Familiar Faces, Forgotten Names

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m too tired to do anything more constructive, I google the names of people I used to know. My searches are limited to those whose last names I remember, to the few women whose names didn’t change, to those whose names are uncommon enough that I have any hope of finding the right person.

I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.

My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”

One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.

I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”

This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.

I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.

I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.

She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.

I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.

Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.

We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.

Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.

I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!

The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.

I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.

The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.

I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.

I. Want.

I’m pissed off and depressed. My toes are definitely fat, on both feet now. Is this the beginning? Will I have any time past this summer to do the things I want to do?

I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.

I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.

Bryce canyon at sunrise by Jon Sullivan

I want to sit in a desert bare canyon, near a warm shallow stream and I want to see Bryce Canyon in the snow. I want to feel the sun hot on my back, like I almost felt today. I want to hold scads of wiggly puppies and get lots of kisses, paws-in-the-face love. I want to hold a bunny.

I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.

I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.

I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.

I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.

I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.

Rocky mountain columbine by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

Just once, I want to wear a bra bigger than a -AAA, and feel like a girl with boobs. Just once, mind you; I’m sure it will be a passing fancy. I want my hands to find the words easily, signing quickly and gracefully, and learn how to mimic a cat trotting across the street.

I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.

In The Wood by Petr Kratochvil

I want to travel back in time and swim through Glenwood’s pool underwater, eyes open and soothed by the minerals, still unsullied by chlorine. I want to laugh with my aunties and tease my uncles just once more. I want to hold a baby, laugh with a toddler and answer a four year old’s questions every night for a year.

I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.

I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.

I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.

brain storms

I'm taking a class about getting around writer's block. Last week's lesson was about brainstorming.

* * *
brainstorm

brain storm

write about storms

wind, wet slashing down, thunder

I should not be out playing

on a hillside

during a lightening storm

what do I remember about storms

on summer afternoons in the mountains?

the thunderheads, white clouds turning dark,

the intensity of that summer sun,

intense color, deep blue sky

I haven’t seen that color in decades

not since riding my horse

galloping across columbine-laced meadow

riding ornery Goldie was something

of a storm in itself

storms

snowstorms are my favorite

dramatic in such a silent way

silent drama

like an ASL signed

play in three acts

Deaf Theatre

silent drama

the drama of gay kids,

their pain silenced

ignored

until they die long before they should

so much talent and love and hope

wasted and gone

kids should not be dying

write about storms, huh?

Did I ever see a thunderstorm

boil across Lake Superior

and slash the dorm windows with rain?

Did I ever dance

in the dewdrop sweetness

of early morning at Cedar Lake?

I remember hanging with the dogs 

one early morning,

when those kids were

shooting that soft porn film

“Move your shorts so we can see your buns. Melody.

You have reeeally nice buns; I think it will be allllright.”

That kid,

the one with the camera,

the only male

(an important observation

when watching half-naked women

and men with cameras

and directorial aspirations)

that kid said that a lot, “allllright”.

So mellow and pretend-gentle

for someone shooting porn.

I might call it erotica

if he hadn’t told one of the women

to pretend to drown…

“put your face in the water and your butt in the air”

two women played like lovers

as they slipped on summer shifts,

translucent, white, long skirts barely covering

tanned wet bodies

I have skinny-dipped in that lake

at night

when the only white was

naked breasts

stomachs

butt cheeks in the star light

some storms are softest of rain

some are pain and blood and thunder

I have seen both
brain storms

I Call It Civil War

I am very troubled by the widening distance between my feminist sensibilities and the thoughts of younger women who put themselves on the other side of the debate about women's rights. What can I say to you that will not be taken the wrong way? We are on opposite sides of a great divide, and it is getting wider all the time.

When American Rupublicans are not only suggesting, but passing laws that are injurious to women, I see misogyny and anti-feminism at work. But you apparently don’t see what I see.

Laws are being passed that dictate a waiting period between a woman’s request for an abortion and the actual procedure. I believe these laws set up women for emotional torture, second-guessing and guilt tripping. The affected women have already made the difficult decision to end a pregnancy. In a discussion about these laws, a presumably Christian woman said she thought the mandated wait times, 'counseling' and intravaginal ultrasounds a good thing, because “doctors never tell us anything.”

When I hear this, I assume that this woman wants to know about and have control over her own body. I understand she wants factual information so she can make informed decisions based on her personal needs, values and situation. That’s as it should be. I certainly want that, too, for myself and for all women.

I also believe that it is naïve to presume that passing laws mandating that every woman who wants to end a pregnancy (or get extra help to have a child, or hopes to bring a pregnancy to term without a miscarriage, or wants to plan her family) must be forced into unnecessary and unwanted tests and counseling.

I find it insulting that anyone believes that a woman is incapable of making the best decision for her particular situation. I find it ludicrous that a bunch of men know what women need more than women do. Letting men control women’s bodies is a very bad idea, particularly in a society that is clearly still woman hating and suspicious of women’s strength, ethics and insight. There is an overarching idea, one I thought we feminists had partially eradicated, that women are evil, unthinking, child-like. . .the list goes on. And our politicians are falling back on these superstitions to get the power that they want.

I have been so horrified the past year or two as more and more bizarre laws are suggested and passed.  The recent fight about whether church-sponsored medical organizations (e.g. a Catholic college student clinic) have to provide and pay for birth control is a good example. Santorum seems to think that birth control should be outlawed even between married couples. This man is running for the GOP presidential nomination. We have to take what he says seriously, even if he's an idiot.

It has often occurred to me that some of this bizarre thinking may be a smoke screen; a way to get everybody all riled up so that they won’t notice the continuing lack of job development, the failing economy and the corruption at all levels of government and finance. I don’t know if my smokescreen theory is the main motivation behind the current climate of hatred or if I just wish for diversion tactics, because I can’t quite wrap my head around believing that there are people out there who as hateful, shortsighted and narrow-minded as the extreme right is proving themselves to be.

This country is at civil war. Families are being torn apart, young people are going to needless deaths as a result of bullying and racism, and loyalties are decided with more Fox News-inspired patriotism and emotion than careful thought and research. And, like in the Civil War of 1860’s USA, much of the underlying issue is financial. I’m not sure how the people in power get from A to B, but somehow they think that subjugating women is necessary financially.  They don’t give a hoot about children, born or unborn, or they wouldn’t be cutting things like TANF. They just want to control their worlds and I suspect the power women have shown over the past 50 years scares the s*%& out of them.

I don’t know how to bridge the ravine that I am watching widen as every day passes, as more and more cruel and inhumane laws are passed. The ravine is personal; my siblings are both extremely conservative and have ideas that horrify me. When Donald Trump believes the birther theories, I roll my eyes and wish he’d find a better toupee. When it is my brother, who I know to be a thoughtful, intelligent man, who believes those ideas, I am deeply saddened and feel powerless to reach him. There are many ravines between he and I. And they are all so unnecessary, all based on lies.

Those birther ideas are rooted in the most pervasive of racism. I am discouraged not only for our country, but for the courageous family who is in the White House, struggling to make life better for all people, even those who hate the color of their skin.

I don’t know how to talk to you, young conservative friend. I can only continue to find ways to work for what I believe is right, and hope that some day, you will have the freedom to make decisions about your own body, without some lawmaker intruding into a discussion that should be between a woman and her doctor.

A Border Collie and His Black Sheep

Lucky came to me first. I supervised a computer lab in a suburban high school. On the first day of school, Lucky bounded into my room with a large white shepherd mix in tow. He came right to me, sat for pets, gave me a big doggie smile and my heart said, “This is a goood dog!” The other dog turned out to belong to a neighbor who couldn’t seem to keep him home, but I never could find Lucky’s person.

He clearly came from a good home. At eight months, he’d been trained with kindness, was good around stock, and was a pretty solid dog. I knew he was a Border Collie, but I knew nothing about the breed. I called the hotlines of the shelters (this was before I knew about stray holds) and drove around most of the weekend, but never found who’d lost him. Someone lost a great dog, and I met one of my best friends.

At the time, I knew I was close to losing Myrddin, the gold-colored setter who had taken my life and my heart by storm some fifteen years earlier. I ended up having to put Myrddin down less than a month later. Lucky’s appearance was certainly well timed.

The second day of school, I locked Lucky in my large bathroom with another dog I’d rescued. At noon, I drove home to check on him. On the way back to school, I found a 12-week old white kitten sitting in the middle of the road. I was also unable to find his owners, and he soon went to a new home.

In the intervening week, Lucky and that kitten played a hilarious game, over and over. The kitten would huff out from under the living room chair, back arched, tail puffed, hopping sideways. Lucky would pounce and the kitten would scurry back into hiding, only to start the game over again.  When the kitten’s new person walked away with him, Lucky followed the length of the living room windows. “Where are you going, new friend?”

My roommate, who was feeling a little overwhelmed at the number of dogs I was bringing home (I’d started sneaking them in and out. . .) soon said, “If you want to keep Lucky, I really like him.” Smart, beautiful and charming, Lucky won over a lot of people through his life.

A few months later, one of the kids came in. “Aspen, there’s another dog on the football field.” I’d been ‘rescuing’ dogs for the past few years, and had had perfect karma, always finding their homes after an afternoon of driving around the neighborhood. I was a little burned out, though, since many of them went back to inadequate homes. I got a note from the English teacher; her kids had nicknamed me “Aspen Ventura” after a Jim Carrey movie about a dog rescuer. 

The cute little dog on the football field was a 30# spaniel mix who showed her impish personality that first afternoon, leading me on a chase across campus. If I called her, the tail went up and she ran the other direction. I started calling her “Little Girl” at once, and the name stuck.

I didn’t look for Little Girl’s people. She was covered with fleas, too thin and wearing two collars, both too large for her. She was also terrified of everything. I had to literally fight with her to get her in the car that first night. Although she soon learned that the car meant going to the park, it took her an entire year to meet my eyes.

Border Collies are herding dogs, originally bred on the cold, rough and rainy border between Scotland and Britain. They herd anything that moves. I don’t remember how the habit started, but Lucky soon took on the responsibility of keeping track of his little sister, the black sheep. I’d call her, she’d run the other direction, and he’d follow, either herding her back, or crouching and keeping an eye on her.

I’d say, “Where’s your sister?” and he’d go find her. One memorable evening, about dusk, we were in a wooded park where the two of them loved to chase squirrels.  I’d called and called, and couldn’t find Little Girl anywhere. I looked at Lucky and commented, “You know, I’m about ready to go home and eat dinner.  What about you?”

I guess he was hungry. Turns out Little Girl was about 20 feet away, staring up a tree. Lucky collected her, herded her back to the car and held her there until I caught up. That’s a Border Collie for you; I can’t count how many times I’ve talked to Lucky or Stevie (the BC I live with now) and had them understand me perfectly. In addition, Lucky often picked up on my emotions. Even after he went to live with Kelly, his rescue mom, there were several instances where we seemed to pick up on each other’s feelings.

In those early days, we had access to a wonderful beach house on Washington’s Pacific coast, and at least a couple of times a year, I’d pack up the whole crew (which also included an opinionated cat) and drive out to the beach.

I don’t know what they’re called, but there are seabirds that fly in formation along the edge of the surf. Lucky loved to herd them, and in those days, he could run and run. Little Girl had no herding instinct to speak of, but she would cooperate with him and help herd the birds.

They were best buddies. Lucky herded her outside, but inside, Little Girl owned the bed, and kept the very soft Lucky off it. I always wanted him to sleep with me (Little Girl slept under the covers, even in the summer), but inside, he was terrified of Little Girl, the alpha brat. I remember one night, I woke up and realized there were two dogs on the bed. As soon as I woke, Lucky got up and left, but I wondered how many times over the years he snuck onto the bed to lay full length against my back.

A friend once told me, “Myrddin wanted to be taken care of; Lucky is here to take care of you.” He always had my back.

Little Girl was a mighty hunter. I often wondered what she had in her besides spaniel. She seemed drawn to beagles, and had quite the vocabulary of corrgels, hoots, hollers, bays, growls, yips and yaps. She proved this one night when I went to bed and heard her and Lucky hunting in the house. That little dog was sure having a good time; she ran through every sound I’ve ever heard from a dog, and then some. I got up later and found that they’d killed one of the biggest rats I’d ever seen.

Stevie doesn’t hunt, but Lucky learned from Little Girl and they often cooperated. I had to fence off a rockery in my yard because Little Girl would spend hours harassing the garter snakes that lived there. I’d look out the window and see some poor snake Essing across the yard, both dogs in pursuit.

The first time we lived in my car, we didn’t find a place to live until November. The truck got cold at night, and I went to the thrift store and bought both dogs fleece coats. For Lucky, I got a dignified blue and red plaid vest. Little Girl received a child’s red, hooded jacket with an appliquéd Mickey Mouse on the chest. Lucky was quite insulted; I ended up buying him an expensive and warm dog coat. Little Girl, always one to work the cute factor, loved her coat and wore it often to the dog park.

Those two were a pair! They came into my life about a month apart. There was a calendar month between the day I sent Little Girl to the Bridge and the afternoon I gave Lucky to rescue. In the intervening fourteen years, they never failed to make me laugh.

A Following of Crows

I’ve been spending a goodly portion of my grocery money on peanuts for the crows. Every morning, Stevie and I circumnavigate the double city block behind our house. We walk half a block on the first leg before we meet the first large flock, thanks to a fountain and feeding station (and a lovely Poodle) at a house on the next corner. There are always a few early birds to accompany us on that first part of our jaunt.

At first, there were only a few crows; those who happened to be at the neighbor house at that hour. I could, with careful management, go all the way around the block on one pocketful of peanuts. Today, I was lucky to get half way. I have a following.

A large flock followed us on the next section of our journey, limited more by the dwindling contents of my peanut pocket than by geography. I could hear their wings as they swooped above us, a velvet softness of wing beats, surprisingly unpunctuated by caws. In spite of my quip to a neighbor, “I doubt they’re starving of the hunger if they can make this much noise,” the crows are mostly silent when following peanuts. Except for that softness of wings.

Today, motivated by a looming deadline, I defaulted on our daily trip to the dog park and took Stevie around the block again mid-afternoon. Again, we were recognized and followed by a large group. I even spied the Steller’s Jay nabbing a stray peanut near some bushes.

And again, I ran out of peanuts before I got to the vet clinic on the corner near my house. Again, I had to apologize to a small, curious crow who followed me from tree to tree, endeavoring to look like she was starving. Not successfully, but I did feel badly that I hadn’t saved any peanuts for her. There is another neighbor at this corner who smokes outside, sitting on his porch, and feeds the crows and the jays.

So this evening, enjoying our first spring sunset, since the time changed last night and we were watching the sun go down at 6:30 pm, I walked in the other direction. I was determined to have peanuts for that small crow who had perched in the tree above me, listening to my fervent apologies in silence. I had asked her to follow me home, but the crows have learned that when someone goes inside the house, the treat time is over.

I have been using body language in a consistent manner, hoping to teach them to understand when I sign that I am out of peanuts. I have also, foolishly for my grocery budget, been going outside once I get home, to offer more peanuts to those left bereft. They are never there, and the scatterings I hopefully leave on the lawn, are not usually touched.

Anyway, back to our evening walk. I heard and saw many crows, but they were all headed north-east, high in the sky. I wonder where they roost. They’re such fascinating creatures. Always, I have a soft spot for the tricksters of the animal kingdom, animal and human alike.

Give Your Pet A Perfect Day

An article on Slate, by Jon Katz, really touched me. Worth a read.

Houses: Vision of the Bridge

For Sherry, because she recognized the ovum.
Thanks to Sally Miller Gearhart, who gave us the Wanderground.

The lights in the trees are increasing, more visible with the impending night, more numerous as we drift away from the bonfires. The singing drops to a melodic chant; I hear a lullaby guitar from across the river. Birdsong decreases; I haven’t heard the crow people since the first pink appeared in the clouds.

www.baumraum.de

A tail thumps against my leg; I bend to hold Lucky’s warm body in a hug, and he favors me with one of his gentle, lightening-fast kisses. I bury my nose in his soft, thick doggie-smell coat and glory in a hug so long missed that I may never forget how slowly time moved between his leaving and my coming here.

As his white ruff makes my nose tickle, I hear the first cry from the wolves. Their howling always sounds sad to me, even though there are no traps here, no guns. Multi-layered, far-reaching, the wolfsong always starts with melodies deep and sonorous and far away.

The coyotes’ refrains are higher pitched, yips and yelps and soprano calls. Next to the wild songs, the bays of the dogs, the hounds, the collies, the cocker spaniels, are cacophony, not yet melody. This does not curb their enthusiasm.

I sense, but do not pay attention to the quiet of the woods around me. This nightly chorus makes us all stop and remember the wild ones for a moment. Even here, this is the least we can give them.

www.freecabinporn.com

As the last howl dies away, I resume my walk through the trees. Above me, I hear whispers, laughter, a lullaby as the young women in their swaggerlairs ease into the joy of night time couplings and sleep dreams. There are no nightmares here.

The first cricket cheeps off to my left. Across the water, I spot Janes’s sail house. I love our creativity, our variety, our commitment to home and place.

www.baumraum.de

Many of us build our homes in the branches. After so long chained to the ground, watching the saws and the bulldozers disregard the gentle and sturdy spirits that are those great survivors, the trees, we want to be close to them. Their song, this night, as the summer wind blows a few cirrus clouds across the moon, soothes me toward sleep.

I can’t wait to climb up the rope, tuck into my sweet-smelling ova and dream my favorite dreams of women and dogs and trees, all living in harmony.

freespiritspheres.com Img #4

Camping Time

It is almost time to go camping. The bushes have buds, the pussy willows are soft, the crocuses are showing their colorful blooms and the forsythia outside my window is mimicking the daffodils.

The light is returning. I see pink clouds on our morning walks, and the evening moon doesn’t show herself until after dinner. Today, it was sunny and the lake was very blue.

It may have smelled of snow this morning, as we walked in the sleet, but Stevie has been eating new grass along the pathways. He pulls the blades from between the emerging dandelion greens, still tender in their newness. Once the cold night has disappeared, the earth smells are pungent with dead leaf, earthworm, rich loam smells.

The birdsong is more varied. The wind certainly blows, but it no longer howls around the eaves.

It has been a warm winter, but I crave the heat of August. The sun on my face is more than a benediction; it is hope and life itself.

I’ve been craving the sweet tanginess of lemonade, and the sour delight of cold grapefruit juice, freshly squeezed. Strawberries beckon me, but I won’t buy them until they’re locally grown.

A milkshake sounds really good about now.

It is time to get out of the city for a while. I want wild Wyoming landscapes, star-blessed wilderness nights and windy hilltops above a panorama as large as the sky itself.

I want the wind fresh from the Strait and fish smells, salt-water odors and clean-smelling mist in my nose. I want firm sand under my feet as I dodge the waves and the ice-cold froth of a Pacific tide.

I want to hear gulls shrieking through the fog and light rain pattering on the roof of my truck. I want to watch the sun come out and sparkle silver on the rolling waves. I want to go to sleep where the surf rolls through my dreams. I want to wake with the sun glowing red through my closed eyelids.

I want to pack up the truck and travel through mountain passes where the kinnikinnick peeks through the snow. I want to walk pine-needled lanes surrounded by shaded, quiet woods. I want to watch waterfalls tumble from the granite mountainsides, and fantasize about how cold and sweet that water would have tasted fifty years ago from a mountain spring.

My wanderlust is back. It is time to go camping.