Wood and Water

 Wood & Water

I've noticed that the majority of visitors to this blog come to read the entry "A Building Lifestyle," about building my kayak, "Hei Matau."  There have been readers from Sweden, New England, India, Eastern Europe, Indonesia, and Nanaimo, British Columbia, just to name a few far-flung places. Of all of the things I've built or studied in the area of woodworking, boats have been for me the most fascinating and compelling. By comparison, a fine piece of furniture, or an artfully appointed room using various trim and moulding is satisfying work, and I've spent time doing that. 

A boat, though, has so many mesmerizing elements. One is just the visual beauty of curvilinear vessels. Smooth and sweeping lines, dynamic even when sitting still, the eye is drawn to study them. The nature of these shapes keeps you guessing, tricking your sense of perspective. If you've ever photographed boats you know that the two dimensional image leaves a lot to be desired. A false image is common, leaving a long and lithe craft looking stubby or even cock-eyed. Length is elusive to guage, and finding a good viewing angle is difficult. With lines vanishing from view, tapering and curving inward, lifting and terminating, it's easy to be fooled about the real proportions. 

Viking reproduction being built in Roskilde, Denmark

The idea that static wood, milled from the forest, then coaxed into shape by your hands, can soon carry you away over water, is a hugely appealing element. Seeing that the wood still lives, and reacts to the watery environment, is part of the process. They say that an astute cabinetmaker makes a poor boatwright; making joints too close and tight, illiterate about the kind of behavior to expect in the life of a boat. From baby Moses in a reed boat, to Joshua Slocum sailing around the world, the adventure and freedom to traverse water is a siren song, even to those who haven't tried it. Lore and literature is full when it comes to boats. To go from just swimming, to navigating a floating craft, is a great leap in potential. You can carry things. You might stay mostly dry. Water denizens don't trouble you as much. You can go far; travel alone or with a crew. The privilege of inhabiting a space not meant for our ambulating mode of movement feels almost like a transit to another planet. 

For me, a long ocean journey is less a draw than near-shore or lakeside adventures. Experiencing the motion of the water, a gliding sensation of speed, wind, the altered view, all rank high. Exploring inlets or cliff-bound shorelines makes for an outing you couldn't accomplish any other way. (Being able to quickly come ashore in bad weather another plus.)

There is the actual construction of the thing to make an admirer out of you. The shape and form of a boat makes for special challenges. Beauty arises from working to make a hydrodynamic hull, not from flourishes just meant to impress.  The language of boatbuilding is succintly described with the word "fair."  There may be some rectilinear constructions in furniture or homebuilding that can successfully rely on repeated components for length and width, coming out well again and again.  But a boatbuilder reserves a part of the process for using the eye, more than just taking off dimensions from a blueprint. Rote cutting and laying up of predetermined planks is not something you can expect to do successfully. Instead there is lining off as you go, letting your eye judge the curvature that the frame and the bending planks are expressing moment to moment. Being influenced and guided by the results as they appear. Although there are parameters designed into a hull as to number of planks and their general width being defined by carefully placed ribbands on a building form, so much depends on whether the trial fit in front of you is "fair" to the eye; and so you make adjustments until it is.  Especially where curves terminate at stem or stern. 

Growing up, our family lived on the west coast of North America near San Francisco, and then for a time on Pacific Islands. In the East Bay, I remember the creaking sound of seagulls along the shoreline, and seeing marinas full of sailboats. I didn't learn to swim until I was ten.  My motivation was to be able to take sailing lessons. After passing my swim test, I then spent a few weeks on Lake Merritt, learning to duck under the boom of a little Sunfish, coming about, waiting to capsize, which never happened. That was the extent of my lessons, as we moved and I didn't keep up with it. In the islands, I remember the first time I was aboard a good-sized sailboat, the captain belonged to our cycling club and had crossed an ocean or two. We sailed out far enough to lose sight of land. That was a moment of commitment, trusting the captain to find land again. When Diamond Head reappeared, some of us stopped holding our breath. So, I am a near-shore boater, I find. 

Anyway, I don't have a maritime resume, and I'm not a sailor.  But woodworking has been a big part of my life, and as part of that I've devoted many hours to exploring the craft of boatbuilding. Even though I've lately spent years landlocked in the Rocky Mountain West, always on the lookout for a quiet lake without a surfeit of motorized craft. 

Recently, I took a trip to Maine, and I was struck by how completely familiar it all seemed to me. I've spent years poring over Woodenboat magazine, reading about Pete Culler, or Nathanial Herreshoff, 

and taking in boatbuilder Tom Hill's words about 'gunkholing,' as I built an example of one of his lightweight canoes. Numerous other windows into the 'Downeast' lifestyle came to me as I stood on a hill looking over Camden, or looking out to sea from Owl's Head. Weaving along the coast in a car or on a bicycle, the ever-present shoreline and the sound and smell of the sea seemed so familiar, so dejà vu, though I had never been to these places. Almost everywhere, even at the end of the season, boats and fishing and a lifestyle of living near the sea were prominent. 

Even my time spent living on a Hawaiian island, surrounded by 3,000 miles of ocean, did not feel so bound to the sea as did these small coastal towns, with their fishing boats, lighthouses, boatyards, and lobster traps. Perhaps my own distraction with school and work kept me from feeling such a connection. Sadly the lack of a strong traditional sense of the sea may have been because seafaring has been eclipsed by the frantic tourist trade. Most visitors arrive by plane now. The beautiful Pacific islands are certainly historic for seafaring tradition. That Polynesian navigators and sailors found the islands in the first place looms large, these sailors arriving without modern navigational tools but in possession of truly canny knowledge of stars, currents, and myriad other signs of the sea.  An odd memory I have is of the carved and painted wooden sailors found in Lahaina, Maui; from traditional carving styles brought by colonial sailors in the 1800's. Anglo, white-bearded, smoking a pipe. They look just like a sea-captain statue you would see in an east-coast seafood restaurant. Tourists bought them. I feel a vague sense of loss that this symbol, rather than some other, would define Hawaii to some brief traveler.  The antipathy many locals had for 'discoverer' captain Cook rubbed off on me, I guess. 

Certainly every hour, every year that I spent near the ocean left a mark on me. I can call up the sound of crashing waves without any effort. Doppling from quiet to loud;  hissing in retreat. Jumping into the waves, buoyed by their saline strength, it never felt cliché to be exhilarated by the ride back to shore. Counting the sets, seeing the crest grow taller by the seventh or ninth wave, and deciding at the last minute whether to dive under or to turn & join the fluid force that either propelled you, or might instead pummel you. 

My sentimental attachment to the sea, and my admiration for boats made of wood, made my visit to Maine feel like an unexpected homecoming. 

I stood at various wharves and ports and beaches, made aware of my vast ignorance, while I was at the same time feeling a stirring connection to the whole scene. 

Rockport, Maine

I've stood at water's edge in Skuldelev, Denmark, admiring small double-ended boats whose design goes back to Viking times. I've pedaled along canals in France, outpacing sturdy and sometimes artfully built bateaux. I've seen iconic gondolas in Venezia, coexisting with modern vaporetti. But having a boat of one's own, of any design, is hard to beat. So I like to imagine that those many readers who are studying my little Hei Matau kayak have strong connections of their own to wood and water. I find it a hopeful thing, that folks in places near and far are looking at something they can build with their own hands. I say, do it!

Skuldelev, Denmark

All photos by author."A Building Lifestyle"

Homeless

  Homeless

I started to notice it a few months ago.  First, a lone truck with a cab-over camper. It was parked on a dead-end city street near a giant elm tree in the middle of a cul-de-sac. Almost every time I passed the little-trafficked spot, the truck was there, especially in the evenings.  At night, lights were on in the camper.

After a while, another vehicle became a regular sight.  In the daytime, there'd be someone in a lawn chair, reading.  Towels or sheets draped over the insides of windshields and side windows for privacy.  A third vehicle soon appeared, looking lived-in as well.  

At first, it seemed it might be a concern for neighborhood security.  Should someone report them? For what? Were these urban gypsies doing any harm?  If I put myself in their shoes, I'd have thought I'd selected a location rather well. Quiet. Cool under the shade of a hundred-year old tree. A park bathroom nearby. Not a lot of cars going by to  disturb them. It took only a moment to realize these folks were homeless. Their cars are probably their last large material asset. And now their only physical shelter. 

After many months the situation started to seem ordinary on my trips through the park by bicycle. Living just a few blocks away, I feel a mild sense of ownership over the neighborhood, but I began to think that it would be nice if no-one bothered these resourceful campers. As long as they aren't disturbing anyone or endangering the area. We have several anecdotes to show that these particular campers have some civic pride. They seemed to become unofficial members of our loose neighborhood watch. One or two of them are quite polite, sharing resources and looking out for each other. A nearby homeowner observed that the casual drug deals sometimes seen at the park ceased once the campers took up residence.

One recent summer morning, I was riding back from errands, slowly weaving around the dead end past the old tree. I saw a new car parked in the area. A beautiful dog was lying on top of blankets and a sleeping bag piled on the sidewalk. A vibrant young woman was organizing a pile of clothing and some boxes. Her older sedan was overfull. I thought, What if this was my own fate? What if I am someday reduced to living out of a car? 

How did the campers learn about this spot? Did they meet each other elsewhere and share "hobo knowledge" about how to survive? Is there a tipping point coming, where too many will eventually make an unsupportable impact and ruin it for all? (Months later, for unknown reasons, there now seems to be only one car, and it's not there all the time.) 

Is this happening all around the city? I think it is.  Several homeless camps come and go along the river downtown, and around various empty lots in secluded places. Wooded bike paths out of sight from roadways are known spots. The police have done a sweep

 

or two, moving vagrant campers out at times.  There was a campaign to give bus tickets home to many of these transients in our city. At the time I wondered if there was anywhere they wanted to return to; were they still inclined to name some faraway place as their home? Did they not think of our city as their home? 

As the city grapples with the issue of the indigent or homeless, sometimes they legislate or make proclamations to try and overcome perceived side effects. Recently our city drew a line around downtown and outlawed panhandling within those bounds. It was contested in a higher court and looks like it won't hold up legally. Maybe too broad of a brush, too arbitrary a rule. Is there a better way to groom the behavior of all kinds of citizens downtown? Are we not all free to say no to a panhandler? What kind of asking campaign is legal? Is fundraising the domain of only the elite? Among other things, the rule threatened holiday bell ringers, and a dilemma emerged.

Meanwhile, historical images in black and white come to my mind. Images of early horseless carriages, overloaded with haphazardly secured objects, improbable ones; pianos and furniture. As if a new home were certain to be secured soon, with space big enough for these large material goods.  A poignant sense of hopelessness drips from the scenes. But hope is there, in their defiant sense of courage, striking out for the unknown. I'm referring to migrant photos from the Dust Bowl era, famous images captured by Dorothea Lange.  Writer John Steinbeck made stark reports on the migrant phenomenon appearing in California. He traveled around with the man responsible for trying to govern the many camps that sprang up near farm fields. The work was not enough to sustain the families, their children were not welcomed at local schools, illness and hunger was rampant. Many incurred debt just trying to buy food at local stores, sometimes owned by the same large farms they worked on. A wage may never have translated into savings. 

The homeless dynamic of those displaced after their homesteads were buried in dirt naturally would have had a fragile thread of pride, a forlorn desire to deflect the pain of stigma. Through no intention of their own, they had been wiped like dusty chalk from a chalkboard; the midwestern fields flew up in a seeming rage and made going on impossible. They clung to the possibility of finding work out west.  Large caravans 

Dust bowl era house, North Dakota   (Photo by Alex Sienkiewicz)  

traveled to California; the camps along the way made a visible event that drew attention by its sheer numbers. Though they could have been described as heroic survivors of an event of nature, they were scorned and often turned away. We only later learned that the collective effect of plowing vast areas of grassland contributed to the Dust Bowl, but a fair person would be loath to incriminate individual farmers caught up in what was the order of the day. 

At present, we seem to have a more occult homeless phenomenon, unseen by many. We don't have large caravans to observe. Instead it occurs in ones and twos, adding up to surprisingly large numbers.  It's commonly assumed that many homeless are somehow deserving or responsible for the situation they are in. Perhaps that's sometimes true. But do we feel qualified to decide which ones "chose" to live on the street?  And either way, are we right to turn to scorn? I've seen seemingly ordinary people down on their luck, trying to survive. They find a way to double up with family, or live in their car unobtrusively, keeping on the move. Staying 'under the radar.'  

I think we'd like not to think very hard about this, if only because we may be eerily reminded that our own path may only be steps away from a similar fate. We'd like to think our pure will and determination are a complete defense against ever becoming homeless. We're not at all like any of those who are homeless. Or, are we? 

If we're not called to bring every last one in out of the cold, something easier said than done, at least the graceful thing to do is to reserve judgement about their character and how they got there. 

Losing My Sport

  Pedaling my one-speed town bike along a nearby strip of urban parkland, I recently flashed back to a park from my childhood. I remembered  that my best friend and I never walked when we came to the park's curving swath of glorious grass. Instead, we sprinted. It was always a race from start to finish, feet flying, elbows pumping. We tried to beat each other, no holding back. Our young muscles were so ready to launch, we couldn't help it. We were runners. At the end we'd break into a walk, catch our breath and continue to College Avenue.

  This had little to do with organized sport, it was simply pure physical expression. We took it for granted, sure of our corporeal potential, playing games to test our limits. Climbing, running, skating, leaping, somer-saulting. My siblings and neighborhood friends would replicate the Presidential Fitness test; setting up our own 50-yard dash, etc. Being strong was an important aspect of my identity. I studied Judo and enjoyed my strength and agility. When running, I imagined I was a long-distance messenger carrying an important dispatch, the urgency of the idea helped me add miles.

  Bicycling soon became my gateway to being physical and exploring. It started with riding to the library on my brother's bike. In high school it freed me from waiting for the bus. I got a Raleigh with Campagnolo components, started reading books on cycle racing, and keeping a mileage log. I still ran some, working up to the half-marathon distance. My first real pair of running shoes had the iconic yellow swoosh and waffle patterned soles. The day I got them, I fell asleep that night with them still on my feet.

  With a cycling federation license I began bicycle racing. I'd spent a year saving up enough money to buy an Italian racing bike in my exact size. (I eventually made a career in the bicycle industry.) After so long training alone, I discovered the powerful feeling of training and competing in a group. Riding in close proximity to scores of other athletes, practically touching elbows, cornering at high speed, holding on during tough climbs, going all out in highest gear to win a sprint. Getting up early to go on long training rides no matter the weather. Riding distances of 60 miles or more in early season endurance rides. Being accountable to teammates, having teammates to rely on. Coping with flat tires or mechanicals. I was a flat-fix champ, beating the stopwatch in order to quickly get rolling.

  During training and racing we used the magic of drafting: taking brief turns at the front against the wind, then tucking into place behind a teammate, eating up the miles, keeping a high rate of speed. An amazing cooperation that has to be experienced to truly understand. A motivated group of riders using this technique attains a higher speed than any one rider can maintain alone. A group carries you above your self-described limits. Loathe to let others down, you match your effort to the wheels around you, even if it hurts; you let the paceline define what you can do. It is huge the way this elevates your performance. There are limits; if you get "dropped," you're left to fight the wind alone.

  The years of high-level cycling were something I assumed I'd do forever. I've been able to see and do so much thanks to cycling. I told someone recently that I'd always pictured myself being a grey-haired but still ambitious cyclist, climbing the paved road up Colorado's 14,000 ft. Mt. Evans or some such, well into my later years. That may not have been entirely realistic but I intended to try.

  After over a decade of racing, including a couple of silver State Championship medals and a trip to the Women's World Cycling Trials, the endless routine of training, working, eating and sleeping left me restless for change. I retired from racing and started riding just for fun. This was freeing, but an adjustment. I missed the camaraderie and the rigor of training with others, but I felt glad to stay home on weekends and do something as banal as mow the lawn. No more long drives crammed in a van, arriving to a windy course in the dark, lining up to use the porta-potties before start time. Athletes know that sport is more than just competing; there is a great deal of meaning just in the mindful preparation, the practice of skills and long periods of physical movement. I looked forward to continuing that aspect.

  A few times during the last year or so of competition, I was hit by bouts of fatigue or ill-feeling. Odd because my training, nutrition, and recovery schedules were on target, the way they had been those (too few) times I'd sprinted away from some of the fastest women cyclists in the country on my better outings. These events didn't seem like much at the time. Then the winter after retiring, I was doing some cross-country skiing with friends. I started to feel shaky and had to stop. I wondered if I had hypothermia. It wasn't terribly cold, but we decided that was probably it. I went home and took a hot bath, shaking with full-body muscle tremors. It would be a long time before I knew the cause. 

  The episodes eventually increased. Off and on I did rides of reasonable distance with decent capability, riding for enjoyment with other former racers. Sometimes I'd be an instigator, I was always known as a good sprinter. Other times I'd start out, only to have to turn around after a couple of miles, go home, and lie down. This eroded my confidence.  I searched for reasons; maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe I'd eaten the wrong thing.  
  Increasingly severe symptoms took me to the ER.  I never was found to have much other than an odd EKG (but not classically worrying cardiac signs) and low levels of potassium.  ER visits started happening several times a year, with less dramatic episodes of weakness in between. Doctors told me they could find nothing specifically wrong. I went without a diagnosis for a long 7 years, making the most of my energy when I could, and feeling compromised the rest of the time. In the interim I was tested for many things but the cause remained a mystery.  Finally, a doctor in a new town decided that my recurring low potassium needed further study. This led to a nephrologist's diagnosis of a rare kidney defect, which was causing me to dump essential bicarbonate and vital potassium. My body was going into acidosis, my electrolytes were off, causing arrythmias. My kidneys were trying to compensate for the defect but became progressively less able to cope. 

  It was a relief to finally get a diagnosis and to start treatment, which is lifelong. Though mostly effective I still chase feeling well, versus occasional but less severe malaise. But I don't dwell on the lost time. I decided to write this just to name the elephant that has been in the room for so long. The greatest adjustment has been trying to regain an identity as a strong, active person. Part of me hoped treatment would reset things to "normal," I'd hoped I would be taking on real physical adventures again. Some days, I do alright. I ride my mountain bike more often than my racing bike. I twist the throttle on motorcycle rides to get the feeling of speed back without exhausting myself. But active efforts often dig a hole for the following days; a day of physical work or focused exercise can mean days of down time. On outside appearance I may seem ok. I wonder when I turn down invitations from others to ride or do an adventure, if it appears as a lack of commitment or willingness to try.  Not liking to make excuses, I usually just let people think that's the case. It's not the same as feeling a lack of fitness. A healthy person doesn't experience this systemic flaw I'd wish on no one.

  Surrounded by athletic friends and family, I have learned to mostly be the facilitator, instead of the athlete.  I drive the shuttle car, maintain the bikes, wax the skis, repair the boats, screw studs into running shoes for winter. I capture their adventures as photographer. I do shorter distances and turn around early. I don't talk a lot about sport tactics or training regimens anymore.

  But I did have some glory days. I'm grateful I had many years of pursuing a sport. I'd made sport and being physically strong a big part of who I am, or used to be. In the end, I think of myself as very fortunate. I find it hard to take myself or my condition too seriously. There are so many worse things that people go through.  And while I may have lost riding as a sport, cycling is a lifestyle. That's something I'll never lose.

-all photos author's-

Specialization

Specialization

What’s your area of expertise?  Likely you have a job or a pursuit that you’ve spent a great deal of time honing. Most of us eventually focus on something in our lives that gives us a relatively high level of proficiency.  How many in the crowd regret not broadening their pursuits? Or, conversely, regret not having time to delve even deeper into one true interest, whatever it may be? To recognize that 100% expertise is always a bit beyond our grasp, and learning is without end. 

I think about specialization when I ponder our rat-race method of choosing a profession, taking it on, and spending years at it. When we divide our time into narrow chutes of performance, this allows us to reach a specific understanding of one part of complex issues. Such as:

• a branch of medicine or other science
• a wealth of literary knowledge 
• the finer points of, say,  blacksmithing 
• everything about 1957 Chevy automobiles, cars in general
• the development of a steady hand, an artistic style (and a portfolio)
• human development; raising a family
• physical prowess at a sport
• talent & expertise with a musical instrument

You name it, we can find so much detail in nearly any avocation or subject, enough to consume us and leave little time for other things. Devotees of one may argue their subject’s merit over anyone else’s subject, sure that theirs is the most difficult or worthy or interesting.  

Time is the driver of this tendency to specialize. Not having time enough. Individual interest draws one, where it leaves another cold. We wouldn’t follow each other into every possible pursuit even if we had time--our natures and drives vary in a wonderful way, making each of us unique.  We do seem to have strong suits, different talents, that are unevenly distributed. Makes for a more interesting village. 

Sequoiandendron Gigantea

But I suppose that many of us would be broader and expand more on our interests if we lived as long as a Sequoia tree. (2,000-3,000 years.) The ticking clock and the frailty to come instead can make us hunker down at something, and not much more. Yet, when we let our curiousity wander, aren’t most of us able to imagine many more things we would entertain? Things we’d make time for, if we had a second life to live?  Or perhaps we’d bring specialization to new heights, and become expert at one thing to an unheard-of degree. 

This ability to conceive of more speaks of hidden potential and of some unknown development that we aren’t able to achieve before time runs out. Leading us to be satisfied with less, or at least see that what we do accomplish is enough. Perhaps it’s better for our psyche to be topical or casual with many things, while being detailed and expert with a prime pursuit. 

Meanwhile, I seem to be prone to pursuing all trades, and being master of very few. 

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem

There are things in life that make our sense of time more acute. If we live for today as sages suggest, we can't stop to rue the things we may not accomplish today, much less things we won't get done tomorrow. We won't stretch the hours given. Priorities, though, can change. We may be given new mandates by forces and circumstances encountered in our lives. The turns in the road may or may not be welcome, but they become our course.

If ambitious, you may take stock regularly to see if you are where you intended to be from the start. If you are instead whimsical, you may simply reflect on what has passed and carry on to see what tomorrow brings. Either approach provokes me to think about those tomorrows: meeting big goals, or simply arising to a new day, requires an appreciation for each new day. Take notice. While you still can. Carpe Diem, that is.

I've had a recent journey of observation down the path that awaits many in the latter part of life. Beyond frailty, illness, loss of independence, and outliving ones' peers, there is the cruel possibility of suffering the decline of ones' mental faculties. In caring for an elderly family member, I saw this firsthand.

You might assume that someone suffering cognitive decline is perhaps unaware of the fraying edges of their mind, exactly due to that altered grey matter. If this were completely true, it might be comforting; it might mean that a person doesn't have to be present, or accountable for their descent into becoming mentally 'damaged goods.' I think we'd like it to be true, we'd like to escape the embarrassment and loss that awaits.

What I observed instead, was a see-saw between complete inability to see in themselves their deficit, contrasted with other moments of very canny cover dialogue or irritated behavior when the frayed edges cropped up, and they knew it. Over weeks, months, and years, the person in my care coped with the difficulties that grew and encroached on their identity and the capabilities that had made them who they were.

The inability to reason, remember, focus, or complete a task, completely changes the order in ones' life. The idea of order becomes mostly foreign. Strangely enough, the personality I was working with had always had a very rigid routine, and this was a benefit in coping with the surprises and difficulties of their cognitive lapses. When you can no longer plan what comes next, but your habits have never been too spontaneous, for a long period it's possible to fall back on a well-worn pattern. It requires less thought to just do what you've always done. And in this case, that worked for a while, for most things. But eventually they were virtually "at sea" as to knowing how or what to do to get through a simple day. They had to be led through the dance, which became less vital and more banal every day. Even with efforts to enliven and enrich each moment, the ability to tap into life was deadened.

Something we may not account for in the waning years of our lives is the tenacious strength of our assumptions about what we can still do. We acquire our catalogue of knowledge, our practiced capabilities and talents, and assume they are ours for life. It is difficult to accept that we will inevitably lose some of them. Our patterns will be many decades long in the making. How do we imagine we will abandon those patterns? Is there a date-certain? Will we anticipate and delegate away the fabric of our lives with aplomb when we must? We know that we won't, not so easily. Our identity is made from this fabric, we value ourselves largely through our capabilities. And we cling to the notion that we are as we were before, even if nothing supports that notion.

There are the logistics of replacing our failing patterns with new approaches, a new prop, accepting some help. This goes against the grain, especially for a creature of habit. An "early adopter" might embrace new adaptive ways of doing things, but that still pre-supposes they'd know when it was time to adopt a new method. It may lead to abandoning activities altogether when we can't do them anymore. Driving a car is an iconic example. In our case there was that period of a few dodgy driving episodes, even after a lifetime that had included very skillful driving of difficult and exotic cars. Fortunately for my charge, there was a sudden loss of interest in driving, and we never had to have an actual intervention.

Other losses were harder to accept. It's too depressing to list all of them, but cooking, walking, hearing, creating, and being at all motivated were among the casualties. There is a real old-age dynamic of being "too tired to bother" that no amount of vitamins, care, or inspiration can fully offset. When arthritis dulls your hands, frailty robs you of surety in movement, and lost cognition shutters your awareness of all but the instant you are in, the world shrinks immeasurably.

My philosophy has always been one of living fully, appreciating things along the way, and not wasting opportunities to pursue meaningful things. The journey alongside someone who was approaching, and then arrived at the end of their road, was meaningful, but draining and confining as well. It was an impertinent mirror of what lies ahead. For someone decades younger, it seems too soon to become so familiar with that path.

And so, I purposely release my mind and thoughts from the excruciating details of life's finality. I discard the wearying role that went with supporting another in that stage of life. And I go outside, and smell the roses. I suggest you do, too.

Absolutes

Absolutes

"Never say never." My mother often said this to us. A seeming contradiction, we took it to mean we should keep our outlook free of arbitrary roadblocks, and refrain from embracing absolute limitations. If you knew my mother, you would know she is all about possibilities.

Another phrase she said frequently was, "don't put labels on people." The list of wise things mom said (and still says) to her children wasn't terribly long, but it was consistent, intelligent, and heartfelt. She taught us that labels were useless both to ourselves and to those being labeled. While a label might seem handy for categorizing someone or some group of people, it is wholly wrong in mom's view. First of all it is a limitation. Having labeled someone according to a stereotype or other unseeing metric, one would be prone to shelve further review, effectively ending the path to understanding. Describing someone by easy tags relating to their height, weight, age, race, and so on, leads nowhere if you want to know the person. For mom it is a mandate to seek the person, to assume that they have merit, that they deserve to be treated with dignity.

Mom knew that we would encounter situations where we would be led to follow the crowd, where we might emulate others who took easily to labels and categories, usually with unkind and unenlightened results. This was so anathema to the person who is my mother, she virtually campaigned against any brand of thoughtlessness our entire childhood. This she could creditably do, because she herself modeled kindness, consideration, and respect. When my siblings and I get together, it's not uncommon for us to recite some of the sayings we heard regularly in our childhood:

"don't be ugly." (meaning: don't have an 'ugly' or unkind temperament. Nothing to do with appearance.)
"be a second miler."
"put yourself in their shoes."
"find a need and fill it."
"no man is an island."
"hate what they do, don't hate them."

You will recognize most of these sayings; my mother doesn't claim to have authored them. But her parents, and especially her beloved grandmothers, tried to live according to these principles. Mom seems to have had a drive to take it a step further, making it a point to use her voice and her actions against injustice. To preempt behavior that too often is the order of the day. Whatever moral compass a young heart or mind might already have, mom took her task seriously and sought to grow and reinforce what is good and right.

Increasingly, it seems our societies have undergone a cultural laxity that discourages civil restraint, that is apathetic about speaking up for justice, that finds plenty of excuses for turning a blind eye to unkindness or worse, brutality. This should distress anyone who is paying attention. Mom is a keen observer, and pays attention to things like this.

Sometimes I find myself apologizing for comparing someone's outlook to mom's. (another favorite phrase of hers is "don't compare.") It seems somehow unfair to hold someone up to the uncanny sensibility she models. She herself is not comfortable getting attention for her humanism. Anonymous action suits her better. Kindness and fellow feeling drives her. Her outlook, however, includes a solid expectation of accountability, not just "warm fuzzies." That we should all pay active homage to this process of civility.

To be led by someone like this woman I'm speaking about, is not to feel inadequate or chastised. Instead, the pure power of her optimism and overflowing positivity makes you feel that "all things are possible," another phrase she says often. The ability to spread joy and yes, sometimes even moments of giddy silliness, is a trait mom is known for.

How fortunate we are to be her children. If I am only half the positive force for good that she has always been, that would be saying something.

Twin Lakes

August in Colorado is one of the best times to get up to a higher altitude. The hot temperatures on the front range and lower valleys feel too warm to a Coloradan, even if it isn't as humid as the midwest states, or as blazing hot as nearby desert states. Record temperatures this year make that more true than ever. Going from 6,000 feet in elevation to over 9,000 feet for a getaway, is worth a ten degree drop or more in temperature.



On the way to Independance Pass, highway 82 rolls past a tiny town, hardly recognizable as such. Two lakes in view are joined by a narrow neck, like an hourglass, and collect the snowmelt from surrounding peaks, with some that are over 4,600 meters high. (Mt. Elbert, the highest in Colorado, measures some 14,400 feet by the latest geological surveys.) The town of Twin Lakes rests there, mostly unchanged from its early days in the late 1800's.

A couple of dozen buildings are clustered along a few dirt streets, many boarded up but still showing the care builders used in their construction. A charming white clapboard schoolhouse sits at the end of dirt lane, the imagined voices of long-ago schoolchildren seem hard to hear now. A couple of lodgings are open, a general store, an art gallery, and a gas pump that seems to work. Historic buildings are marked with for sale signs.



The few locals seem to know how to divide their lives between this place and jobs elsewhere that keep them solvent. Most know how to do more than one job, whether it's maintaining summer lodgings, cooking for a weekend barbecue concession, or helping park an empty sheriff's car along the highway to slow down lead-footed drivers. There is no thronging crowd, no lighted intersection, no real restaurant anymore. One log-sided hotel is empty, though it was open as recently as 12 months ago. Seems there are a succession of brave or foolhardy attempts to make a go of it in this place that only sees traffic for some five months of the year. But you can find a few tiny cabins to rent, even a collection of rooms in an attractive and well cared for lodge.




The most excitement seen here lately was the brief appearance of a professional bicycle race, with seasoned European pros tackling the high altitude terrain of Colorado.


It seems fitting that this dignified yet quirky little town only has a small purchase on this grand piece of landscape. The mountains around have endured even longer, the town fits in perspective rather well somehow.


-photos by the author

Location:Colorado