The love of my life

I haven't written on this blog since Nov. 5. That was the day my husband, Mark, stopped working.  He thought he had injured his back in late October, and after toughing it out for a couple weeks on Oxycodone and Advil, he finally gave in to the pain.  On Nov. 5, he had the first of many tests. He was in horrible pain and couldn't lie down or walk. He lived the next two months on our living room couch.  He had to give up playing music, give up teaching, give up driving, give up his life.  We stayed at home, isolated and focused on how to help him get better. Between Christmas and New Year's Eve, he learned he didn't have just a back injury.  He had a broken vertebrate caused by cancer that was moving through his bones and weakening them.  "I'm going to fight this thing," he said. On Jan. 5, he started fighting, sitting through a five-hour session of chemotherapy. But the cancer was vicious and fast-moving. It was mean, dark, sadistic, and it took a piece of him away every day.  Still, he endured more tests, one after another, week after week.  They all offered more answers, but they didn't offer hope.  On Feb. 2, I took him to the hospital. He was weak and had lost nearly half his body weight.  After three days, he was a little stronger, and we came home.  A hospice nurse arrived the next morning.  "I'm going to fight this thing," he told her. Still, the cancer continued on his rampage, and on Feb. 14, Valentine's Day, at 3:17 p.m., he took a final breath. Our daughter, Alexa, and I were there by his side, holding his hand. 
We were married for 33 years and together for 36 - the whole of our adult lives.  We were one heart, two halves of a whole person. When one of us faced a hardship, the other one helped. When I lost my job in 2007, he helped me see the opportunities that lay ahead. When he had open-chest surgery later that year, I helped him get back on the forest trail we often walked by our house.  Since 2007, we have both worked at home, and were together every day and every night.
I can't believe I couldn't help him this time. We both tried. We both believed.  But we couldn't do it.
Now my heart is broken.  My friends are holding me and Alexa in a fierce embrace.  "Write about it," they say.  So I am. 

Mark Acord, July 4, 1954-Feb. 14, 2010

Mark Acord, 55, died at home in Woodland Park on Sunday, Feb. 14, with his wife, his daughter, his sister and his friends at his side.

Mark was born July 4, 1954, in Moline, Ill. He fell in love with music at an early age, and by the time he was 14, he was playing trumpet in a funk band in the Quad Cities. He went to the University of Northern Iowa, and received his degree in music education in 1976.

He played trumpet in a jazz trio, but when he picked up a bass guitar a few years later, he was hooked. The bass was the perfect instrument for him – he liked to say it was the brains of a band, while the drums provided the heartbeat.

Mark and his wife Deb started their first rock band in 1983, playing clubs and concerts throughout Iowa and Minnesota. In their most popular band, Hero, Mark was the front man and bass player.

Mark and Deb were married in 1976, and when they honeymooned in Colorado, they vowed to relocate here. In 1986, Mark and Deb made their move to the mountains and Mark continued his musical career. He played with local bands Beauty and the Beasts, Cadillac Jack, and the Rhythm Method. At the same time, he began teaching in a studio at Rice Music. His students were important to him – he often used part of the lesson time to talk. But he also wanted his students to excel, and when any of them won scholarships to colleges or honors or awards, he was thrilled. He developed an innovative approach to the bass guitar, teaching theory and improvisation and encouraging his students to play Bach as well as Metallica. In recent years, he moved his studio several times, ending at ProSound Music, and with each move, his students followed him.

In recent years, Mark was the bass player for the Channel Cats, a blues band that played clubs throughout the Front Range and hosted a blues jam session at downtown clubs. He also began working at Woodland Park Middle School, leading sectional practices for trumpet and French horn players. He designed a blues jam session for beginning players, and placed his youngest students next to area pros on stage

Mark loved music. He met his wife, Deb, in college, and she quickly learned that a day wasn’t complete for him until he practiced three or four hours. Mark also loved the mountains. With Deb and their daughter, Alexa, he explored Colorado’s wilderness. He named his favorite place – a hidden backcountry campsite in the Lost Creek Wilderness – “heaven.” He was a dedicated weightlifter, an accomplished fisherman and a strong hiker and backpacker and he carried Alexa and her backpack until she was old enough to manage on her own. He often said that preparing for a backpacking trip was the most fun part – he was a self-professed “gearhead” and he loved knives. He often read about world religions, mysticism and physics and was a champion campfire builder – a skill he demonstrated on his last camping trip last summer with Deb. He was a relentless supporter of his wife and he idolized his daughter, whom he called “Leca.”

In the end, he was still thinking about music, and even asked Dale Creel, his friend and fellow Channel Cat to help build a stand for his bass guitar so he could play it sitting down. On the day before Mark died, he was humming a blues tune.

Mark is survived by his wife, Deb; his daughter, Alexa; his parents, Merle and Marilyn Acord of Princeton, Iowa; his sister, Marsha Acord of Mount Vernon, Iowa, and nieces and nephews. He was preceded in death by his grandparents.

A celebration of Mark’s life is being planned for a later date. Donations may be made for his daughter’s continuing education at Acord Education Fund, ENT, PO Box 15819, Colorado Springs, CO 80935.

I love my cell phone

This has really happened: I’m talking on my cell phone and I realize… I can’t find my cell phone. A wave of panic washes over me. I begin searching frantically, all the while continuing to talk. When I finally realize I’m holding my phone in my hand, I’m embarrassed, but relieved.
I admit it – I’m obsessive about my phone. An over-the-hill BlackBerry, it goes with me everywhere. At night, it resides on my bedside table. When I shower, it waits for me on a nearby shelf.  When I walk or hike or shop, it’s in my pocket. And when I can’t find it, even for a moment, I panic.
It’s not like I’m obsessed with talking on it. I don’t have thousands of minutes. I don’t have unlimited texting. I have a Bluetooth but I only use it at home when I’m interviewing someone for a story. But I have become accustomed – some might say addicted - to being able to connect with people anywhere and any time.
I have friends who archly proclaim “Oh, I have a cell phone, but I hardly ever use it,” the same way they would say, “Oh, I don’t watch television;” as if having AND using a cell phone is somehow a weakness or a character flaw.
So, yeah, I am attached. It’s an attachment that started when my daughter was in middle school. My husband and I both worked 25 miles from our home, and we found our first primitive cell phones gave us a valuable connection. We felt safer; she felt safer. And as she grew up, we depended more and more on our phones to keep track of each other (OK, I admit that we used them more than she did for that reason.)
When she went on her senior trip to Mexico during high school, she called us to reassure us she was safe.
When she rolled her pickup truck on an icy mountain road, she called us before she called 911, to tell us she was OK. We got there before the EMTs. (For a while after that, I panicked just a little bit every time she called.)
When she was in Santa Fe, N.M., with a class from her college, she was hit with a debilitating flu. Stuck in a cheap hotel room for five days, she called me often for advice or for company.
One winter night, when I found myself stuck on Vail Pass in a blizzard with a windsheild wiper that broke off in my hand, I called my husband, and he talked to me while I waited for help. When his tire blew out on a mountain pass and he spun out, landing precariously close to a creek, he called me, and I went and picked him up.
But my phone dependency isn't just reserved for emergencies.
I like having that connection. Today when I was walking my dog in the forest nearby, I was pocketless, and I carried my phone. In the forest, it rang. It was my sister, checking in while she walked her dogs. For a while, we walked and talked together.

Tricks and treats

When our daughter was little, we would follow her around our dark neighborhood as she gathered about 20 pounds of candy in a pillowcase. We’d lived in the same house since she was two, so she developed a long timer’s knowledge of the neighborhood, knowing and remembering the best-decorated houses and the houses with the best candy.
I was jealous of the neighbor who went all out, piping creepy organ music through external speakers and setting up an entire yard of plasterboard tombstones. I was impressed by the couple who dressed up like scarecrows and sat, motionless, on their front porch, jumping up whenever a group of trick-or-treaters approached. And the entire neighborhood was awed by the family who gave out “FULL-SIZED CANDY BARS.”
So one year, we went for it. We decorated the front porch with sticky plastic spider webs; brought out the strobe light (left over from our rock ‘n’ roll days – that’s another story), and played spooky music on a CD player in our garage.
We thought it was the high point of our Halloween attempts, but the lights caused some of the parents to stumble drunkenly in the driveway, and the littlest kids were a bit scared by the music.
The next year, we took a new approach. We kept the strobe light packed away and bought FULL-SIZED CANDY BARS. We had done it – become legends among trick-or-treaters. Word of our generous treats traveled fast, and costumed children flocked to our door in large, boisterous groups.
We had tried to balance our supply according to demand but we were woefully under stocked, and after we ran out, the doorbell kept ringing. We raided the cupboards and came up with tiny boxes of raisins. We raided the change jar and started tossing quarters into the bags of those who still came.
But our shot at becoming a neighborhood legend was over. We were instead branded as “the house where they give you raisins.”
The next year and every year after that, we’ve handed out those woefully unimpressive snack-sized candy bars. No matter how many we buy, we run out. We aren’t about to improvise (we still remember the raisin debacle). So we are forced to turn off the yard light, close the blinds and wait it out.
This year, two feet of snow blanket the ground. Trick-or-treaters are going to have to work hard to fill their bags and I’m thinking it might be time to impress the crowds once again.
I wonder where that strobe light is.

Snow day

It’s been snowing all day today, and I wish my sister was here. She lives a thousand miles away, but if she were here, we would celebrate the deep snow and treacherous roads the way we always did: With a road trip.

When I lived in Iowa, she and I would wait impatiently each winter for those nasty blizzards that closed schools and work and made many roads impassable. We would make a plan and head for the mall.
We didn’t really like the mall when we could get there without adversity. But if we had to really work for it, it became an adventure. And if it was open when we got there, we rarely bought anything. Instead, we wandered the quiet halls in our snowboots and heavy coats and treated ourselves at the food court.
“It’s our Norwegian heritage showing,” we would tell each other. “Yeah, we’re not afraid of a little snow.”
I’m not sure why we celebrated that “heritage” at Sears instead of on cross-country skis, but it seemed right. And afterward, we waited for the inevitable question from family and friends: “You went out in that?”
Oh yeah.

Respite on the highway

I returned last night from a 1,500-mile road trip. It should be about a 10-hour trip, each way, but it took us 12 hours to get to my parents’ house in Iowa and 12 hours to get back. Those extra two hours? Don’t tell my mother, but we wiled away those extra minutes at highway rest areas. Before we left, my mother had warned me to stay away from them. “Bad things happen there,” she said ominously. “Really?” I asked. “What kinds of things?”
She went on to regal me with stories from her friends who had heard about vague rest stop horrors from their friends, or read about them…somewhere.(All predicated with “They SAY…”)
I was traveling with my daughter and my dog. Our traveling days were warm. The sun shone brightly. So we stopped at rest stops, unfolding our stiff legs out of the car and exploring the tiny park-like parcels of land. After stops along I-76 in Colorado, I-80 in Nebraska and I-29 in Iowa, we began to feel comfortable with the rest stops’ sameness – sensible concrete buildings where unrecognizable music played on some hidden sound system; lobbies where the furnaces were already turned on; well-kept grass lawns; and a smattering of original touches – a modern sculpture gallery in one, a plastic dinosaur in another; a well-raked sandbox in another. The centerpieces of the rest areas – the bathrooms – were uniformly clean and quiet. Along the way, we found small treasures – a cattail-fringed pond glowing in the sunset; an elm dropping acorns to the ground.
The stops provide a welcome respite from the hum of the highway and endless mazes of road construction cones. They are a throwback to the past; to a time when towns near the interstate highways weren't all built up with Wal-Marts and McDonald's.  And they are disappearing - Arizona recently announced it is closing its rest areas to save the state money. 
Yet, when I saw my sister during our Iowa visit, she echoed my mother’s concern. “Don’t ever stop at rest areas,” she warned. “People disappear.”
“Really?” I asked her. “What happens to them?”
“I don’t know,” she replied in a hushed voice.
I don’t either. We exchanged greetings with other travelers. We did see one car with Oklahoma license plates that had been painted with the words to the Pledge of Allegiance (why would you do that?) and countless strangers smiled at our beagle, who always steals the show.
I don't feel any more endangered at a rest area than I do at, say, a shopping mall or an airport. They SAY bad things can happen there, too.
And on our rest area tour, we had no close calls, no scary encounters, no 911-moments, except for these: that cheap tissue-paper toilet paper that tears when you try to pull it, and one unforgiving vending machine that took our dollar and kept our Sweet Tarts.

The adventure continues

This is it. The end of my writer’s block. Oh, I’ve been writing for the past two weeks, but none of it ended up here, on this blog.
But it’s been a tumultuous two weeks, and each time I sat down in front of my computer to write about it, I drew a blank.
How does a writer write when she’s dealing with a seemingly never-ending stream of e-mails and letters informing her that her services are no longer needed?
It’s kind of strange – you would think that if I had more time to devote to the blog and I needed less time for work that pays me, I could sit all day, expounding on all sorts of topics in elaborate detail.
But it doesn’t work that way. With each announcement, accompanied by predictable explanations that include the words “monetary concerns,” “cutbacks,” and to put a little spin on it, “transformation,” and the usual platitudes like “I hope we can work together again some time,” and “we loved your work,” I got more frustrated.
More frustration? Less productivity.
Since I started working full-time as a freelance writer, life has been unpredictable but enjoyable. One job would end and another would begin. Several provided steady, reliable paychecks, something that’s really unusual in the freelance world. And I supplemented our income with strange little jobs – the kind I would have thought about in whimsical terms (“I could be a …”) but never pursued when I had a full-time job.
But about six months ago, everything started falling apart, and in the last month, my schedule really began to deteriorate. I started hearing from colleagues who were also supporting themselves freelancing, and their experiences were the same.
I shouldn’t be surprised – one of my long-term projects had to do with cars and newspapers (couldn’t see that coming!) Another one was a dream job with a promising future, but when the owners sold out, the giant conglomerate that took over obliterated the local content.
And so on and so forth.
I’ve gotten used to living month-to-month, not knowing what’s coming up. It’s an exciting life. Adventurous, even.  The dictionary defines “adventure” as “an undertaking involving danger and unknown risks.” Dangerous? I’m not sure of that. Risky? Perhaps. There are inherent risks in not having a reliable income.
But it is an adventure, nonetheless.
Right now, one of my friends is in the midst of a three-month adventure, traveling though China, Bali, Australia and New Zealand. I know another woman who is moving to Helsinki, Finland, because of her husband’s new State Department job.
I don’t have any travel or relocation plans in my future, but, like them, I have the thrill of not knowing what will come next. My life will continue to be an adventure

An Alzheimer's lesson

I told my dad on the phone that we had a bear visit our deck last week. It had snowed and I left our bird feeder out overnight. In the morning, surprisingly large bear footprints were framed by the slushy snow.
I laughed as I told the story. I knew we weren't in danger. I knew I could prevent further visits by doing what I should have done that night - not offering any more midnight snacks.
Dad listened carefully. Then, five hours later, he called me back. He was upset. He just couldn't shake the image of a bear threatening us. “Are you safe?” he asked. “Can you do anything to make sure nothing happens?”
We’ve lived in the Colorado mountains for more than 20 years, and we’ve entertained my parents many times with stories about the wildlife that visits our yard – deer, bear, raccoons, a bobcat, foxes, and in the first few years, an elk herd that has since moved on.
My dad was always interested and amused by our tales about the bear we caught clutching a PopTart wrapper in our garage; the deer that stood down our beagle, the fox who trotted up to us with a pillaged hotdog in his mouth.
But this time, there was no laughter; only fear.
My dad has Alzheimer’s. Most days, he keeps it at bay. He loves to talk about politics and sports and the economy. He jokes with my mom and volunteers at a local nursing home and plays a mean game of Gin Rummy.
The disease is hardly recognizable most of the time. But when something worries him, it consumes him. My story about a bear was something he couldn’t let go even though he couldn’t do anything about it; and ultimately, because he couldn’t do anything about it.
So he called me back. “I’m sorry to bother you. But I’m just worried about you,” he admitted. “I know,” I said. “And I appreciate it.”
The next day, I called my parents in the morning. “The bear hasn’t been back,” I reported. “I don’t think you have to worry anymore.”
“That’s good,” my dad said, noticeable relief in his voice. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Alzheimer's is erasing parts of my dad, day by day, but one thing that hasn’t vanished yet is his ability to love and desire to take care of his family. If that love comes through as worry, that’s OK.

Ready for some football

Today is my dad’s 80th birthday. Seven hundred miles separate us, so we won’t be celebrating together. But today, my thoughts are with him, and I’m thinking about…football.
It’s almost impossible to talk about my dad without talking about football.
He played in high school and for the Air Force. The football stadium in my hometown is named after him. When it was dedicated several years ago, our family snuck in one afternoon to take photos of him underneath his name which had been painted in bold black and red letters.
My dad didn’t think he deserved the honor. The school and the town did. His family did. He had been a middle school guidance counselor, teacher and coach for decades. He was known by generations of families simply as Coach. He coached many sports including girls’ basketball, but he loved football most of all.
He believed in football. He lived football. He thought football – coached the right way - taught valuable lessons about hard work and team dynamics. He was proud when he got to coach both of my brothers.
He worked every weekend during the high school football season, and when that season was over, followed teams on TV. Sunday afternoon football games on TV were the music of my childhood.
My dad followed football at all levels - high school, college and the pros - even when he retired from coaching. He knew – and still knows - every player from his home state who went on to college fame and those who went further, to the pros. After he transitioned from coaching to the athletic director position at his school, he still lived for football, offering his experience whenever it was requested. After he retired, he still lived for football, teaching coaching classes at a community college.
In retirement, it was the football he missed the most. He still attended high school games in his hometown, but he had to sit in the stadium beneath his name instead of standing on the sideline, closer to the action.
When my brother became a football coach in a small town about an hour from my parents’, a new football ritual was started; a priceless gift for my dad. For several years, my parents have traveled every Friday night to cheer on their new adopted team. After each game, my dad, not my brother, calls to give me a report.
My brother has started a new season with a young team – all his starters were seniors last year, my dad reports. “It’s going to be tough, a building season,” he tells me. “But they look pretty good.”
So do you, Dad. So do you.

Ooooohhh, aaaahhhh...aspens

A neighbor just asked me about the best weekend this year for aspen viewing. To answer that question requires a deep knowledge of the science of trees and weather, as well as a talent for looking into the future. In other words, no one knows.
But being asked made me feel good. When I worked as an outdoor writer at a Colorado Springs newspaper, I would get dozens of calls each year with that very same question. “My relatives are coming from Texas/Kansas/anywhere where there aren’t aspens. What will the peak weekend be this year?”
At first, I tried to explain that it was complicated and impossible to predict with certainty. Colder nighttime temperatures, the chance of snow and rain, and wind all played roles in the aspens changing.
Some years, the leaves have stayed green until a wind storm or deep freeze takes them overnight. Other years, they slowly change from summer green to a limey shade, taking on a tinge of gold before erupting into golds, reds and yellows.
But people wanted answers. I eventually gave up, and using my powers of observation (and guessing) I would throw out some dates. I felt more helpful; they felt more hopeful. Everybody won. And sometimes, I was right.
That brings us to the aspen report for 2009. The leaves are turning at 8,500 feet right now. It’s a subtle change so far, with an occasional overachieving tree that just couldn’t wait for the others. But I’m shooting for Sept. 25 and 26 at optimal dates… unless, that is, we get rain or wind or really cold nights.
Best bet for the best long-view aspen photos? Highway 67 to Cripple Creek (that's where I took this aspen shot last year). For further trip planning and a closer look, I’m offering up a trio of favorite places to hike amongst the aspens.
- Buffalo Peaks Wilderness Area between Fairplay and Buena Vista. Take a part or all of the Rich Creek-Rough and Tumbling Creek loop trail. (www.thebackpacker.com/trails/co/trail_18.php)
- Putney Gulch-Horsethief Falls section of the Ring the Peak Trail. (www.fotp.com/ringthepeak/Trail5-6.html)
- Three-Mile Creek Trail off Guanella Pass Road. (www.fs.fed.us/r2/psicc/recreation/sight_seeing/spl_scenic.shtml)

To the good life

I interviewed a documentary film director this week, and when I asked him about the best moment of his life, he said, “Birth.”
I’m not sure if he was trying to be funny or deep or inscrutable, or was just annoyed by the question.
I know it was a cliche, in the same line as “if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” (Thank you, Barbara Walters.)
But this guy is at a high point in his professional life, and I really wanted to know if there’s a moment when you know you’ve made it, personally, professionally or both.
Of course birth and death are the bookends of our lives. But what about all that stuff in between?
I suppose for some people, “best” is defined by money or possessions. For others, it is professional recognition.
I think the best moments of my life are both large and small. In the “large” category: the day I met the man who would be my husband; the day we were married, and the day our daughter was born.
But it’s the smaller, more random events that sit between birth and death that make a life worth living. Just daydreaming for a few moments brings some to mind:
The night I played synthesizer in a heavy metal band.
The first time I climbed Pikes Peak.
When I finished writing my first book.
When a copy of that book arrived in the mail.
The day I learned to drive a stick shift.
The day I taught our daughter to drive a stick shift.
The first time I saw the mountains, glimmering in the distance as we drove west across Nebraska.
Watching bald eagles fishing in the icy winter waters of the Mississippi River on a -20 degree morning.
Watching deer graze in our backyard.
Teaching our daughter to read.
The day we bought my husband’s dream car, a black Camaro Berlinetta, off the showroom floor.
My first piano recital.
The day I skied alone after a foot of fresh powder, when the skis were blue, the sun warm, and the slopes virtually empty.
My daughter’s college graduation day.
There’s a common theme here. Most of these are from my life as an adult. Moments of personal accomplishment, discovery and adventure rank high on my list. But it’s a really long list. It’s a really good life.

Happy day

Today is our wedding anniversary.
I won’t say what year we were married. Let’s just say it was long, long ago.
It was a beautiful day in Iowa, a hot, Indian summer kind of day. Our car started on fire on the way to the ceremony (faulty wiring) but we made it just in time.
Our wedding was small, done in what our daughter now calls “hippie style.” A family friend who was a Methodist minister read Kahlil Gibran (“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you”). I wore my mother’s dress, all netting and pearl buttons, from the 1950s that fit perfectly; Mark wore a black polyester suit we found at K-mart (his first and last suit). We each had one friend stand up with us. We made the sandwiches (it was Iowa; of course we served ham) for the reception for our 20 guests. There were no bridesmaids in goofy matching dresses or groomsmen in matching rented tuxedos. There was no catered dinner or dance. No open bar (no bar at all). There was no expense, really, other than the cost of a really cheap suit, a bouquet of flowers and a plate of ham sandwiches.
After the reception, we stopped at Burger King (don’t know why; just sounded good), then headed to Colorado for a camping honeymoon in Rocky Mountain National Park.
It was perfect.

Happy anniversary to us.

Feeling nostalgic

Remember when…
You didn’t have to take off your shoes before you were allowed on an airplane?
If you wanted your oil changed, your nails done, your vision checked, your paycheck cashed and your grocery list filled, you had to drive to five different businesses?
Hitchhiking was something everybody under a certain age did?
Tattoos were something everybody over a certain age had (if they were in prison or the military)?
Coors had to be refrigerated at all times?
You were out and forgot to make a call, so you stopped at a phone booth?
KFC was called Kentucky Fried Chicken?
You had to drop off the film of your vacation at the local drug store and wait days while they developed it?
You bought film?
You had to pay a monthly fee for your e-mail account?
You got your check handed to you in an envelope at work, and you had to drive to your bank to deposit it?
A 36-inch TV was REALLY big?
“Friend” was a noun, not a verb, and “twitter” was commonly used in the phrase “all a’twitter”?
If you wanted your car window down you had to crank it down and if you wanted your car door unlocked you used your key?
You could smoke in a bar, and a restaurant, and at work, and you did?

Bird brain

A strange bird has been watching me all day through my deck door. I believe this bird is the cause of my ineffectiveness today. I believe this because I’ve spent most of my afternoon watching this bird instead of writing, which isn’t a great way to spend a Monday.
Overall, it was a good Monday. I was excused from jury duty. (It’s not that I don’t enjoy doing my civic duty, but I have a very busy week ahead of me.) I went grocery shopping and scored some great big juicy ears of Olathe sweet corn. I walked my dog our usual three miles. I thought about a story I’m about to begin to write.
And, I watched the bird, photographed the bird, and researched the bird in a pile of birding guides I keep on my desk.
I’ve determined the bird is an evening grosbeak, a largish bird that one of my guides say is seen mostly in the winter. I remember this bird and a pal showed up at my feeder about this time last year, or was it later? This thought makes me pause and wonder if summer is over. I think about all the things I planned for the summer that I haven’t accomplished yet. I think I have fall fever. Is there such a thing?

Working for a living

He strapped on his guitar, shook his head, swept his hair from his eyes, and said, “It’s been years since I’ve played the blues.”
This road-weary musician had just turned 13. Did he mean he had put away the blues with other childish things, when he was, I don’t know, maybe six years old?
A 20-something woman I know who has two small children sent out a Christmas letter last year. “I’m taking a much-needed break from the workplace,” she explained. She had worked for two years.
To the 13-year-old veteran player and the worn-out 27-year-old, I have to say, “Are you kidding me?”
Maybe it’s a sign of my age or my frustration with the workplace, but I just don’t have the patience for people who don’t seem to have earned the right to be world-weary yet: the pint-sized 10-year-old dancer on “America’s Got Talent,” who is voted off and says in a burst of tears, “I’ve wanted to do this my whole life;” the fame-weary movie star who “retires” before the age of 30.
But maybe there’s something to this life fatigue thing. My daughter and I were talking the other day about the first fall after her college graduation. She was feeling wistful about the first day of classes, and a little sad that part of her life was behind her.
“Now I have, like, 60 years of work ahead of me,” she said. I thought back to when I was just out of college. Did I feel that way about my life? I don’t think so. We were excited to have taken the next step in what was a predictable life – work in our chosen fields.
Today, life is less predictable. My daughter’s friends with new degrees in English or communications are all working. One is at Home Depot. Another is a bookkeeper. And another joined the Air Force. My daughter manages a gift shop at a local tourist attraction.
They are all in their 20s; all doing something different than they dreamt as they toiled over Shakespeare and technical writing assignments in college.
I try to assure my daughter that life will get better. That she will find her “dream job.” That she won’t have to work until she’s 75 because there won’t be any Social Security. But it gets harder to be convincing when she looks at my own life, shaken up by the economy.
I’ve had to reinvent myself and take on jobs that have nothing to do with my profession. I’ve embraced them all, believing that a variety of experiences make for an interesting life. But I hold that belief because I had the chance to follow my dream for more than three decades.
It’s more difficult for a 22-year-old with $45,000 in college loans and no hindsight to believe she will go further than Home Depot. I guess I see why she already feels like she needs a break.

A scent, and a memory

I never particularly liked petunias. They don’t have much of a perfume, and they never really fit into the overall design of my barely tamed rock garden filled with plants that don’t need watering and have the decency to come back every year on their own anyway.
My grandmother loved petunias. Each summer, she would fill spare planters and flower beds with their bright blooms. She died several years ago, and I never thought much about petunias after that.
But one day, when I was in a garden shop checking out the newest perennials, I happened upon a petunia riot of pinks and purples and reds and a soft blueish color. Their scent – really just the faintly spicy aroma of their leaves – instantly transported me to my grandmother’s patio.
In her honor, I bought several petunia plants, transplanted them into a pot and set them on my deck. Loving the hot morning sun and cool nights, they thrived. Ever since then, I’ve decorated my deck with petunias each summer.
They are cheerful flowers that bloom over and over, and they’ve weathered hailstorms and windstorms. On rare days when the sun doesn’t shine, they glow in the gloom.
I admit they have won me over with their brilliant display. But I most appreciate the way their scent sparks a memory. Scientists say that the sense of smell – the very first to develop in our bodies – is the strongest sense and can trigger strong, almost photographic, memories.
The acrid smell of wood smoke in the air reminds my family of the first days of the Hayman fire that roared through the forest a quarter mile from our house in 2002. The smell of baking bread takes me back to my mother’s kitchen, where homemade cinnamon rolls were on the menu every Saturday. The scent of a newly mowed soccer field in the park near our house (the only refined grass around) conjures up memories of a backyard hide-and-seek game when I was growing up in Iowa. The aroma of pipe tobacco transports me to a time years ago when my father was a pipe smoker.

My dad lost his sense of smell decades ago. Several studies have linked that loss to Alzheimer's, with which he was recently diagnosed. For years, he has missed out on the good - and bad - smells that have surrounded him. Now, other forms of his memory are leaving him. But when I told him about the petunias, planted in honor of his mother, he smiled, and remembered.

A word

Throughout my professional life, I’ve worked hard to avoid using clichés in my writing (except in headlines!) and have tried to be careful with my use of idioms.
After three decades, I must say it’s been an emotional roller coaster.
I don’t know if my attention to the words I choose even amounts to a hill of beans.
Still, the English language, and our use and abuse of it, fascinates me. In his town hall meeting this morning, President Obama made a reference to “bean counters.”
I cringed. Does anyone under the age of, say, 40, even know what a bean counter is? That in this case, in the health-care debate (a debate that has also included many references to "reinventing the wheel"), it has nothing to do with beans?
The way we use language can break down barriers or form new ones. And clichés and idioms don’t help. They are, by their nature, old-fashioned. After all, the definition of “cliché” is “an overused expression” and it has to be used for a while before it wears out.
So many times, calling on clichés announces to the reader or listener that the writer or speaker is just plain old.
My 21-year-old daughter recently asked for my advice about how to handle a situation at work. Should she talk to her boss or leave it alone? “It won’t hurt to put in your two cents worth,” I told her. She stared at me blankly. “What does that mean?” she asked.
The expression (which hearkens back to a time long ago when postage was really two cents, and you could send a letter stating your opinion) really dated me.
Just as dangerous: cultural references writer Ralph Keyes calls “retrotalk.” Comparing someone to Eddie Haskell? Sure to confuse almost anyone under the age of 50 – the iconic show, “Leave It to Beaver,” the TV sitcom where Eddie lived, went off the air in 1963. In an article about this alarming trend, Keyes calls out media types who throw out references to Jimmy the Greek, Howard Beale, Joe Friday, and Rod McKuen.
Is there anyone under the age of 30 or even 40 who can tell me what any of those names signify (other than, maybe, Trivial Pursuit fanatics or journalists)?
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not trying to be a party pooper about this language thing; just trying to do the right thing. And let me tell you, it’s no walk in the park.

Goodbye, Buster

For years, Buster played a supporting role in our pet menagerie; a tiny Yorkie mix with Benji fur and eyes that looked like black marbles.
Months ago, he began to grow more detached, patiently enduring the loss of his sight and hearing.
And in recent weeks, he had become a ghost; pacing the house in the same pattern, curling up in a dark corner and only coming out for a bite or two of food and the uncomfortable force-feeding of medicine that kept him alive.

Buster had lived with epilepsy for 15 years and a heart murmur for almost that long. And in the end, he was on medication that helped the inflammation around his heart but gave him an insatiable thirst. But still he survived.
He was comfortable with the place he chose for himself amongst our cats and dogs. When we got him, our goofy yellow Lab Waldo was two years old and we jokingly called the tiny terrier “Waldo’s dog.”

Buster worshiped Waldo, and was a patient partner in our young daughter’s play. When she dressed up the dogs, Waldo would frantically race until he was free of the confining costumes. Buster would sit quietly, wearing the frilly doll hats and dresses happily.
When we went camping, Waldo chased around the campsite and Buster went to his favorite place – burrowed into the bottom of one of our sleeping bags. He was a great camping dog, we would brag, and if he got tired on our longer backpacking trips, we just carried him.
Epilepsy was like a cruel shadow that followed him everywhere. For several years, he suffered seizures almost every month. One weekend, he had dozens of seizures, each one leaving him weak and temporarily blind.
But he always recovered, and we thought he deserved our support. And as the years went on, his epilepsy diminished, replaced by heart disease.
Waldo died two and a half years ago, and after that, Buster withdrew, seeming lost and old. He coexisted with our new dog, Hunter the beagle, but never really interacted with him. He wandered our house, peeing in any available corner. We stopped taking him for walks because he would gasp for breath. He had congestive heart failure, our longtime vet told us. With a new medication, he could last maybe a couple more years. We were going to give him that.
But in the past few weeks, Buster became afraid. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him or pet him. He whimpered all night and wandered the house all day.
He was miserable and so were we, so I called our vet. Lisa, his assistant, listened while I told her our decision about Buster. “You did a great job,” she said softly.
We took him in. Afterward, my husband and I talked about how hard it is to take that step, to make a decision we shouldn't have to make. “That’s part of owning pets,” he said. “It’s the hardest part.”

And it’s a part we are willing to accept, again and again.

Away from it all

I’ve been gone for a week, exiled from the Internet, TV, and even (horrors) my cell phone.
When I returned, I had 148 e-mails, including 12 from a company that promised I could have a better erection if I sent for a free sample of their product, and a plea from a Nigerian lawyer to help him find a home for $10 million.
I quickly turned on CNN this morning, and found out that: Washington is still working on health care, there’s unrest in Iran, and a tornado touched down, somewhere.
I didn’t spend the week in the wilds, although that sounds wonderful. I was visiting my parents in a small town in Iowa, a less-than-wild place where the Internet is just an annoyance, where TV is an unnecessary distraction from the art of “visiting,” and where the day is spent trying to decide whether to “open up” the windows or endure the air conditioning.
My parents had the Internet once, but got rid of it. They have cable, and will turn it on for occasional reruns of “Rosanne” and for the 6 o’clock news (along with regular Weather Channel updates). They even have a combo DVD/VCR and a cell phone, but neither is ever turned on.
But when they have guests, they concentrate on the entertainment at hand – conversation.
I admit that I didn’t really miss anything important in my self-imposed technology exile.
And I rediscovered a life I had forgotten. In Iowa, breakfast is big; dinner is served at noon, and supper in the evening. And even though my family is several generations removed from the farm, you wouldn’t know it. Food – lots of hot dishes (that’s casseroles to you), and always followed by dessert – is important and it brings everyone to the table for, you guessed it, more visiting.
One of my relatives regaled us with a story of a wedding she had attended in a farming community. The bride had the audacity to serve her guests “gourmet” wraps (gasps here) and, instead of a cake, cream puffs. That might play in California, but in Iowa? Many fondly remembered another wedding, where the banquet featured thick marbled steaks.
But all that cooking makes for a hot kitchen, so my mom and dad (and as far as I can tell from extensive research, all Iowans over a certain age) follow each meal with a discussion about opening/closing the windows and turning off/on their air conditioning. “Do you think we should open up?” one will ask the other. “I just hate that closed-in feeling,” the other will declare.
So the windows come up and the conversation warms up, extending into the thick nighttime air and the evening’s entertainment – the glitter of fireflies.

Home, sweet home

One of our neighbors tore his upstairs deck off his house, leaving an ugly scar and a heck of a drop from his sliding door. That was two weeks ago.
Another one started mowing his yard for the first time this summer, ran out of gas, and stopped. That was three weeks ago.
I notice these things because they make me feel better when I procrastinate. All summer, I’ve written “to do” lists crowded with tasks such as “re-stain the deck,” “weed the flower garden” and the most ambitious, “terrace the back yard.”
The lists pile up on my desk, but eventually I guiltily bury them under more important lists related to my profession, which is writing.
One of the most difficult things about working at home is the insidious way that home gets in the way of work.
Maybe it’s a female thing, but I have a hard time sitting down at the computer in the morning if there are dishes in the sink or clothes in the hamper. And if our yard does need mowing, I have to keep the blinds pulled so the tall grass doesn’t lure me to the outdoors.
Even work-related tasks get preference before I actually start making money. Sure, I might sit down at my computer as the sun comes up, but I have to check my e-mail first. And I have to respond to e-mails I’ve received. And I have to send e-mails I didn’t finish the day before. And then, there’s Facebook and Twitter. Hey, I have to keep up with my networking.
Work is pressing on me as I check in on CNN’s web site for the headlines and then Google news to see if CNN missed anything. (It’s important to be informed, right?)
Then, it’s back to my e-mail to see if anything new has turned up.
By this time, it’s usually time to put another load in the washing machine. And before I know it, it’s lunch time (followed by more dishes).
I used be awed by inspirational stories of dedicated writers who picked up pen and paper every day at dawn; whose work transported them into another world where nothing mattered but their written words.
Now I’m pretty certain they remained focused with the help of both a maid AND a secretary.

Lion vs. chainsaw

When I read the story about a camper in Wyoming using a chainsaw to protect his family from a mountain lion, I had one question:
Who takes a chainsaw on a camping trip?
I’ve been camping for nearly two decades in the Rocky Mountains, and I can’t recall ever hearing the whine of power tools on any of our trips.
I have to admit that we don’t even own a chainsaw. When my family camps, we embrace the Leave No Trace principles of camping. If we have a campfire at all anymore, it’s in an existing fire ring, it’s made of gathered dead wood and pinecones, and it’s just big enough to warm a pot of water for coffee.
Our biggest campfires have been on winter camping trips when we tried to keep warm as the temperature dropped below freezing.
But in July, when on a cool night temps might dip into the 40s? A chainsaw? Does anyone really need that much firewood?
I know that at this point, some readers who are all about power equipment and camping will label me a “greenie” or a “tree hugger.”
I’ve been called that before. Several years ago, we were in Alaska in January. During a week there, we stayed in the home of a lifetime resident whose home was decorated with animal skulls and whose breakfast table groaned with a bounty of moose sausage and reindeer steaks.
Still, we were getting along nicely until our host started grumbling about the “G-D-tree-hugging bunny-lovers.” “They’re trying to ruin everything,” he declared, certain that we shared his dislike for anyone who treasured trees OR bunnies.
We didn’t argue with him. After all, it was 20 degrees below zero outside, we were in a small town and there was nowhere else to stay.
But his attempt to denigrate me didn’t work. Of course I love trees and bunnies, and while I’m glad this renegade mountain lion didn’t hurt any people, I feel sad that he had to die.
After the Boulder Daily Camera carried the man-vs.-mountain lion story, readers sparred online about chainsaws, camping and wild animal encounters. There were basically two camps – those who cheered on the brave chainsaw camper and those who grieved for the mountain lion.
I admit - the mountain lion fans were my kind of people. You know – tree-hugging bunny-lovers. It’s an insult we wear proudly.