Thursday, February 14, 2019

Today’s date returns me to a time in my childhood when Valentine’s Day was a big deal, especially during my early grades in school. Annually, on the day before Valentine’s, we children were directed to create cards from scratch. We were handed construction papers of varying colors but mostly red. Before starting to work, we could select from among an array of colored pencils, or ink if we preferred. All valentines had to be from anonymous senders except those we were required to make for our mothers, thus providing each mom with at least one annual reaffirmation of her child’s everlasting love.

It was easy to make a card for my much-loved mom. The stumbling block was choosing a student or students for whom I wished to make cards. Sure, senders had to remain anonymous, but I couldn’t start a design without a recipient in mind, although secret crushes didn’t count, for in the end we simply distributed our finished and unfinished works into anonymous envelopes. On Valentine’s Day each child in the classroom would receive a large envelope containing lots of cards.

I remember thinking hard about what colors to choose, and of course, red always led. And, trying to draw figures like hearts and cupids before attempting to cut them from construction paper. Cutting required practice, for little hands with scissors have trouble following curved lines. My remembrance is an image of kids bent over desks and lost in imagination, trying to translate feelings into images.

The next class session on The Day itself was special. I loved opening my envelope and watching as cards spilled onto my desk. They were signed, with such as, “Your friend”, “Yours truly”, “I love you”, and my favorite, “Your secret admirer”. For days afterward, I’d dream about my secret admirer.

Every year, something I most loved about Valentine’s Day arrived in the real mail, as an envelope addressed to me! My eldest sister who lived in another city never failed on special days to remember me. I’ll always remember my all-time favorite Valentine’s card from her, with these words: “Won’cha be my Valentine? Won’cha please say yes? For gee, it’s true, I do love you! Much more than you can guess!” Best of all, I believed she meant it.

Dear Readers, Happy Valentine’s Day! Diana

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Yesterday after work, I had a bit of business to conduct concerning the disposal of some of my elderly sister’s property, and so, rushed across town. The man I went to visit was busy with a customer. I couldn’t find his wife who’s usually there so wandered around the establishment until he became free. He rose in greeting, surprisingly looking about a hundred pounds heavier than when I last saw him two years ago. At that time, he and his wife were moving into a brand new home.

I knew a little about them because his wife had driven me home a few times and we had talked. She told me about her involvement with elder care and understood my concerns about my sister who’d recently begun living in a local care facility. She was experienced in caring for the elderly and on the side still worked with that population. She offered advice and told me at length about her younger sister, afflicted with lifelong developmental issues, who lived with her husband and herself.

While examining my sister’s papers, the man casually wondered how I’ve been. I briefly described my painful knee, and then, asked how he likes their home that had been new. He nodded, said it was okay, adding that now it’s lonely. Upon my question, he said his wife had died. Shocked, I asked how, and he replied that last year she took her own life. I thought back through our times together, she’d given no clue that she might be struggling with a very dark side. Often somehow, one gets a hint that something’s wrong as a person talks about him or herself.

He said that his wife was bipolar, that they’d had been together thirty years, during which she had periods of great fragility. Her problems had begun early. Her mother and a sibling had committed suicide, her father died while she was young, and she assumed much family responsibility. A single hint of her newly failing state of mind came early last year when she had a major breakdown, injured herself, and spent time in a hospital. This community didn’t have capable-enough psychiatric help for her highly serious mental problems, but she seemed to be recovering. Until several months later, when without warning, she got into her car and ended her life.

The man spoke of his difficulties trying to understand and adjust to her death. He also had to continue with his own life, see to their daughters’ welfare, and manage their mutually-owned business. She had been his best friend, business partner, and mother of their children. Although I knew her only slightly, the suicide and his words continue to weigh heavily.

He awoke yesterday morning after dreaming that she was sitting in her car and crying. He’s certain the dream is correct, that she did cry before taking her life because she knew how terribly hard that action would be on her family. Afterward, he and their daughters spread ashes in several places–the beach which she loved, the backyard of their new home, and interred most in a local cemetery. He visits frequently to “talk with her”.

I’m working through this event by trying to align it to others of unexpected deaths–self-inflicted, accidental, or from another’s ill intent. Perhaps special training makes it possible to comprehend the very dark regions of a disturbed person’s mind. To most of us, bipolar is a tricky concept–so small that we all cope periodically with ups and downs, and simultaneously, so large as to drive moods that consume some individuals.

Perhaps I’m also reminded of my aged sister’s impending demise. It’s much on my mind for losing a loved one is difficult, regardless of a relationship’s history, its ups, its downs. One of life’s great trials is having to adjust to the total unavailability of someone familiar or adored.

Dear Readers, Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is about loving. Diana

Tuesday, February 12, 2019

I was incredibly proud of myself for losing ten pounds without even trying. Moreover, this loss occurred in the heart of winter when there’s minimal physical activity–no hours on my feet working with horses. Those lost pounds had me wondering, marveling, and feeling happy. The loss did more, too, for I boxed and removed my “fat clothes”, and retrieved the “skinny clothes” stashed deeply in a closet.

Shortly afterward, this trend reversed, and suddenly, I felt starved. I craved foods that usually don’t interest me–pizza, popcorn, candy, and other junky items on a list that continued ad nauseam. My cupboards were bare of such eats, but I work at Costco and carted them home to satisfy starving insides. All too soon, I began to feel my slender clothes tightening. Sadly, I stared at my wardrobe, finally out-of-hiding but yet again in a waiting mode.

As a disciplined person, I kept questioning, why these swings? What’s out of control? Why keep goggling down the wrong foods even after they’ve stopped tasting good? What drives my periodic dips into mechanical modes of opposing behavior–robotlike but without a regulatory AI?

Fast-forward to yesterday, and finally, rescue! I worked as a breaker, one who assumes responsibility for tables while assigned demo persons take breaks and lunches. I arrived at Elizabeth’s table where she sauteed stir fry veggies and my salivary glands overflowed! She used frozen vegetables from a big heavy bag that demands lots of freezer space. To me, those sauteed veggies were irresistible!

We demo folks can recognize customers, approaching even from a distance, who clearly intend to take a sample from our tables. There’s something about their expressions, how they walk, their air of permission and confidence to take what they wish, even as much as they want. Despite the lush attractiveness and compelling odor of my freshly sauteed veggies, most men (and some women) moving toward my table and sighting vegetables sharply veered away–a Central Oregon “guy behavior”.

At last, I carried home a bag of stir-fry vegetables and sauteed a big bunch. Heavenly eating! Besides, I consumed all I wanted without worrying about maybe having to switch my newfound skinny clothes for the old fat ones. A part of me had found something healthy and likeable. There’s something else good–no need to find special space for a huge veggie bag, simply park it anywhere in a freezing garage. That’s something to love about winter!

Dear Readers, Have a swell day, and for sure, eat your veggies! Diana

Monday, February 11, 2019

Our outside temperature was 16 degrees. I zipped a heavy jacket while hearing my dogs bark, noisily and nonstopping, probably at deer passing through. Upon stepping outside, I heard a snowblower’s motor and exiting the garage saw what was agitating the dogs. My neighbor, Frank, was behind his machine and moving slowly up my long driveway, plowing through four or five inches of snow, to clear the accumulation!

At the top, Frank circled, his machine spewing snow in a sky-high arch, and passed me with a quick wave before heading back down the driveway, already partially cleared, and now, looking easier for me to leave for work tomorrow.

My mind flashed to another area of snow. With my barn located downhill from the house, I must walk down to feed horses, and afterward, walk up. My knee, with a recent and sometimes painful “meniscus tear”, makes it difficult for me to push through deep snow. Watching Frank inspired me to remember the snowblower housed in my barn. Could it clear a path to ease my travel between house and barn?

This snowblower hadn’t been started for two years, but at least, I had installed tire chains. Now, I added gasoline, the electric starter did its job, and those tire chains made uphill-going easy. Atop my brand new path, and hearing a competing motor, I looked around. This neighborhood’s newest resident, John, was driving a small farm vehicle and plowing snow from the ‘hood’s street. I couldn’t photograph John’s rig but waved a big “Thank you!”, and today will drop a note in his mailbox.

I returned that snowblower to the barn before strolling easily uphill and while approaching my garage admired the cleared driveway and community road. After years on this small country acreage, and with large animals, I’m incredibly grateful for my generous neighbors and friends. Their contributions in so many ways often make routine activities safer and more easily do-able.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day! Diana

Sunday, February 10, 2019

I plan to empty, dust, shine, and rearrange the contents of my display cases regularly. An intent that drags at the bottoms of my to-do lists. It’s tedious, cleaning units too cluttered and very dusty. All because of my fetish–or desire, wish, hoarding instinct, who knows?–to keep objects that generate fondness, interest, appreciation, or some other need to acquire. Items go into display cases with doors, to keep dogs from chewing and cats from breaking. When every case has become too packed for another item, I look closely, heave a sigh, and search for my glass- and wood-cleaning supplies. These days, while it’s snowy outside, I’m cleaning display cases.

As usual, it’s been too long since their last going-over. I’m finding some pieces that I’ve totally forgotten. And other objects, only periodically forgotten, that I can recall vividly. Like the unopened computer game, “No One Lives Forever”, reminding me of a very fun evening.

It seemed too late for visitors when my neighbor, Reiko, knocking on my front door called out, “I need your help!” As I stood surprised, he said, “I must do a shoot right away and need a subject. Could you come with me?” I nodded, stunned to silence, and he added, “You have an overcoat? Okay bring it.” I pulled from the back of my closet a heavy overcoat, useless in LA, but perfect in a snowy February that I spent in England. The next thing I remember is Reiko and me in his vintage El Camino thundering toward his studio in Hollywood.

A professional photographer, Reiko was well-known in motorcycle circles for his skills in shooting Harley-Davidson Motorcycles. He was in demand by owners proud of their shiny, chromed, ultra-adorned machines. Many of Raiko’s photos were published in motorcycle journals showing just super-sport Harleys. Others representing “guy stuff” showed beefcake models, nude or partially-dressed, on or beside machines. No surprise, if he needed someone in an overcoat, that it might be me.

In Raido’s studio, I watched him expertly set up a cardboard wall, cut a doorway, and arrange lights to achieve certain effects. He picked up a child’s cap gun and used duct tape to extend its nozzle before handing me the finished product. He instructed me to wear the coat, with collar up, and step firmly into the doorway while holding my gun threateningly. After we practiced several times, he took photos and finally decided, “That’s all!” We hustled into the El Camino and headed to an all-night photo developer. “What did we just do?” I asked.

“I’m creating what’s called scrap art,” he said. “I’m doing this bit for another photographer who’s creating a cover for some new computer game.

“Will we see his finished cover?”

“I’ll get a copy for my files and will make one for you.”

After weeks passed, Reiko said that the photographer who created the cover didn’t give him a copy, and I can’t recall why. Anyway, after another couple of years, one day while shopping in Target, my eye caught a game cover. On it, a character wearing an overcoat and throwing a menacing shadow, stood in a lit doorway brandishing a threatening pistol. I brought home that game and Reiko copied it for his files. The package in its display case has traveled with me from California. Even today, while peering into that case, a sight of that game makes me laugh, remembering that evening.

About twenty years ago, we created that photo. Now, the memory feels especially important. In those old days, that shoot was just one of many adventures; but it’s since become my unique trophy from a stand-out and unrepeatable event. It’s also great fun to imagine Reiko’s files, where alongside gorgeous babes and expensive motorcycles, there’s a fuzzy photo of me!

Memory and imagination make a picture worth 1,000 words!

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day. Diana

Saturday, February 09, 2019

As promised by the weatherperson, last night delivered more snow, not out of the blue, but heavier than the nearly invisible flakes that all day yesterday fell lightly and melted quickly. We’re into our second or third weeks of on-and-off snowing. By now, we’ve adjusted our routines accordingly, freeing a little time for reflecting. I did so yesterday by sinking into a deep comfortable chair near Peaches’ cage and with him staring out a picture window. There’s no telling what Peaches might be thinking, especially when he’s as quiet as he was. We simply vegged out together.

My horses visible down the slope were eating. Pimmy was on her way from Rosie’s pile where she’d been mooching, toward Sunni’s to see if the younger horse had anything more appealing. Suddenly, something began to bug me. Here, I’m sitting inside, while outside little snows have created good conditions for horseback riding. The warm weather between snows has melted earlier snows, freeing horse trails of icy-slick stretches. Meanwhile, this winter, I’ve been nursing a bum knee, am awaiting surgery, and can’t ride. I sighed and sank back into my chair letting my mind drift off toward snowy rides.

First to my mind, a huge white landscape with Conifer greens peeking from beneath whipped cream. Next, the unique soft-thuddings of hooves. And then, I remembered a sort of saddle sense, or the feeling of oneness between separate beings that are alive, co-dependent, mutually trusting. My horse sometimes snorting and high-stepping will at a touch trot or canter. Riding in this beautiful open and brisk landscape, is made safest by traveling on well-known paths. This avoids “dangers of the disappeared”, such as big holes, sudden drop-offs, large rocks, and vicious barbed wire.

I like how our brains interweave reality, fantasy, and dreams, making the experiences feel simultaneous. I have occasional uncertain moments about which world I’m in. Yesterday, for example, while beside the silent bird and our picture window, remembering with my eyes closed. My dreams were nearly as good as being in the Ochoco Mountains on Sunni or Rosie along our favorite well-trodden paths. These horses, full sisters, are very alike, so why ride both? I think on various terrains each may feel slightly different. Changeability, another beautiful element of dreaming, means that I may ride on all sorts of trails, in various terrains, whenever, and on any horse I wish.

Dear Readers, have a wonderful day. Diana

Friday, February 08, 2019

I’ve thought lots about this photograph which captures a view from my barn. The fog-hidden mountain that seemed interesting through my camera has become fascinating. I often consider it’s potential. Could I write to this image? Some easy writing options would be to speak of physical experiences in the mountain, or to collect and relate old time wisdom and superstitions about its presence, or to describe gasping in surprised upon spotting it from high above or even from the height of a barnyard trailer’s hitching apparatus.

Once I might simply have enjoyed this photo and set it aside, but nowadays I want to know what makes photos effective in blogs. Clearly, an image should draw interest, not used to decorate and be ignored. It should link directly or by implication to a theme. Many folks with the advantage of routinely climbing the Sisters Mountains could articulate related hardships and thrills. But me? I know little about the Three Sisters Mountains except that they’re nearby, visible from my backyard, and very beautiful.

One morning, I awoke trying to recall what dream had awakened me, and also had on my mind an image of this foggy North Sister. Instantly, I knew how to write to that picture. Those fog enshrouded mountains are reminiscent of nighttime brainwork! Dreaming is a topic that’s fascinating, but who remembers much of any dream beyond a first moment of awakening? A brain struggling to make sense of obscure images handles the problem by letting dreams slip away, at least for awhile.

Brainwork is a constant expense of varying energy that regulates bodily functions and powers thoughts. During awake hours, we’re planning, facing, handling, and learning. Tired brains need respite but as we sleep they continue working in another mode, this time using code to rework core daytime thoughts. The resting, coding brain shrouds reality and fogs recognition.

What dreams brought to my newly awakened mind this North Sister? What overnight codes let me comprehend how to blend the image and a blog? What added insight to elements that keep the image attractive? What’s it full potential? What initially made me feel drawn to point a camera? Does a good photograph reveal all the elements that contribute to its power?

If we were in a real time, multi-way discussion about complex images, our brains would offer unique responses to each photograph. We’d see many likely meanings. A great variety of possibilities elevates a photograph to art.

Dear Readers, have a fine day, with an open mind to awareness. Diana

Thursday, February 07, 2019

Everybody who hears her name wonders how she got it. My fault, for deciding to name my tiny eight-week-old puppy after Yellowstone Park’s arguably most famous alpha wolf. That wolf wore a radio collar and had an official number, but her birth date, June 2006, triggered a casual moniker. Park Rangers called her “O-Six”.

I wasn’t looking for a puppy, but a friend’s dog had produced an unexpected litter of unwanted puppies. She said the dad had been a working Border Collie and the mom a collie-mix. I already had two male dogs, but when I met the litter only one female remained. As she chased and tried to bully one of the boy pups, I figured she’d become a tough dog, decided to adopt, and knew exactly what to name her.

That cute puppy grew into a medium-sized adult with her mom’s beautiful sable coat and expressive eyes. To see her is to love her, to know her is a shake of the head, for she’s a kook, and not by a country mile. She’s nothing like her namesake, and usually, I apologize mentally to that O-Six while explaining my Osix’s odd name to a questioner.

My Osix, a barker, sounds-off for long stretches, is problematic, and also, the most alert of my dogs, often first to hear anything worth barking at. Nobody approaches my house without a lengthy announcement. Osix is super friendly, loves everybody, and she’s a devoted companion–unless she hears a gunshot. At a first loud crack, Osix disappears, sometimes hiding too well and too long. Once, while riding with my dogs in the mountains, upon hearing gunshots, Osix disappeared. I herded the other dogs forward looking for her, calling and calling, but to no avail. We turned back to the trailhead, with me hoping Osix would fall in, but we arrived without her. I saddled my spare horse, whistled for hound-dog Ranger, and started again up the mountain. After covering a couple of miles, I saw way up ahead that a dog had joined Ranger. After that, and to this day while we’re in the wilds, Osix wears a coat of shame, a bright-chartreuse, highly visible jacket.

The original, amazing O-Six had been the offspring of wolves transported from Canada to Yellowstone in the 1990s, during the Park’s wolf rehabilitation program. As she matured, O-Six became noticeable for her bravery, attractiveness to followers, and leadership skills. Over time, she produced several litters, was observed to be a good mother and teacher. And she was tough, watchers occasionally saw her down an elk all by herself. She and her pack were visible, tended to ignore watchers, and not known ever to bother domestic livestock. One day, when O-Six was (ironically) six years old, she and one of her half-mature male pups ventured just beyond Yellowstone’s border. A hunter-in-waiting shot them both dead. Along with O-Six’s many devoted followers, I felt heartsick. That happened as I was adopting my new puppy.

A name can seem magical. To me, it’s so with “O-Six” and “Osix”. Addressing my dog by her name revives my images of the fabulous wolf that once roamed Yellowstone. That wolf’s moniker, now belonging to a quirky, sometimes goofy, 30-pound Collie-mix, is a non-confusing reminder. My Osix is charming with unique charisma and I love her. That O-Six was unique and majestic and I miss her.

Dear Readers, wishing you a lovely day. Diana

Wednesday, February 06, 2019

Here’s a thing about the Scrub Jays that hang around my barn. They train me! Although alert and cautious, they seem relatively fearless in bravely swooping for prey and then flying straight up onto a tree branch. It’s easy to recognize their distinctive squawks and various other sounds from their huge vocabulary. When I’m working near the barn, upon hearing a nearby Jay, I grab a handful of the peanuts that I keep around and toss them over a wide area (unless my cat Maxwell is somewhere on the loose).

In seconds, the pair watching me starts working. Each bird swoops rapidly before springing up and away to hide its treasure. This pair that’s been around for several days has spotted a soft touch. Mornings and evenings, they visit, demanding eats. I’m trained to notice and respond. In return, they display energetic and fun-to-see food gathering antics.

It’s a two-way street because these and all other birds are fascinating. I’m awed by the sights birds offer, like beautiful feathers, flying strengths, spontaneous feats of agility, and evidence of close-bonding. Particularly interesting is their intelligence. It’s high and varies among species. Jays as members of the corvid family are among the most intelligent of birds.

Oregon Jays that visit my barn have been reclassified. They’re no longer Western Scrub Jays, but now, California Scrub Jays or Aphelocoma californica (Aphelocoa refers to the Greek, meaning feathers, and californica means California.) Scientists have found that Scrub Jays can plan ahead for the future and also remember 200+ of their food stashes. Their complex food hiding processes, and their group behaviors during “Jay funerals”, suggest the capacity of forethought.

While Corvids are worth appreciating for their high intelligence, wide vocabulary, and fascinating behaviors, we bird-watchers get good returns, too, from this quiet pastime that offers joy and respite.

Dear Readers, have a great day and take time for wild birds. Diana

Tuesday, February 05, 2019

The morning snow was light. Later that afternoon we got hit again with flakes bigger, fluffier, and falling longer. We’ve been through enough snows that we’re prepared to gear-up at a moment’s notice. My small entryway, looking like a war zone, has a heavy heated jacket, cleat-strapped boots, and snow goggles at the ready. I suit up and before stepping outside pick up a couple of old broomsticks. They support in case it’s slick, and are handy helpers for getting up after a fall.

Outside, clean, sharp air forces shallow breathing. There’s lots of snow, not deep, but everything’s clean, white, beautiful. Oh, silence! A special sense of stillness and quiet. I imagine myself in earlier times, way before environmental changes and carelessness in protecting our shrinking public lands. My chosen earlier time is the early 1900s and in this town, before the arrival of rail transportation and massive lumber industry. I want to be here when this still-dinky place was a mountain-isolated spot, smack in the middle of a huge forest of Ponderosa Trees, mature and beautiful, the likes of which humans will nevermore see.

I’m back in time, navigating through white silence, and ahead my horses wait. Rosie’s head hangs over the gate, her front foot impatiently banging against it. Oh, Rosie, someday you’ll kick that gate off its hinges. Behind Rosie, donkey Pimmy waits motionless. In the background, pony Sunni trots expectantly in circles. In these imagined old times, they fit perfectly.

I stuff piles of hay into a large sled, pick up a buggy whip (my space-maker), and start toward the horses. A wave of my whip moves the animals back, making room for the heavy sled to pass through the gate opening. They keep a safe distance while I move to stop number one and dump hay for Rosie and Pimmy. While I head for stop number two, Sunni tracks alongside at a safe distance, meets me exactly at her spot for the remaining hay.

I wish these animals had a decent barn with warm stalls and plenty of room to keep them comfortable and safe, but early on I didn’t know enough about horses to plan ahead efficiently. Fortunately, their large loafing shed shelters them from winds, rains, and snows. And their heavy coats are barriers to falling snow while they eat.

I start uphill to the house where my own dinner is nearly done steaming in an Insta-Pot, welcome heat emanates from a pellet stove’s flames, and already, my Cockatoo Peaches sees me from his perch beside a picture window, and screams, “Hello, hello!”. This episode of reliving the early 1900s is over.

Dear Readers, breathe deeply of freshness, let your minds roam. Diana.