The Way Back To The Jeep

Rachelle’s past much-loved pal, her Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever (named Bon Jovie).

Saturday, June 06, 2026

My dogs and I love a nearby BLM area for many reasons. For one thing, it has a long irrigation canal with rushing water, lined with colorful wild water lilies. We were there recently to meet up with our longtime friend, Rachelle, who brought Ryder, her beautiful Aussie. He and my Chase are vigorous play buddies.

Rachelle and I hadn’t walked with our dogs for many months. We’ve been busy, so we had lots of catching up to do. And we did, while walking along the path beside the busy canal as our dogs played, chasing one another into and out of the water.

Rachelle is a lovely companion—bright, well-informed, and creative. Years ago, during one of our walks, she encouraged me to explore podcasts. I did, and found myself enjoying the timely perspectives of favorite writers and newscasters. Recently, I graduated from podcasts by subscribing to YouTube Premium, which is now my go-to source for news and commentary. Rachelle said she, too, pays close attention to that platform.

We were in sync, walking, talking, and sharing thoughts about our strengths, weaknesses, and changing physical and mental energies.

I am aging and thus paying more attention to matters of aging, with mixed delights and worries. So, walking and talking with Rachelle is special because she’s open, honest, and insightful. While she’s younger than me, Rachelle understands many of my concerns about what may lie ahead in the unstoppable process of aging.

She told me that she had recently been deeply involved in one of the most sensitive issues associated with aging. Her mother, Fay, who was more than 100 years old, recently passed away—by Fay’s own choice and with medical assistance. Rachelle said the actual event was a peaceful ending. (Note: Rachelle has given me permission to write about her mother.)

Fay’s early history dates back to the 1920s, and I asked about it. Rachelle said that her mom had found her way into college, earning two degrees, a Bachelor’s and a Master’s, during years when women typically did not do so. After finishing college, Fay began teaching in the New York public school system. She continued there until retiring at age 59.

From a genetic standpoint, Fay’s genes were remarkable. Rachelle probably has inherited some of those advantages. Perhaps I have them, too, as my own mother lived to around 100. We were never entirely sure of Mom’s age because she was born into an immigrant family in America and had no recorded birth date. She estimated her birth year, but whether she was accurate or not, she was certainly long-lived.

Rachelle explained that Fay actively participated in choosing her method of death. That decision was made several years earlier, while Fay was more cognizant of the realities of aging. Rachelle and her brothers supported Fay’s choice. Rachelle filled a prescription and stored it for use when the time eventually came.

Next year, Rachelle’s brothers, who live in other cities, will join her to spread Fay’s ashes.

Meanwhile, our dogs were having a wonderful time, but an underlying worry nagged us. I had brought along Osix, my 15-year-old Border Collie mix. Physically, Osix remains active and strong, but she has lost 80 to 90 percent of her hearing and has developed cataracts, which have impaired her vision. These days, I take Osix only to trails she knows well, thinking that if she gets confused about where she is, she will still remember where my vehicle is parked.

Just in case, I had brought the dogs in my old, familiar Jeep, and at the BLM, after releasing them to run, I left the cargo door open. Somewhere along our walk, upon realizing that Osix had disappeared, Rachelle and I were concerned. But we remained cautiously confident that Osix could find her way back to the vehicle.

Upon finally returning to the parking area, we saw Osix waiting patiently in the Jeep’s cargo area. Yet, I sensed a bittersweet note in the moment; for that may have been my old dog’s last opportunity to roam freely in such wide-open spaces. Although I hadn’t spoken much about this, a worry in the back of my mind was what I’d do if it were necessary to search for a lost Osix in that vast BLM landscape. It was a tremendous relief that she remembered her way back to the Jeep.

Rachelle and I are planning another dog-walking outing in a couple of weeks. With more pleasure, good conversation, and mutual appreciation ahead for ourselves and our dogs.

— Diana

Under Her Wings

Saturday, May 30, 2026

Domestic chickens are arguably the underdogs of the pet world. Tiny chicks need coddling until they’re fully feathered and able to keep themselves warm. After that, they’re turned loose in an enclosure—or allowed to free-range. The point of keeping chickens, of course, is getting eggs. There’s little as pleasing as farm-fresh eggs—standing up in a skillet, smiling, and, by most accounts, tasting better.

I could babble on about fresh eggs, but my real purpose here is to talk chickens—or rather, one chicken. Specifically, a single hen.

A Welsummer was her breed, and “Welsummer” became the name I casually gave the little chick who joined my first flock back in 2010. I purchased her, along with two bantam chicks, when they were about two days old. They had been placed in a “sick tank” at the feed store and needed special care. I paid 50 cents apiece for them.

I remember wondering, “What’s a Welsummer?” I later learned it is a Dutch breed of mixed ancestry, developed in farmyards during the early twentieth century.

At home, I found an unused terrarium, added bedding, rigged an overhead heat lamp, and settled the tiny chicks inside. As small as Welsummer was, the bantams were even smaller. What I witnessed was lovely. Each bantam hopped over to Welsummer and tucked itself beneath one of her wings. There she stood—patient, accepting, and hardly bigger than the chicks she sheltered.

I was looking at a chicken, and yet, was mightily impressed. I never forgot such kindness. That trio’s behavior continued until the babies grew stronger and more confident. Eventually, all three joined the larger flock.

Fast forward about ten years. By then, every member of my original flock was gone except Welsummer, who still wandered the enclosure. I brought home a new batch of chicks, raised them until they were feathered, and then turned them loose with the old hen. That was before I understood the importance of properly introducing unfamiliar chickens.

The youngsters and Welsummer were not going to get along.

Welsummer had outlived a great many chickens, and I wanted her safe. So I moved her into a special pen with a heat lamp inside my attached garage. There she would remain protected for as long as she lived.

That was nearly six years ago.

Sadly, yesterday, Welsummer—once the kindest little chick I had ever known, and later my beloved special pet—crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

She was turning sixteen years old. A remarkably long life for a chicken.

— Diana

What Friends Are

Friday, May 29, 2026

I had another birthday this week. I’d prefer to forget that this is my 86th year, but so it is. Longtime friends reminded me all week with cards and phone calls. On the actual day, Eva and I met for lunch and discussed activities and issues in our lives.

And then, there were Susie and Dale. Just when I’m not caring much about celebrating another year, Susie steps in.

She’s big on relationships, big on caring, and big on birthdays. So is Dale, who stays busy managing his business — his brainchild and creation — HeliLadder. Which, by the way, now occupies a building of its own in this city’s key industrial district. (More about HeliLadder later, in an upcoming blog, as I’ll soon visit to see its new digs for myself.) But, for now, I digress.

Yesterday evening, on a very rainy day, Dale and Susie hosted a birthday dinner for me. We went to the Pine Tavern, this city’s oldest restaurant — a delightful place — where Dale had ribs while Susie and I dove into gigantic hamburgers, a rare treat for this “casual vegan.” Afterward, we took our desserts back to Dale and Susie’s, where we lingered and talked late into the evening.

I’ve reached a time in life when relationships matter more and more. I’ve never been especially skilled at handling meaningful relationships, for complex reasons, though I’ve forgiven myself for that. I filled many years of my life with beloved pets and, later, horses, which always kept me busy and physically strong. While I’m generally content with the life I’ve chosen, it feels like a mitzvah to have met Susie and Dale — people with whom, over time, I’ve become comfortable and can freely “be me.”

So Susie made certain they shared my birthday. And, in a rare experience for me, they asked for details about my background and listened — without judgment — to my complicated story.

Their kindness has helped me better understand what it means to be a friend. Friends “are there,” unafraid of getting involved, supportive of others’ choices, yet willing to push back, ask questions, and perhaps influence a decision-making process. But whatever decision ultimately prevails, they remain — listening, encouraging, and supporting.

For someone who has always been careful about relationships, they are among “the best” for where I am in life now. They help keep me anchored to occasions, events, and sometimes delights. Speaking of which, Susie and I plan to head east next Sunday night “to chase” the rising Blue Moon.

Punctuating a mature Ponderosa inside Pine Tavern’s Main Dining Room

The best part of my special day was simply this: people who genuinely care “were/are there,” even while busy with lives of their own.

— Diana

Bend’s New Library – Revisited

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

I was excited on my first visit to this brand-new building not long ago, but I became disappointed when I found it wasn’t the kind of “real library” I was accustomed to. A day or two later, I reflected on how the structure is actually meant to be used. Certainly, it will be a popular meeting place — and already is — with its huge, nearly always full parking lot. Still, it wasn’t like the libraries I understood and had known. I left the building with a sense of loss.

Now I see things differently. At first, I was deeply wrapped up in myself and wanting what I expected. Later, my outlook began to recover as I reflected on the larger picture — the social changes that influenced the library’s design and purpose.

I was flummoxed to discover that the building primarily serves as a community gathering space. Although books on display hint at a traditional library, with well-arranged shelves holding the newest and cleanest volumes, they don’t fully counter the sense that the building functions mainly as a hub. Cardholders can go online, search for and reserve desired items, then simply pick them up. A dedicated drive-through even facilitates quick pickup and return of library materials.

Yes, social media and AI have changed our relationship with libraries. Online access makes things easier and reduces the physical need to wander through stacks or seek assistance from librarians. Libraries are adapting by becoming less centered on book browsing and more focused on serving as multi-purpose community spaces.

That realization had me reflecting on my part-time job as a department store cashier. During breaks, coworkers rarely talk with one another. Instead, we stare at our phones — and, personally, I usually prefer not to be interrupted by someone wanting to chat. Not only at work, but also out on city streets, people are absorbed in their phones.

Yet while I check out customers, many seem delighted to share parts of their lives with me — stories about their backgrounds, travels, pets, and adventures. Some even say they’ve appreciated our brief exchanges, and occasionally someone jots down a phone number and suggests I get in touch.

Those brief getting-to-know-you moments are enjoyable, but somehow they feel sufficient in themselves. I don’t follow up. Still, I sometimes think I might enjoy knowing some of those people better, as many clearly have unique backgrounds, interests, and accomplishments. And if we happened to meet in a non-work social setting — perhaps in that new library building — getting to know one another more deeply might seem more natural and appropriate.

On this second visit, I’m not searching for books. I’m simply enjoying time in an enabling space while drafting this blog. No pressure, no disappointment. I’m sitting beside a large window, feeling creative — and communicative — while occasionally accessing social media myself. Nearby, other visitors are taking similar advantage of the space, working on studies or staring into laptops and cell phones.

This library — designed for meetings and work as much as for books — serves as an alternative to the popular coffeehouse. One can leave home with a laptop and come here to sit, think, and spend time among others in a non-demanding social environment. And there’s even a handy coffee bar.

I’m giving this new library building a great deal of slack. A modern community needs people-friendly spaces — and certainly more spaces like this one.

— Diana

Beautiful Rosie

Monday, May 15, 2025

This year, Rosie turned 30. Yesterday, she crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

She was a Foundation Morgan, which meant her pedigree traced back to the original Morgan horse, “Justin Morgan.” Her paternal grandfather was a famous Morgan named Promise, whom she physically resembled. Rosie came to live with me in her late prime—around 15 years old. She had been trained as a carriage horse, and I hoped to learn that sport.

Rosie went to a capable trainer to be physically reconditioned and refreshed for driving. Meanwhile, I took driving lessons. Soon, I learned to drive my flashy mare, and we became a fine team. Lovely Rosie was also built beautifully for riding, and together we traveled many trails through nearby mountains and forests.

She was a true boss mare—the Queen of the Paddock—over Sunny, her accommodating stablemate and younger full sister. Rosie was special, with her own peculiarities. Her distinctive personality and style taught me how to partner well with a sensitive horse.

Last night, Sunny and I deeply missed Rosie’s usual strong presence. We will miss her again today—and for many days to come.

RIP, our Beautiful Rosie.

–– Diana

Bend’s New Library

Saturday, May 16, 2026

Yesterday, I sat in a “creative cubbyhole” beside a large window with my laptop in our new main library. It opened earlier this week, and inside it is beautiful—spacious, light-filled, modern, and carefully designed. Yet, surprisingly, as I looked around, I found myself missing this city’s old, now-closed main library. That crowded old place felt less curated and more discoverable.

Almost as soon as I entered the building, I began comparing what I saw to the old library’s stacks, which had always seemed endless. I recalled the faint dust-and-paper smell of well-used books and remembered running my index finger along crowded spines—often stumbling upon a surprise: a long-forgotten title, a long-unread author, or an unusual and compelling subject.

Central Oregon is full of readers. We’ve all been curious about this ambitious building, watching it rise and eagerly awaiting its opening. All week, visitors have filled the library, circulating among its attractively displayed shelves. But to me, the shelves feel too tidy, almost merchandised. Shiny book covers face outward in displays that seem heavily edited—perhaps too intentionally curated. Titles are visible, but authors’ names are partly obscured by catalog stickers.

Those displays push the curating system itself into the foreground, suggesting that organization matters more than browsing. I was surrounded by clear, clean order that somehow didn’t feel intimate. I assumed any book I wanted would be available and easily accessible, yet something essential felt absent.

While sitting there yesterday near the large window, I noticed the blinds lowering automatically in response to the changing light outside. I would call the library beautiful in the way airports and modern museums are beautiful: open, bright, efficient, and almost impossible to criticize directly.

The building even includes a first-floor coffee bar. One can order a designer coffee, settle beside a window to work or study, or simply linger over a latte. The interior design encourages community and socialization—a kind of environment I usually enjoy—but it is not quite my idea of a real library.

I found myself reflecting on the libraries of my childhood, my young adulthood, and my more recent past, remembering their narrow aisles and accidental discoveries. What returned most strongly was the feeling of books aging together in those old spaces. There, books were encountered almost physically: by touch, by proximity, by scent. In this modern setting, the books feel staged. There is more emphasis on display than discovery.

Old libraries invited wandering, browsing, and sampling. This new facility is designed for ease of navigation. Perhaps this very modern library optimizes access to materials. But a better building does not necessarily feel like a better library.

Essentially, it functions as a hub. Someone seeking a book, movie, or other item from the library’s non-visible holdings goes online, searches the catalog, and reserves the desired materials. The items are then picked up and returned at the building.

And yet, it is undeniably seductive. Imagine a Starbucks on steroids. Someone—maybe me—can walk in with a laptop, order a latte with an extra shot of espresso, settle beside a large window, think, create, and perhaps even meet new friends.

— Diana

Diversity or “The Places We Carry”

Thursday, April 02, 2026

This morning arrives as my mornings mostly do—quietly, though never silently. A thin light works its way over the junipers, and my animals begin their routines. Horses waiting, dogs shifting, birds announcing themselves from places just beyond my windows.

Nothing unusual. Nothing unsettled. And yet, as usual, I find myself thinking about life in a nation that feels unsettled.

I keep asking, as many of us do, why Americans choose the leaders they vote for—especially when those choices seem, from other points of view, difficult to understand.

It’s tempting to explain those choices in terms of temperament or values, or to assume that something has gone wrong in people. But I doubt that’s quite it. I’m considering something quieter, but more persistent—something tied to the places we carry.

I was first shaped in a small town in Oklahoma, where my young life had visible edges. People knew one another. Expectations were understood without being spoken. There was a rhythm to things—one that didn’t demand questioning. Things simply were.

Years later, I lived and worked in Los Angeles, a world that moved very differently. It was expansive, layered, and constantly in motion. You could become someone new there. You could step away from what had once defined you. The geography itself—ocean, mountains, forests—seemed to encourage that sense of possibility. The pace alone invited change.

Now, I live on a small acreage in Central Oregon. Mornings like today feel grounded again—with animals, weather, and light. There is a steadiness here that encourages attention over haste.

Still, I remain aware of the larger world. Current global conflicts have led me to study geography more closely, and I’m beginning to see the quiet power it holds over nations and leaders. Lately, I’ve started to wonder if that same influence applies to us as individuals.

Using myself as an example, I can see that who I am has been shaped by three very different places. Each has left its imprint.

Those changes didn’t come quickly. For a long time, I felt closely tied to my early attitudes—relying on them as fixed, reliable, even permanent. But living in different environments has a way of loosening certainty. Experience stretches perspective. Time and place invite reconsideration of what once felt settled.

Change, welcome or not, keeps arriving. The question isn’t whether change happens—it’s whether we can live with it. Whether we can move with it. Whether we can leave certain attitudes behind when they no longer fit the world we’re living in.

Not everyone experiences that in the same way. Some people live in environments where change is constant—where difference is expected, where adaptation is part of daily life. In those places, adjusting feels natural, even necessary. Others live where continuity matters more—where stability is not just comforting, but essential. In those places, too much change can feel like something important is slipping away.

Neither response is unreasonable. But they do lead to very different instincts—and often, to political divides.

I find myself returning to this idea: not that people are so different in character, but that they are standing in different places—shaped by different surroundings, carrying different versions of what “normal” looks like.

Geography doesn’t just shape nations. It shapes us—what we expect from life, what we notice, what we overlook. It shapes what feels secure, and what feels at risk. And perhaps most of all, it shapes what we believe ought to stay the same.

I can still feel traces of Oklahoma in me. I still recognize the pull of Los Angeles—its openness, its movement. And here in Oregon, I feel something else entirely: a steadiness that allows me to consider both.

These reflections don’t resolve the differences. But they do give me a wider place to stand.

And from there, the question shifts—from Why would someone choose this? To what feels like a better question: What has shaped the place from which they are choosing?

The ground beneath us may differ—but we are all standing somewhere.

— Diana

The Earth Talks Back

Sunday, March 08, 2025

Yesterday, the morning behaved itself. The sun arrived on clock-cue, light crept over the junipers, and the birds carried on as usual. My routine was a simple, four-part harmony: coffee, listening, looking, and assessing the weather.

But today, the “human committee” has intervened. It’s Daylight Saving Time again.

My clocks—the ones I forgot to change—insist nothing has happened. But it’s still dark, and I know better. I suspect the horses do, too. Creatures of the natural world are famously unimpressed by national policy.

When I step outside at the hour my watch will be claiming this day begins, the sky will argue. This country air will whisper, “You’re too early.”

The result? My house is divided.

The Clocks: Claim I’m on time.

The Dogs: Complain that their breakfast is an hour “late.”

Max the Cat: Ignores this adjustment entirely, views the whole thing as unnecessary human drama.

The Birds: Are still hit-snoozing in the trees.

We play this peculiar ritual twice a year, pretending politely that time itself has shifted. But out in the country here, the real clock is the faint glow behind the Cascades. And it’s the stirrings of animals without alarms. Because the rhythm of the land is stubborn—and frankly, far more sensible than attempts to “move the sun.”

I’m forced to compromise. I’ll pretend as much as possible to follow the government’s clock. But I’ll keep my internal gears set to the horizon, embracing these truths: coffee first, listening second, looking third.

I’ll let the bureaucrats move the numbers. And meanwhile, I’ll keep listening for the wild birds to reveal the true beginnings of our days.

— Diana

Listening in Country Silence

Saturday, March 07, 2026

Mostly, my mornings begin quietly, but here in Oregon’s high desert, no early hours are ever completely silent.

First, I hear not-too-distant highway sounds from early traffic. Sometimes, too, a hospital helicopter thunders overhead. They’re normal sounds, reminding me that a larger world is already awake. Most of my mornings begin that way—with everyday noises easily tucking themselves into the back of my mind.

But early on, and also this morning, something finer arrives—a feeling—a sort of country silence. Oddly so, since there’s never any real silence. I’ve tuned out distant and overhead noise, but from somewhere in the nearby trees I hear birds calling—already busy—their calls breaking the air from various heights and directions. I love seeing birds and always look for them, but they’re mostly invisible.

Depending on the hour, even the most common birds are nearly impossible for me to spot. The mature junipers all around may help deflect their sounds just enough to make locating them difficult. Many mornings with my camera at the ready have proved that the noisiest birds can remain completely hidden from me.

It’s very early as I walk downhill toward the barn. I’m distracted from the usual silence breakers by my dogs—fenced, though that hardly makes a difference—now racing along the fence line beside me, all three determinedly escorting my morning travel.

The horses notice me and greet me with the quiet acknowledgment horses show to those who feed them. I pause and say hello, enjoying their eagerness for apple pieces from my pocket. Before long, I hear turkey greetings—Lacey’s special whistle-like, unique sounds. They delight me.

After these first moments, I pause and pay attention to this morning’s weather by looking west toward the Cascade Mountains. They announce what’s happening now and hint at the weather ahead. This Central Oregon winter has been strange—too warm and too dry. This morning, clouds obscure all but the mountain tops, making me think that sprinkles might fall soon.

Weather watching matters for anyone who keeps large animals. Weather isn’t just background—it’s everything. It determines what work must be done and how to do it, all for the comfort of the animals. Years here have taught me to look as far ahead as possible, thinking about seasonal impacts. For me, that includes wondering about hay prices when harvesting time arrives. Drought conditions can make hay scarce—hard to find and expensive when it does appear.

After years of experience, I expect most mornings to begin the same way. First I listen. Then I look. Finally, I assess what today—and tomorrow—might offer, searching for hints of what lies ahead.

Until tomorrow’s change—when Daylight Saving Time returns—one hour’s difference, blowing holes in early perceptions.

— Diana

Birthday, “On The Town”

Sunday, February 22, 2026

Yesterday was my friend Susie’s birthday! We celebrated by going out on the town—Central Oregon style—for dinner and a movie. Dinner was Japanese—sushi and a California roll. Then we headed to the Tin Pan Theater, tucked away in an alley and showcasing art films. Last night’s feature was a selection of Oscar-nominated short films.

Our favorite short, Perfectly a Strangeness, followed three donkeys meandering through the Atacama Desert, eventually making their way to an observatory. The donkeys wandered through a barren, futuristic landscape, but they seemed familiar with their surroundings, even when encountering a wild, beautiful coyote. What stood out most was the film’s poetic and visually stunning style.

The movie conveyed a theme (at least, if I “got it” right) that’s a bit unsettling. The donkeys—perhaps representing an ancient life form—seemed out of place in the industrial, mechanized world of the observatory. Watching this lovely yet thought-provoking film, I couldn’t help but think of Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times. Both films deliver strong, poignant messages about the clash between nature and the modern world.

Susie’s birthday gave us the perfect excuse to hang out together. It had been a while since we’d caught up, mainly because she’s always so busy with her family’s business. Our “date” was special, though, since she’s leaving soon to travel east for a family wedding and to handle some business matters.

As always, we spent part of the evening capturing memories with photos. My fun, busy jacket was a hit!

After the theater, while heading to our car, nobody ever could have guessed what we’d be bumping into!

Thanks to Karl Lagerfeld for creating such iconic, always fun designs.

Thanks for sharing your birthday with me, Susie, my dear friend. And for the lovely evening—full of learning and surprises.

— Diana