Dinosaur Bones Come In All Sizes

Most days I can barely remember what I wore to work the day before, or if I’ve turned off my closet light.  I do sometimes wonder if I’m wearing the same outfit three days in a row to work, but I don’t worry about the closet light because Dean always reminds me if I’ve left it on.  That’s okay though, because I watch out for him too.  I just don’t always remind him when he’s left the stove burner on, or forgotten to close the garage door at night or left the radio on when Shadow wasn’t even home or … gosh, there are so many things.  

I admit it, every now and then I do forget insignificant details, but I almost always remember “what I was doing when … ”  I’m sure I’m not the only person who regularly says “last week at this time I was …”, “last month at this time I was …”, “last year at this time I was...”   I don’t know why, but I love remembering what I was doing this time last whenever.  It almost always makes me feel happy and excited.  And it’s even more fun to remind my family and friends what I was doing this time last whenever.  Although I suspect there’s a chance that, on very rare occasions, it may annoy them.  “Hey, guess where I was last year at this time?  Manta!  For your wedding!!  Remember?!” 

Lots of people do this.  Don’t they?  I’m not the only one … am I?  

Saturday morning when I woke up and saw the hall thermostat reading 59 degrees, and a mountain that had changed from a green/gold mix to white, I thought to myself, “last year at this time I was on my way to the Amazon.  Where it was hot.”  I walked into the kitchen to see Dean sitting at the table wrapped in a blanket, fleece hat on his head, reading the morning paper and looking pitiful.  I did not ask him if HE remembered where he was a year ago although maybe if I would have, the memory of the heat and sweat might have “warmed” him up and I could have put off turning the heat a while longer.  

I’m not sure why I regularly remember and think back to a year ago or a month ago or a week ago.  Maybe sometimes it’s because what I was doing in that past moment was so much fun that I want to relive it.  Maybe it’s because I know I may never get the chance to experience whatever it is I am remembering again and I don’t want to forget it.  Or maybe I’m just getting old and sappy. 

I was remembering one of those moments in time a couple of weekends ago when we went to see some long-time friends.  They will be moving to Arizona soon and that will put an end to anymore weekend visits.  The opportunity for a last-minute “will you be home this weekend for some company?” will not be possible.  An opportunity I realize now we did not take advantage of nearly enough.  So before they moved, we went to see them to have a last weekend together in the town where we met; the place we were surrogate parents to each others children and our children became “siblings.”  In the more than 20 years we have known each other we’ve shared dinners and conversation and friendship and laughter.  We've camped and canoed and hiked and celebrated the accomplishments of each other as well as our children.  And when the cruelties of life intruded, we’ve leaned upon each other for support through heartrending times.   So before they left, we we hiked a trail we had hiked together 11 years ago, one more time.

The day we hiked wasn’t exactly the same time of year but close enough that I thought to myself, “about this time 11 years ago I was hiking this same trail.”   I had a lot of time to think and remember as we hiked single file through a canyon  ...

... or as I lagged behind to snap photos of the beauty. 

I remembered the color of the rocks but I’m pretty sure my knees weren’t trembling 11 years ago like they were when I scrambled over them this time.  I don’t remember any shaking limbs anyway.  And I didn’t remember having to slide down steep inclines on my butt all those years ago because I was worried about my brittle and aging bones.  On this hike my creaky old body was much more fearful than the fearless body it had been 11 years ago.

 If I ever hike this trail again I’ll have added a new memory of soggy feet to because my fearful body said, “Give up, Cathy.   Stop trying to step onto those slippery rocks just so you can get across the water without getting your feet wet or eventually you’re going to slip and end up a soaking wet, whimpering old lady with a broken arm or ankle.  Just slosh through it, old woman.”  Which I did. 

As I was hiking this same trail I had hiked “about this same time 11 years ago” with my friends, I remembered the first time we had been on this trail.  The rocks and the vegetation and the streams were the same – but different.  The trail was the same – but different.  We were the same – but different.  Life had intervened.  And as much as I wished I could make this new hike just like my memory of the first one that was impossible.  Eleven years ago there was another amazing friend hiking this trail with us.  She and her family were part of the “surrogate family” of six adults and seven children.  But she was not hiking with us this time because about year and a half after that first hike she died unexpectedly.

I thought about her as I climbed over boulders.  As we ate lunch at the river.

As we took photos of each other.   I miss her.  I miss her advice.  I miss her level-headedness.  I wish I could talk to her in person, not just in my dreams.  But she was “with” me in my heart and my memories as I hiked. I know I wasn’t the only one who was thinking about her as we laughed and joked and groaned about our 11-year older bodies.  So this hike was the same – but different.

And now I have new memories ...

... to add to the old.

We will visit our friends in their new home in Arizona.  And we’ll hike together and share conversation and dinner and swap stories.  And who knows, maybe six months or a year from now I’ll be remembering that “this time last year I got to take a ride in an ambulance because apparently I don’t hike well in 120 degree Arizona heat.”  I’m pretty sure that’s a memory I won’t want to try to recreate.

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Dinosaur Bones Come In All Sizes

Jack, Your Beans Are Enchanting!

I have no scientific data to back my statement, but I’m pretty sure people born in the month of October have contributed to the slowing of our economy. 

I was born in October, and I say this to you in a somber, this is serious, voice, “being an October baby is dangerous.”   Now I don’t want to scare any of you, but I feel it is my responsibility to tell you that if October is the month of your birth, you could be in serious jeopardy.  And if you drink coffee and frequent the caffeine dispensing kiosks that dot the landscape, your risk of peril is increased a hundred-fold.  Sure, everybody who drinks coffee is aware of the risks involved.  It’s not only the October babies who knock over store displays as they’re crawling around looking for the change that dropped out of their caffeine-induced shaking hands when they pay for their Tums.  But it’s the October babies who are in real life-threatening danger.

For example, Friday morning I was going to buy my first “birthday coffee” of the year.  Unfortunately, about 2:30 in the morning I woke up to the pounding of the wind against the side of the house.  Whooosh … bang!  As I listened to the howling wind tear the leaves off the trees, I carried on a debate with myself.

― “Maybe I should  postpone my first birthday coffee.  What if it blows out of my hand while  

      I'm walking into work?” 

― “Am I going to let the wind rule my life?” 

           ― “No!” I said.  “No! Fie on you wind!  You will not keep me from my birthday coffee!        

                 Fie!  Fie! Fie!”

Friday morning I got up and prepared to meet the wind head on.  I wore earrings that would not blow out of my ears.  I put my birthday money in a zip-lock baggie and zipped it securely inside my purse.  I squared my shoulders, lowered my head, and fought my way to the car.  Defiantly I drove to my favorite coffee kiosk.  I somehow managed to order, pay for, and receive my coffee without my change or my coffee blowing across the parking lot.  My car door didn’t even get blown into the little wooden house and that’s quite a feat considering I had to use my full weight to open the door against the wind so I could stand half in/half out to pay for and get my coffee.  That’s because Wyoming kiosks are made for elephant-sized 4-wheel-drive trucks, not little Hondas where coffee-starved heads barely reach the bottom of the kiosk window.  

I felt victorious.  I had beaten the wind and proven my superiority to nature!  I continued my journey to work gloating over my triumph.  And then I unavoidably ran over a four or five-inch diameter, four-foot long, leaf-covered branch in the middle of my lane.  No damage.  No liquid leaking from a punctured something or other; but I began feeling somewhat less triumphant.  

A few minutes later I narrowly avoided one of those kiddie-car shopping carts which had rolled from the grocery store, across four lanes of traffic and settled against the curb, partially residing in my lane.  I began to feel a bit anxious.  

A couple of blocks later, on the same four-lane road, I swerved to avoid a tire which had rolled from a tire store’s tipped over display.  My uneasiness increased and I began to fear what awaited me when I finally arrived at work and had to make the walk across the parking lot, fighting 65 mph wind gusts, holding my first birthday coffee. 

I pulled into the parking lot, gave myself a brief pep talk, took a deep breath, opened the door, and fought my way across the lot to the office door.  It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fun but I made it, with only one hand wet from blown-out coffee. 

This example was just one dangerous day in the life of a coffee-drinking October baby.  Sadly, there is nothing I or any other October babies can do about it.  We’ve already been born.  We can’t change the month of our birth. We must just practice survival techniques and be alert to lurking dangers. 

But some of you have the ability to thwart the peril of the October baby.  I call upon those of you who have that capability to take it upon yourselves to do just that.  If you have been contemplating creating a “bun in the oven”, a “little one”, a small human, otherwise known as a baby, you can do your part to not only make the world a safer place, but you may be able to save our economic future.  Choose another month for this birth.  Because many, many of those innocent, wide-eyed, drooling, nose-picking October babies are going to grow up to be coffee-drinking adults, living where the wind wakes up in October.  They may not survive what awaits them. 

Do not be the parent who sends them on a direct path toward risk of bodily injury merely because of the month of their birth.  Please, all of you Fertile Myrtles and Ardent Arnies, if you do your part, not only will no future babies be faced with the October baby danger, you may very well be the saviors of our economy.  Because if the insurance companies no longer need to pay out all the October baby claims, they will of course pass those savings on to the public in the form of lower premiums, which everybody will spend, which will save small businesses and big businesses and create jobs and security and the economy will be healthy and strong again ....................................................................or not.

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Jack, Your Beans Are Enchanting!