Joanne Greenberg and her husband Albert. Traveling from their home in Golden, they have been coming to Guffey every year for several years now. Last year’s plans fell through, though, so we were all anticipating this year’s visit. It was special for another reason: Joanne and Albert were celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary and we wanted to join the celebration. Here they are before we cut the cake, icing to an excellent potluck lunch and lots of talk about books and reading.

I first heard of Joanne's writing under her own name in the mid-80s when In This Sign was published in paperback. That novel explored the dynamics of a deaf couple and their hearing daughter, a story told from multiple viewpoints. Despite my having a deaf cousin, it was my first real entry into deaf culture and I learned a lot from it. A check of reviews on Goodreads shows it’s still being read and sometimes assigned in sign language classes.

Joanne, now 83, continued to write—both short stories and novels. One Publishers Weekly reviewer called her “a shrewd observer of human nature and societal differences”. That can be seen clearly in No Reck’Ning (1993), set in post-World War II Colorado. It’s the story of Clara, a young woman from an abusive home who pursued her dream to be a teacher, succeeds, and then encounters conflict with a powerful, wealthy parent. A very positive Library School Journal review, said “Young adults will be intimately involved with Clara’s struggle to succeed”.  However, Joanne told us matter-of-factly, “It sank without a trace” in sales, and “my publisher has rejected me ever since.”

Nevertheless, Joanne continues to write, and to me, her ability to be a “shrewd observer” of human behavior and cultures is still up front and center. At our gathering Monday, we talked about some unpublished works she had sent us. She read two of them aloud.  "Geography" concerns the loss experienced by a long-time rural woman who no longer knows the local geography because she no longer knows people on once-familiar roads. "Diversity" uses the loss of an expensive ring as the focus on class differences between a working class narrator and a rich neighbor.

Is she working on something now? Yes. She teaches Biblical Judaism classes and is writing an article about the dynamics of conversion. “Judaism is a strange religion,” she explained. “It makes no promises about the future. Things that Christians look for are not religious issues for us.” She’s also working on a book about “what happens when people are cut off by an avalanche.”

Joanne’s interest in what I think of as “elemental things”, as well as in psychology and cross-cultural encounters is evident in her book recommendations. One long-time favorite of hers is Devil in the White City (2003) by Erik Larson. It juxtaposes the history of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair with an account of a serial killer. Excellent book, but one that still haunts me, as I have a low tolerance for psychological terror. Given that predisposition, I will probably not add Kitty Genovese: the Murder, the Bystanders, and the Crime that Changed America (2015). But I can trust that Joanne knows a good story when she sees it. I’ll look up the reviews for the author’s take on bystander behavior, which I’m curious about, and read about what really happened on the night of this 1964 murder that really did shock America.

Two other recommendations, both dealing with wolves in some way, interest me:

1. Wolf Totem (2008) by Jiang Rong. This bestseller in China is based on the author’s experience of going to the Mongolian Steppes as a young boy and living with the nomadic Mongols during the Cultural Revolution. As one Goodreads reviewer noted, “What matters most to (the) story are the depictions of the untamed steppe,” which “does not passively give what human life needs, but everything must be taken from it.” The story details how the Red Guards tried to “push back the last of the wolf hordes, threatening to destroy this way of life forever.”

2.  Ordinary Wolves (2005) by Seth Kantner. Again, a reviewer who gave it 5 stars puts it succinctly: “This book is a stunningly honest and unsentimental look at contemporary life in Alaska. The book touches on big issues (racism, loss of wilderness, alcoholism), but it is fundamentally a coming of age story (semi-autobiographical, I think) about a white boy whose father drops out of the mainstream to raise his three children in a sod igloo in a remote part of Alaska. It is beautifully written, and will stay with you for a long time.”

She had other recommendations too—The Jew in the Lotus and Reading Lolita in Tehran, for example. She would have had more had she not forgotten to bring her notebook of copious notes on everything she’s read this year. (She’s promised to send them to us.)

Shifting to talk about our favorite reads, Joanne was not shy about expressing her dislikes as well as likes. The author Sue Monk Kidd came up. She wrote the modern classic, Secret Life of Bees, which I loved, thinking it should be on every high school reading list. Joanne’s reaction? “I nearly died of sugar poisoning.” The discussion moved on to Jane Eyre and the 19th century. Joanne: “The gothic novels (pause). The men had the IQs of grapes.”  Wuthering Heights: “It was the best book when I read it at 15, but later… “These people needed jobs.”

The afternoon progressed. It was past 3. We cut the cake, wishing Joanne and Albert more years of happy marriage. Book club friends packed up their potluck leftovers, perhaps, like me, content--but wanting to go home and read something before dinner.

Summer stroll among the trees

There are few trees on Little Horse. A dozen still-small evergreens planted by Linda when she first moved here and a small grove of established cottonwood trees. I regretted that sparseness when I first started to live here, but came to appreciate it later, especially when wildfires came uncomfortably close to us one summer, not to mention realizing the preference of bears for tree cover. However, I love trees and sometimes just need to get up close and personal. An excellent place to do that is the forested property across the road.

Sunday was a cool, sunny day, ideal for a stroll there. It’s one of the most beautiful properties on the road, full of Ponderosas, my favorite pine tree. From the road, you can walk up an incline with a perfectly framed view of the south end of 11-Mile Reservoir, which functions as a kind of “borrowed scenery”. This photo shows the view from the top of the incline.

There’s a cabin on the land too, built by Leonard, who has passed away. His grown children own it now. They come for getaways from the city as often as they can, and in the interim, Linda and I try to keep an eye on it for them. We usually do that by walking the dogs there some mornings.

On Sunday I went on my own, to stretch my legs and enjoy the scent of the Ponderosas. Summer sun on pine needles produces an aroma that brings me back to my first days in Colorado in the late 70s. I think I fell in love with the mountains of Colorado at least partly through that aroma.

On this visit I left the path to the cabin and headed to a small grove, where I simply listened to the wind blow through the trees—a blissful sound—and watched a mountain bluebird flit from branch to ground to branch. I channeled Thoreau for awhile, especially the sentiment behind this quote describing some of his summer mornings: “I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise 'til noon, rapt in a revery…in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around…(until) I was reminded of the lapse of time.”

I didn’t stay all morning; can't remember the last time I let myself lose track of time, actually.  But I wondered why I hadn’t done this more often. I vowed to return as much as possible, without the dogs as well as with them. I came on my own today—this quiet Tuesday before Labor Day, when the reservoir, a state park popular with campers and fishing boats, will draw a lot of visitors. Once again without dog company, I returned to my favorite sitting spot. Again, the weather was sunny and perfectly cool. Taking deep breaths, I felt my limited scent-sniffing human nose was quite adequate for pine aromatherapy. I sat down on the same lichen-covered stone to see, hear and inhale. A few buzzing dragonflies, a noisy raven, distant sound of the road grader, sun through branches, the familiar scent of the Ponderosas. Those moments were so calming—a feeling Thoreau well understood: “Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.”

Here’s a photo of my spot. Wish it were a video to show the interplay of light and breeze.

Moving away, I walked through the trees and noticed a Native American medicine tree. There's at least one other near the path, and they’re not uncommon in this area, once home to four different Native American tribes. They’re plentiful because Ponderosas were one of the most useful trees around for indigenous people. The inner bark was a highly nutritious food, which could be eaten raw, baked, dropped into stews or peeled and dried. The bark and sap were also used as a medicine and waterproofing material.

This photo shows the scar on this CMT (“culturally-modified tree” in the language of archeologists.) I prefer medicine tree, reminding me how previous inhabitants were nourished by this land.

Aspen trees haven’t started to turn colors yet, but the first signs of fall are already here. Glancing down, I found this a pleasing arrangement.

Finally I reached a sunny clearing where the pine aroma was even stronger, and I could hear more bird song in the trees on the other side. On my “must do” list for next summer is to spend more time observing and listening to birds. My bird ID skills are embarrassingly low—perhaps a reflection of some general disinterest in the task of naming or plain old laziness. Some, though, are just so obvious, like mountain bluebirds and ravens. And hawks. Looking up, I saw this one flying overhead.

One of the great advantages of coming to the high Colorado country in the summer is the relative lack of mosquitoes, especially after the summer monsoons are gone and there are fewer standing puddles of water. Not a single buzzing insect found me today, and I regretted I hadn’t brought a book and a blanket.

Not able to lose track of time, I got up after a short while and wandered back home across the road, feeling refreshed, slightly hungry, and inspired to write this. I thought of Thoreau, who had these experiences too, and who left his viewing spot, at some point, to make lunch.