Quiet Impact

A plea for help, injuries too extensive, our valiant efforts, but the bewildering reality that despite the fact that we are here to save people, death is absolute. And there I sat, staring into the face of the greatest tragedy of my career to date. A lifeless child and grief beyond any I knew possible. Parents clutching one another in despair . . . what do we all do now?

No stranger to sadness, I have felt weight of hopelessness before. I recognize it mainly in the fact that I can muster no genuine smile. Somehow anguish has direct control of the facial muscles, holding them in what seems like eternal and un-battleable numbness. Would I ever look out of more than vacant eyes again?

Which is why I owe abundant thanks to a red-headed high school kid who knows nothing about vegetables. She possessed a shy, apologetic demeanor yet a kind smile, and I bet she would have been someone I would have been friends with in high school. Rolling up with my shopping cart, I stared at her with empty eyes and flat affect while answering her "how are you this evening?" with a mumbled "fine". Ironically, even when life appeared to be over, I still needed to go grocery shopping.

The shy checker started attempting to ring up a vegetable. After turning it over and over in her hands a few times and scrolling through her computer, she said, "Um . . . what is this?"

"I think it's turnip."

She rung up the turnip and grabbed the next vegetable. Same scenario. "And these?"

"Yukon golds."

After two more vegetables, it started to get a little comical. A beet. A zucchini. Roma tomatoes. Jalapeno. You mean to tell me you really don't know what any of this stuff is? Who doesn't know what a zucchini is? And then I felt it. . . . A genuine smile, and I glimpsed hope.

Hope . . . Possibly one of the greatest gifts anyone can give. She was just being herself, and she changed my life that day. Who knows how many people we quietly impact in this way?

Summertime

It's funny because just earlier this week I was sitting on the couch in the morning, shivering, listening to scattered rain drops hit the window, thinking that in a few short days, I will be sitting in the same spot, sweating, listening to fireworks explode outside my front door. The heat wave was coming.

Now is that time of summer. The time when it's 80 degrees at ten at night; the little fan, blowing with all its might, cuts a minuscule swath through the heat. I've lived through days like this before. Having spent many years working outside, in the dust, and the heat, with horses, the setting sun brought a welcome cool to the 100+ days. Nights like tonight were cherished as the animals and I could breathe a sigh of relief after being brutalized by sun all day.

Yet, despite my memories of endless hot summers. Despite sitting here now, 2230 and sticky from sweat, I could not place myself here five days ago. I knew the heat wave would happen, but on that shivery Monday morning, I couldn't feel being shoeless, in a tank-top, and still too hot. And sitting here now, even though I remember that I shivered on Monday, I cannot feel it, put myself there. It is a memory that, for now, only exists in my mind.

And that's a blessing I suppose, how the mind remembers but the feeling subsides. For now I will revel in this moment, a hot, late night. In two days it will be different, as the heat wave will have subsided, gone dormant for a time, but remembered.

The Girl With the Dog

So I've been dubbed, in my small town, "the girl with the dog". Here is why:

Yes indeed, that is my dog in a jogging stroller. Having a paralyzed dog and pushing him around in a stroller takes a certain type of moxie (or insanity), as most people think something along the lines of she doesn't have kids, so this must be some sort of psychological fulfillment of that lack. Other people just think my dog is lazy. So I set 'em straight. The dog can't walk.

For the most part, I adjust to Lewis's paralysis as it comes. He can't do much. I have to carry him from here to there. He rides in a stroller. But he seems happy and participatory enough. He still drags himself around pretty fast in the morning, biting my calves and spinning in circles, something he's done his whole life. Even so, despite mine and his adaptive qualities, there are days . . .

One particular day of late, as I was pushing Lewis through the park in his stroller, I got overtaken by the weight of his condition and his constant needs. Totally consumed, I was startled when a little piece of cotton brushed by my face. Looking up, I noted the warm breeze showered us with cotton fluff from the cottonwood trees.

I have to say, it's pretty hard to be morose when you find yourself encompassed in floating cotton, standing in a field of grass dancing in the warm spring breeze, brushed golden by the setting sun. Yes, it is easier to have a fully ambulatory dog, but I see that God still smiles on us. 

I am thankful to live in one of the most rugged and beautiful places in the world. Surrounded by the ever-changing face of nature, I am reminded that nothing stays the same, yet everything is taken care of, including Lewis and me. And so we press on.

Just Hangin' Around

My rental house has this quaint little closet in which resides the smallest washer and dryer set ever manufactured. While forcing my t-shirt and one sock into the washer, I noticed a movement to my left. Gliding deftly down from the ceiling was a little spider. When he got to about four feet from the floor, he ceased his descent and proceeded to simply hang there.

Being, in general, a friend to all things living, I shut the closet, assuming the spider would eventually climb his way back up his web and move to another location. Around midday, I was putting the clothes from the washer into the dryer and found the spider still dangling in the same place he was before.

Wanting to know if this was normal arachnid behavior, I texted a friend to get her opinion. She decided the spider just wanted to swing and suggested I give him a push. Having none of playground shenanigans, the spider splayed his legs and acted rather startled as he swung back and forth. Nope, he must not want to be pushed, I decided.

Shortly after, I completely forgot there was a spider hanging in my laundry closet, and I nearly smashed my face into him while organizing my recycling bags in the closet.

So there he is, at this very moment, in all his glory. If he's still hanging like that tomorrow, I will relocate him outside. While it's be great having him hanging there and all, enough bizarre spider behavior is enough.

The Mystery of the Bathing Bird

I have lived in my small town for going on four years now, and it only just occurred to me two weeks ago that I live in the mountains. Never having lived in the mountains before, my eyes have been opened to shocking concepts, namely that winter lasts a lot longer. Despite this somewhat disappointing fact, spring does eventually even come to the mountains, and along with spring comes little birds.

I have noticed that little birds really enjoy being clean. Now, one must bear in mind that my small town does have a lovely, small river running through it. This small river is even replete with little shallow areas of slow moving water; a veritable bathing bird's paradise.

But is this where the birds choose to take their daily dip? No. Rather they choose my dog's water dish sitting in the backyard. From sunup to sundown, it is not uncommon for me to see large groups of little birds communing around my dog's water dish. They sit on the edge. They jump in and fluff their feathers through the water. They poop in it. . . And it's only eight inches in diameter.

My dog could be sitting right there, next to the dish, and some brazen bird is flitting around in his dish, bathing itself. Sometimes Lewis is too close to the dish and the birds get antsy, jumping around him, waiting for him to move so they can dive in.

How do these birds even know his dish is there? When they have an entire body of water to douse themselves with, what draws them to two inches of water in an eight inch dish in a dandelion-filled yard?

Maybe the answer will come to me, in about four years . . .

Embracing the Unexpected

The unexpected. It is a concept I have been pondering lately, and one illustrated well by a group of marsh-dwelling frogs. On my walks at dusk, I pass what would seem to be a large group of frogs, croaking merrily away amidst the grasses of a horse pasture. At first listen, one would think the group consists of hundreds of frogs.

Wanting to witness first-hand the conglomeration of amphibians, I tiptoed stealthily their way the other night. Pointing my flashlight toward the croakers, I expected to see many little eyes and nose holes peeking up through the grasses. Alas, I saw none. No movement, no eyes, no bulging throat skin. I stepped closer, shone my flashlight right where the sound was coming from. Once again, nothing.

One step closer and all croaking ceased completely. There was no movement. No frogs ducked under the shallow water. Still I could see nothing. What appeared to be plain was in fact hidden. Unexpected.

This morning, I expected my day to go a certain way, but I can tell you that everything that transpired, including the gorilla-suit wearing woman mooning a couple of police officers (no joke!), was unexpected. My response? Great day! I can't wait for what happens next!

A Word on Faith

"Now faith is the confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see" Hebrews 11:1

Great concept, very ethereal, but hard to explain in practical terms. Despite being able to intellectualize a lot of things, I have a hard time really grasping something until I have had an experience with it in some way. House building has taught me and continues to teach me many things, and one of these lessons is about faith.

I think I would be well justified if over a year ago when my brother Lee said, "Why don't you build your own house?", I just said right back in return, "No way man! Are you crazy?!" Instead I thought, well, if he thinks we can do it, we must be able to do it.

Despite the logistical shortcomings of two people, one being a smallish-framed female with zero construction experience, building an entire house by themselves, I doggedly plow forward in this venture because I believe we can do it. And I believe we can do it because Lee, a person well versed in the construction world, says we can do it.

On a couple of occasions, when he is suffering from a myriad of aches and pains, Lee has asked, "Do you think this is more than just the two of us can handle?" And I will tell you, in those moments, my faith completely waivers. No longer am I happily plowing forward through a daunting task, trusting the leadership of my brother. Instead I start thinking about the many tasks before us, all of which I know nothing about, (plus lifting more heavy stuff!) and I feel despair. But then I shake it off and declare, "No! I don't think it is more than just the two of us can handle! Because you said we could do it!" And we both shake it off and carry on. Now that's faith.

The Cat Wrangler

It can be challenging being a humanitarian, or catitarian as it were this time. Especially when the feline in question feels it is doing just fine living the feral life, thank you very much.

Walking a route I had not walked for awhile this past weekend, I noted a couple of cats in a notoriously cat-heavy section of town. Upon seeing me with Lewis, one of the cats skimmed away, but the other stood still, staring vaguely our direction and swaying on unsteady feet.

Upon closer inspection, the cat's eyes were glued shut with eye gunk, it's matted hair stood up every which way, and it breathed heavily with some kind of respiratory infection. With no way to take it home with me, I left it to fend for itself. The next day I checked with a gal who runs a local rescue, and she said if I could catch the cat, to take it to the vet and she would take care of it from there.

A few days later, I drove to the cat area where the previous siting took place. There was the cat, under a tree, peering at me through its eye gunk. Not wanting any of its diseases on me or in the car, I brought a tupperware along that I could seal the cat in for the trip to the vet (gotta keep those cat diseases fresh!)

I spoke soothingly to my feline friend right before tossing a blanket over her. She started to run to no avail. I scooped her up and attempted to deftly slip her into the tupperware. She popped her head and front legs out of the blanket and dug her claws into the edge of the tupperware. Not wanting to touch her with my hands, I wrestled her with the blanket. Suddenly she let out an ear-piercing yowl. Figuring the neighbors were going to look out and see me stuffing their unsuspecting cat into a tupperware, I quickly threw a corner of the blanket over her head and managed to get her in the tupperware and the lid on.

I got her to the vet unscathed if not a bit miffed about the tupperware wrestling incident. I have yet to hear of her outcome, but with some medical care, at least she has a chance. Perhaps I have opened a new door of opportunity for myself. . . small town cat wrangler.

A Horse, a Fog Bank, and a Bellowing: Tale of a Fog Monster

The density of the fog intensified as Copper took somewhat hesitant steps away from his herd mates into the white mist. Merely a few minutes earlier, when we started out, the fog wasn't too bad. I could see a good hundred feet ahead of us. The sagebrush began to take on progressively eerier shapes, however, as the moist particles seeped in, combining to form a solid shroud. What seems like suddenly, a hundred feet deteriorated to only a couple. The whinnies from Copper's herd mates diminished in the damp air behind us.

Suddenly, Copper stopped short. Off in the distance, to our left and no telling how close or far away, we had heard a bellowing. Knowing there was a dairy in that general direction, I told myself it was only a cow and urged Copper forward. We had only walked a few more steps when the bellowing came again. This time Copper turned quickly and started to head back to the safety of his herd.

I pulled him around and squinted into the fog (for whatever reason, it seems that squinting is a logical exercise that will make seeing beyond dense fog easier). With significantly less gusto, I urged Copper on, slightly less convinced that that noise came from a cow.

By the third bellowing I decided that now was not the time to throw caution to the wind. The horse wants to go back, let the horse go back. Clearly he's thinking a noise like that can't come from a harmless cow, so best to hightail it out of there before things get bad.

After a safe return, I recounted the bellowing story to my friends. Instead of sympathy for my plight and support that I did the right thing, my uneasiness was met with guffaws. "You let yourself get scared by a cow?! Bahahahaha!"

"It wasn't a cow! It was a bellowing!" (snicker snicker).

I sighed and gave up, knowing only Copper and I would know what we really heard. That night as I drifted off to sleep, the door cracked open to the outside for a breeze, I heard the sound of cows from the dairy . . . mooing.

The Itchin' Stitches

My dog Lewis is learning that the senior years aren't so golden. Plagued by a degenerative nerve disease, he drags his back legs around, scraping every last inch of toenail he has down to the toe bones. Fortunately someone came up with the brilliant idea of fake dog nails to save people's hardwood floors. I use them to save Lewis's back toes from utter annihilation.

Another misfortune of Lewis's elderly state is a large growth that sprang up seemingly overnight on the top of his head. Starting as a tiny bump, Lewis's "second brain" grew exponentially over a few short months to the size of a large grape. Supplied by arterials, the brain was discolored and veiny. It also had a few bumps on it where it had healed from my attempts to excise it with a needle. I finally decided something must be done.

A day trip to the local vet provided the venue for the last of the offending brain. However, when I picked Lewis up later that evening, he was still quite altered from the tranquilizers he had received. Now, a normal dog on tranquilizers is interesting enough, but put a dog with degenerative nerve disease on tranquilizers . . . you have a rag doll. And anyone who knows Lewis knows that he doesn't like being a rag doll.

Fraught with anxiety, Lewis feels the need to be at a heightened level of attention at all times. Despite his default state, the tranquilizers left him half flopped over on a regular basis. I found him by his food dish, half sitting, half laying, doggedly picking kibble out of his dish despite his perpetual fog.

When his countenance finally cleared, he had a new challenge on his hands: itchy stitches. Some dogs, because they are dumb and don't see pain as a sign to stop what they are doing, have to wear those cones after surgery. Not Lewis. He's a respecter of pain. One toenail scratch on those stitches, and he hasn't touched them since. But that doesn't keep them from itching.

Good thing for him, I know how to scratch his stitches without hurting him. Multiple times a day he jams his head under my hand, demanding I scratch his stitches. Scratching them puts him into a coma-like trance where he tilts his head at indescribable angles and closes his eyes. If he's really getting into it, he will lean too far, his nerve disease will keep him from catching himself, and he will fall right over.

Lewis's stitches come out in a few days. I assume the scar will still itch from time to time, and he will want me to scratch that too. Eventually his nerve disease will take him. I will miss his idiosyncracies, his endless anxiety, and his demands for me to scratch his stitches. 

Trencher Anyone?

Winter: the time when normal people are cozying up to a warm fire. I on the other hand, find myself standing around in a muddy lot wearing seven layers of clothes and holding a shovel. Slowed by a reluctant bank, my brother and I doggedly plug away at our construction project when others of tougher ilk high-tail it to warmer regions and wait for spring. Yeah, they go inside.

But not us. Unfazed by temperatures hovering at freezing and endless rain, we splash around our lot, loading truckloads of mud into a dumptruck, digging holes, and fencing while the locals drive by shaking their heads. Despite all evidence to the contrary, things were actually going quite well until our last day with the excavating equipment.

I must preface this event with the disclaimer that my brother is a notoriously poor communicator. Accomplishing tasks together requires me to do a great deal of mind reading, a skill I have not completely mastered yet.

The task was to scrape a thin layer of grass off the soil along the sidewalk. My exact statement was, "So you want me to put the dumptruck on the sidewalk." The answer was yes. 

As you can see, driving on the sidewalk turned out to be a bad idea. Furthermore, apparently "put the dumptruck on the sidewalk" actually turns out to mean "put the dumptruck on the lot nowhere near the sidewalk." Who knew?

Botox Anyone?

I can't say, even with the current popularity of botox injections and anti-wrinkle creams, that I have ever longed for the face paralyzing effect of smooth, younger-looking, and significantly stretched out skin. However, I few weeks ago I noticed my left eye twitching. A full-on twitch, my vision blurred and doubled as I attempted to rub the spasticity out of the offending muscle. To my immediate gratification, the vision-impeding twitch stopped. To my subsequent disappointment, a low-grade, lower eyelid twitch set in. . . for a week straight.

I must say that while my lower eyelid twitch was not unbearable, it was like an annoying leech, hanging on below my left eye day and night. Every morning I would wake up, feeling the inevitable tightening under my eye. Though it did not hinder my vision, when I looked in the mirror, the muscle appeared to repeatedly leap from my face at a rapid rate.

I found this constant muscle contraction to be exhausting. My face felt tired. All the time. I was cranky. I felt that I looked strange and people would be repulsed by beholding my contorting facial muscle. Suddenly the paralyzing effects of botox were not looking so bad. . . .

Like a parasite-laden deep sea fish, I eventually became used to my new lot in life. I would be known as the eye-twitching lady. It didn't seem so bad. I could embrace my physical idiosyncracies. Then in the afternoon of day five, it stopped. Looking around, I noticed something missing. . . My eye twitch! It was gone!

Out the window was my new plan to be eye-twitching lady. As Amanda, eye-twitch free, I fell asleep that night with happy visions of future facial flacidity. Until I woke up. With an eye twitch.

It took a couple more days for the twitch to dissipate entirely. I can't say what brought it on or when it will return. Now that it has happened once, my understanding is it is much more likely to happen again. I dread its return. I really do. But I suppose, like an alter ego, I can work on embracing the concept of being occasional eye-twitching lady.

Say Cheese!

Being a relatively peaceable person, I am not prone to bouts of murderous desire first thing in the morning. Nevertheless, early in the morning the other morning, before it was even light out, I stumbled into the kitchen and found a mouse running around in the sink. Oh great, I thought. Here it is, six in the morning, I just woke up, and now I have to kill a mouse.

My sink is pretty deep, and there were a few dishes scattered around in it, so with the mouse hiding under a tupperware container, I proceeded to prepare Lewis's morning meal and ponder my options.

A friend of mine had only recently brought to my attention the recent outbreak of hantavirus associated with Yosemite National Park. Having simply driven through Yosemite five months prior, I figured there was little risk of me having contracted this deer mouse-born disease. However, some light research tipped me off to the fact that apparently the majority of hantavirus cases occur from mice in the home. My decision was clear: the mouse would have to die.

Just then, the mouse whom I mistakenly assumed was "stuck" in the sink, levitated from his confinement and scurried behind the toaster oven. Mouse in the sink: well contained, accompanied by my knowledge of its whereabouts. Mouse behind the toaster oven: one mad dash away from a nebulous hiding place only known by rodents. I had to act.

Grabbing a handy tupperware, I moved the toaster oven away from the wall. The mouse faked left. I blocked it with my hand. It ran right. I tried to cover it with the tupperware. It broke left and slipped past my hand, across the back of the sink, and hid behind the radio. I pulled the radio out. The mouse stared at me. I hazed it from the left. As is broke right, I brought the tupperware down over it.

It jumped and squeaked. My heart melted. Thinking only of the fear in the rapidly beating heart of my little hantavirus-infested visitor, I slid him off the counter with the tupperware onto a magazine, trapping him inside.

Maybe some other day I will wake up with murderous thoughts on my mind. Maybe future rodents should quiver in fear because of my wrath. As for this mouse, I carried him out to the alley behind the house. Setting him free, he squeaked and ran under the neighbor's garage wall. I hope he's grateful. And that he keeps his mouse diseases to himself.

We Built a Barn

Being the younger sister and growing up in the woods with no other kids around, I pretty much went along with every scheme my older brother cooked up. Set up a lemonade stand in the middle of the forest and then wonder why no one is buying? Sure, no problem! Stand in front of him like a target while he hits a golf ball full force into my stomach, then writhe around on the ground, gasping for air? Count me in! Fill a five gallon bucket full of bricks, string it up in an oak tree, then tie a trip wire to my toe at night so I can wake up and release the bucket to fall on the head of potential intruders? Where do I sign up?!

Now that we are adults, we get to undertake more mature projects. Projects involving power tools. Projects where we could die if one of us, namely me, does not know what she is doing. The latest endeavor . . .

Indeed, we built a barn.

Having essentially zero construction experience, barn building provided an opportunity for me to try a multitude of new things. For instance, I have successfully lived through walking along the 1.5 inch side of a 2x4 while balancing on the side of a roof. Standing on the top rung of an 8 foot ladder, I lifted one end of a 150 pound truss up onto the top of one of the barn walls. I have somehow managed to maneuver a 16 foot extension ladder from the front to the back of the barn, set it up, climb up and down it, and paint the barn without falling off the ladder. I have experienced the exhilaration of hanging out of the hay loft door, holding onto the inside truss with one hand while painting with the other. Working with a number of saws, I can now indeed cut a board at 34 and 15/16 inches, and thus far I still have all my fingers. And when I nail T-111 siding, I can say that most of the nails hit the studs.

I have crouched, crept, crawled, climbed, lifted, cut, hammered, drilled, nailgunned, caulked, and painted my way through this experience, all at the behest of my brother, who believes I have the ability to do anything. And sure enough, I know how to do a lot more now than I did before this project.

Next on the list, whole house building. Considering the journey so far, I can just see us now, each balancing an end of a 40 foot beam on our shoulders, the cross piece for the top of the trusses. Climbing up extension ladders, rung by shaky rung, we will eventually place the beam in place, hold our breaths while we nail it, hoping it doesn't fall. Then we can sit back and chuckle to ourselves, thinking, we built a house . . .

The Flying Cow

Ah, rodeo. That timeless experience where grown men in tight jeans show us what they are made of. Leaping off horses at full speed, they wrestle steers to the ground. They ride bucking horses and bulls, risking their lives, their limbs, their ability to father children . . . But nothing can capture the imagination of the multitudes like the age-old sport of cow milking.

My understanding of the history of rodeo is that it evolved from the days when ranchers would get together in the spring, breaking young horses, branding cattle, moving cattle from one feeding ground to another. So theoretically, most of the sports one watches during a rodeo have a relatively strong tie to those cowboying days of yore.

For the life of me, however, I can not grasp the purpose of cow milking. For those unfamiliar with the sport, a cow runs out of a chute, at which point a cowboy on a horse chases her down and ropes her around the neck from horseback and forces the cow to stop running. Now a large guy resembling a football linebacker runs out to the roped cow and pounces on her head, presumably to hold her still. The cowboy on horseback then leaps off of his horse, runs up to the cow, and grabbing an available teet, squirts some milk into a bottle. The clock doesn't stop until the cow is free from the rope and the cowboy has run to the judges to present his bottle of milk.

I will confess I know nothing about cows. Perhaps dairy acquisition is a hurried event. However, I always thought that a rushed cow was a kicking cow.

To illustrate my point, just today a cow in the cow milking event had other plans. Surely her head was filled with pastoral visions of lazily munching hay while her milk is being squirted into a bucket, sans rope around her neck and football linebacker holding onto her head.

She ran from the chute. The cowboy chased her down on his horse. He threw his rope. The loop sailed around her head and shoulders as she jumped through its opening like a circus performer. Feeling the rope tighten around her middle, she conjured every image she ever had of being a peaceful dairy cow, solidifying her dream in her head. The gate loomed close . . . And she leaped. Clearing the five and a half foot gate, she trotted smugly toward her heard. No speed milking today boys, she chuckled to herself. Quietly she started munching hay.

Bugging You

Just tonight I was walking Lewis amidst groups of bats flitting two and fro through the dusky night sky. Coming upon the "swimming hole" (euphemism for a slow part in the river, dammed and filled with mosquito larvae), many bats skimmed the surface. Repeatedly they skimmed and circled, skimmed and circled, presumably consuming some kind of gnat hovering just about the still water.

While Lewis fearlessly plunged into the water, bats barely missing him as they swooped by, I kept my distance, covering my mouth and hoping my hair was sufficiently plastered to my head in a such a way as not to snare a bat if one were to swish by my head.

In spite of my half-hearted attempts to protect myself from a bat entering an orifice or getting stuck in my hair, I would not have been surprised had one ran into me. After all, I'm decent sized in comparison to a bat. And there were lots of bats. And though they have their little sonar thing going, they have been known to run into things. This diatribe is leading somewhere, so please only remember this: it would have been understandable if a bat had run into me.

There are other times when I can be walking along on a warm summer evening, and I see a rather large swarm of gnat-like things hovering around in a group. Logic would serve that if I walk into that group of gnats, I may get a gnat on me. I may inhale a gnat. A gnat may go up my nose.

I Walla Walla, when school starts in early fall, these curious bugs with blue fuzz on their butts start to fly all over the place. As a friend of mine once learned during blue-butted bug season: ride your bike in a swarm of blue-butted bugs, spend 20 minutes picking blue-butted bugs off your sweatshirt.

And . . . this is the grand finale. If there is a large group of something and you walk into it, you may physically encounter at least one element of that group. But this is my question of the night. Why, when I am out mowing the lawn, does one single, solitary gnat or little fly or something fly around in front of my face the entire time? Out of the infinity of atmosphere this one bug could inhabit, it chooses to inhabit the two inches in front of my face. For an extended period of time. No matter how much I try to wave it away. Forever will I be confused by this phenomenon.

Beware the Cervidae

My small town, located precisely in the middle of nowhere, is quite the sanctuary for roving deer. (I also think the deer are aware that one cannot discharge a firearm within city limits, so they take sanctuary. Plus there are an abundance of gardens for them to graze on. Bright little Cervidea). On any given day while walking down the sidewalk, I may either be joined or gawked at by large groups of deer. By large, I mean up to 7-ish. Maybe.

While this is not a number to rival herds of wild horses or the often raved about groups of shaggy buffalo who used to rove across the Montana plains like swarms of locusts, you must remember that I am only one person. Seven deer. One person. Bad odds.

I bring this up because deer on the outside are serene. They munch on grass. They spring around on cute little cloven hooves. They stare at you with doe eyes. . .

Lest anyone be whiled by their charms, please do not forget When Wild Animals Attack. Those pointy little antlers and hooves, once dainty while seen springy across a field, take on a whole new meaning when stuck in your eye.

Don't get me wrong, I do not live in fear of our deer. I like seeing the doe with her babies walk down the sidewalk in front of my house every morning. I just like seeing them from the other side of a locked door.

It's my understanding that male deer, otherwise known as bucks, will attack without provocation, particularly during October-December, their months of rut. 

I do remember walking on a cold fall day around dusk a couple of years ago. There was a small buck in a field, at least a hundred feet away. Stopping to admire his beauty, my mind told me, ah, what a beautiful deer. Look at him standing proudly in that field.

Just then the deer stomped his foot. I got a nervous look in my eye. The deer snorted. I tensed. The deer took a step in my direction. . . . Thinking only of imminent puncture wounds, I fled the scene, and I now have a healthy respect for our deer.

Sagebrush Roads

Above, you will see my most recent acquisition. Having ridden dirt bikes in the past, I had some nostalgic recollection of the activity. But as seems to be the way with most things of late, experiencing this activity in my thirties has opened my eyes to a new and better understanding of the joys of dirt biking.

First off, there is quite a sense of freedom going out, firing up my own bike (that I can actually get kick-started with minimal effort), and riding off into the sagebrush.

After purchasing this bike, I was a little timid on my first ride, trying to force the bike to do what I wanted. Recently, however, I have been trusting it more. Instead of fighting where to bike wants to go, I go with it, trusting in the off-road tires to manage to terrain. And after that . . . I started having fun.

Riding this bike out on the open plains, wind whipping by, surrounded by nothing but nothing. . . I highly recommend it.

The Gift of Adversity

We've all heard it before, something about a piece of sand, an oyster, and a pearl. Or there are those perseverance motivational posters, which of course make me NOT want to persevere just because the posters are so darn upbeat.

But there is something about being a little older and wiser than I once was that is causing me to understand that many of these vague tidbits of philosophy are actually true.

I remember being in junior high, and there was some class where the teacher was talking about the difference between eustress and distress. Eustress being the type of stress that causes a positive response. In our sand and oyster scenario, I suppose this would be the bit of sand that turns into a pearl as opposed to distress, which would be like the oyster getting sandblasted. Probably no pearls there.

What I'm getting at here though, is that I'm starting to experience this concept and actually be able to cognitively reflect on it. Not that my life is particularly adversarial or anything. I'm just saying that I see a more diligent side to me when I am faced with some kind of stressor.

Busy day at work: more gets accomplished in a more diligent and efficient manor. Slow day at work: eh, I can do that later . . .

Perhaps everyone else is ahead of me on this one, so I apologize if I am stating the obvious. It's just that I've been a lot more aware of my pieces of sand that have become pearls.

Just a Thought

Back when I was a kid, I remember my mom buying a handful of fireworks for me and my brother for the 4th of July. Longingly, we gazed at the packaged fireworks for days, anticipating the long-awaited night when we would be able to light them off. Occasionally, we would get to light one off on the 3rd, or we may be able to wave a sparkler around as a special treat leading up to the big event.

At our house, "the big event" usually lasted 10-15 minutes max, at which time we would light a couple little fireworks and grin giddily as they spun around and squealed some high-pitched noise. Fifteen minutes later, the whole show would be over, and we would head back into the house, satiated for another year.

I don't know if it's my increasing lack of tolerance for noise, my ownership of a particularly skittish dog, or if the private firework shows are actually getting longer, louder, and higher, but I would like to cast my vote for a quieter 4th of July.

Having never been engaged in active battle, I can't speak from experience, but it's my understanding that the 4th of July is to commemorate our freedom. And while I understand freedom is often gained through wars and battles, is it really necessary to commemorate our freedom by bringing back memories of rocket blasts? Can't we just celebrate with the family bbq? I can tell you, Lewis would have a much happier time celebrating his freedom with people dropping hot dogs in his mouth instead of trying to hide under the couch while the world outside goes crazy for several hours.

So maybe we could step back a little. For the sake of all skittish dogs and middle-aged women gaining an increasing lack of tolerance for noise, is there any way we could scale back to sparklers and a couple of fireworks that spin around on the ground and squeal, then call that good for the year? If you want the big show, there is always Fort Vancouver on TV. It was just a thought. . .