"A Place in the Heart"

With tons of stuff to do, but no desire to do it, and screaming inside to get the heck out of town, I suggested to my husband to run up to Flaming Gorge last weekend. This is one of those weekends where people would ask you “Why Flaming Gorge?!”. There were many a reasons for us.

First off, we have tried all summer to go to some national or state park: Zion, Bryce, or even Escalante, with no luck! Everything is booked many months in advance. That’s what you get when you live in a resort state, for the most part: no room at the inn year round – in the summer because of  the folks hiking, biking, fishing and boating, in the winter for those with the snow sports! But, no complaints there – that’s why we love Utah!

I also remembered a funny story one of my co-workers told me about Flaming Gorge. The story is off topic for this blog, but that’s when I heard the name of the recreation area for the first time – when he was telling me that story. Now, it might be just me, but who in the world would not want to visit a place called “Flaming Gorge”?!

So, bouncing around all these ideas about “let’s go to a wild park” and “all parks are booked”, I came across these parts on my iPhone map, and thought to myself: why the heck not?!

Having tried to stay in resort towns all summer and having failed, I knew I was not going to look for  a place to stay right in the middle of the park. So, I looked on the map to see what is the closest town that would have some type of lodging to Flaming Gorge. I found Vernal.

I remember last year, reading a story in the local paper that started with “this Vernal mother … ” – and at that time I thought “Vernal” must be some sort of a cult or a religion. I found out soon afterwards that Vernal was a town in Utah. Small town that is – of around 9000 people. And now, I was going to happen through it, too.

So, away we went. If you peeps around the Utah Valley would like to venture on this trip, please know that between said valley and Vernal, there is nothing. Virtually nothing, other than brush and cows! Our truck had a couple of fits, where it stopped for no reason, in the middle of the night, and it was one of the scariest things I have gone through. No human abode. No lights. No cell signal. Nothing but the lonely two lane road, and a broken car! If you guess you might have the same trouble, travel during the day (it seems there is more traffic then), and bring lots of water with you, and maybe blankets, depending on what season it is.

There is no feeling of happily letting go when driving up to Vernal. There is more of a feeling of getting buried, I think. Sure, it’s quiet and solitary – but so is a tomb! Scary, however, too. We arrived at the hotel (Holiday Inn and Suites, which was pretty new or maybe just redone, and pretty cozy) around 9 PM on a Friday. Stressed out from our car problems, we were desperately looking for a joint to drown our fears in. My phone map (again, to the rescue) pulled up a Wingers close by– a chain, sure, but we knew it would have snacks and a beer, and we could practically walk back to the hotel, in case our truck would decide again to quit. We got there just in time, because they close at 10 PM. Yes, on a  Friday night. We were one of the three couples in the place. They were sweeping the floors and when they took our order, they asked for dessert, too.

We were going to get used to this “small town” tune: there are very few options for dinner, and even fewer for a nice dinner. A place that sells entrees for $17 is deemed the highest price in town and everything closes at 10 PM every weekend night. It closes earlier on weekdays. When we asked for directions to any of the places to eat, we were told with a smile: “everything is on Main street. Just drive up and down, you’ll see it”. Pretty simple.

The Flaming Gorge Recreation Area is about 30 miles North of Vernal. We spend the day on Saturday up there. The area was amazing, like any other natural park in Utah! I am serious: when God was in a great sculpting mood, and decided to mix and match all types of soil, vegetation, fauna, flora, and colors of skies and waters, He must have made Utah that day! The area has a beautiful, large reservoir lake (about 90 miles long), in the middle of this high desert canyon. The roads take you around the lake, and along the Green River banks. The lake is formed by the Flaming Gorge Dam, which stops the Green River inside these canyons. The water is crystal clear, and the shores are tall and rocky. People are camping, fishing, boating, hiking all around it. At the Dam visitors’ office, they will warn you to be prepared to meet bears if you venture out on the trails! I would be afraid to camp in a tent around there – it feels (again!) very remote, and very, very savage. That’s part of the charm and the attraction, I am sure.

While driving around the scenic byways of the park, we took a side road to Antelope Flats – as the name shows it, a flat area that slopes gently into the lake. People were taking a dip there, and the water, was again, so crystal clear and clean. Across from this vantage point, the Flaming Gorge Canyon is standing majestic, tall and unmoved, for centuries. The water snakes around it, as if it would not want to disturb the colossus, offering its depths for its redness beauty to reflect into it, generously. The sky was eye-hurtful blue that day – not a cloud even. There was nothing but the sound of our breaths and the clip-clop sound of the people swimming next to us, in silence. 

 Flaming Gorge, as seen from Antelope Flats

After that short visit, we came back to the main road, and found another way that took us to the Red Canyon Lodge – that is the only lodging option that I could find, outside of camping, in the park. The lodge has a restaurant, a mini convenience store, a nice wooden patio, and a gift store, along with rooms and cabins to rent. They have a couple of lakes, one for pedal boats, and another one (smaller) for fishing, and horseback riding trails, too. Being in the heart of the park, and having so many things to do around there, while also being so quiet and serene, The Lodge will be a sure hit for weekends when we want to escape – I can just see it.

After having a light lunch of smoked trout bruschetta and cooling off with a beer, we headed to the Red Canyon, another observation point around the lake. I will have to say that I have never seen a view more beautiful, more wild, and more intimidating in my life. Everything about it made my breath stop. You’re up at the top of this canyon, and its cliffs are rocky and loaded with pines, at the same time. They are dropping into the gorge at an almost perfect 90 degree angle. You know that whoever slips on those slopes is headed for their demise. There is no escaping that fall! 

As far as natural landscapes go, I kept thinking that I did love Zion and Bryce and even the Arches in Moab, but this topped pretty much everything else. Although its name does not have the buzz the other ones do, it did speak to me. To something very deep in my heart. It’s one of those places I cannot find words to describe right – so I will just post a picture of it. It’s drowned in beauty and awe. 

 A place in my heart: The Red Canyon and the Flaming Gorge Reservoir

After that visit, where the time seemed to have stopped for a minute, or ten, and after 100+ pictures, as well, we headed back to Vernal for a short afternoon rest, and to figure out where dinner will be.

We surfed and surfed on all of the travel sites in search for suggestions on where to eat in Vernal. The opinions were a 50 – 50 split. Some people hated everything. Some people loved everything. Everyone agreed on one thing though: there are not many options out there. Knowing that they close at 10, and it was close to 8 PM, we had to hurry up and choose something. We chose a couple of things from our searches and let the reception boy break the tie. He suggested The Quarry, which was one of the places on our list, probably the most controversial of all. So, we gave it a try.

It was not the worst place I have ever been to, nor the best. On a scale from 1 to 10, it was probably a 4, for me – right under average! The place has a ton of potential – the floors alone are amazing – they have the Flaming Gorge Reservoir represented in mosaic tiles on the entire floor of the restaurant. But it’s a blank slate, otherwise – no décor on the walls, no music, and the wait staff is disjointed and cannot find each other, it seems. It’s a small place, and the waiters wear head gear to “talk” with each other (about what, I am not sure), but miscommunication seems to be the trademark of the place. Our dinners were simple but took an hour to cook, and mine was, although tasty, almost stone cold when it came out. My husband said that the steak was amazing, though – which was one of the common observations in the reviews we read.

There is one other thing to be said about Vernal. OK, maybe a couple. I am not sure whether it’s its proximity to Colorado or Wyoming or the fact that unlike other Utah towns, it was not settled by Mormon pioneers – but the place does not feel very “Utah” at all. It has its own, very distinctive vibe. Virtually everyone at every table in the restaurant orders alcohol drinks and coffees – something of a novelty, in this State, anywhere, outside Salt Lake City or a resort town. And the number of kids don’t outnumber the adults in any establishment.

There are several churches in town, and not all LDS – which is a surprise, for such a small place, too. I guess what I am saying is – it’s its own city, with its own soul, albeit small and with very few options to entertain. It’s also deemed to be “Dinosaurland”, thanks to its rich and ancient geology and paleontology finds. The locals have done a not so good job to not cheesy-fy that! Huge, colorful plaster statues of dinosaurs greet you around almost every corner. We did not play tourist on those attractions, however.

I think, outside the park area, the highlight of the trip for me was the breakfast on our last day there. I will have to spend just a couple of sentences to talk about Betty’s Café  .  Everyone in there sits really close to one another – the place is homey and welcoming. The staff is busy, but friendly and very helpful. They have without a doubt the best veggie omelet I have ever eaten in my life. I don’t believe that even Bobby Flay could master that! The veggies are fresh, full of flavor and crunchy and the eggs are not greasy – two things that no one can get right in an omelet. The breakfast fried potatoes are amazing – they are sliced every so thinly and again, they are not overly greasy – they are just very potatoey and unmessed around with!

It’s one of those places where people walk out at one end of the table, and new customers are sitting down at the same (dirty) table on the other end. Everyone seems to know everyone in there, except for the few couples of tourists like us, that just happened in. The place closes at noon on Sundays, so try not to sleep in. If you are like me, and like grabbing the local free racked magazine to get a feel for what it’s like to live in this small town in the middle of nothing but canyons, grab Betty’s 10 pages or so magazine teaching you about how to stay happy. It’s a pretty interesting read, with no typos, at that, which, for a small town mag is rare – trust me!

Betty’s Café is small building, and, like everything else, it’s on Main Street. You can’t possibly miss it! 

 Another view from The Red Canyon - click on the picture to see the whole album from this trip

From Hatred to Love. And Hope.

“As the soil, however rich it may be, cannot be productive without cultivation, so the mind without culture can never produce good fruit.” (Seneca)

Before you start shooting now, just remember: the last words here are “love” and “hope”. So, it’s all good. And I am now all reformed! Or about to be.

So, I used to absolutely hate NPR! I know, I know – but remember: no shooting, yet. The slow pace of the reporting, the old voices, the sentiment that their topics are always so serious, so grim, so dry. No “juice” coming out of NPR. No sensationalism. Just pure, dry enunciation. I could never really fully admit that the topics were as much “boring”, but I had zero patience for the style of reporting they do. So I would nix the station simply on the format with no regard to the substance!

All this changed when I moved to Utah, and my commute has bloated to more than an hour one way, at times. The radio options are pretty slim here. You have a couple of “standard” FM radio stations, classic rock, country, this-and-that “new” music, and your local talk radio, which is owned by the LDS church – biased, misinformed, sensationalist, predicting the end of the world almost every half hour and totally embarrassing, at times.

But luckily, there is NPR. One day, forced into a corner by all the poor choices on all the other stations, I switched to it on my lunch break, which I took sitting in my car, at the time. They had an author on, Janet Reitman, talking about her book “Inside Scientology: The Story of America's Most Secretive Religion”. 

That was the first sip of the kool-aid in this dry media desert. I was hooked – by the information, and depth of the discussion and by how much more informed and enlightened I felt. I could not go back to work! I was in a trance. 

Almost a year later, after listening to many a programs on music, communism, mating of snails, politics, contests of livestock auctioneers, Kosher food, a variety of social discussions, I can say I am quite getting used to this little gem of programming speaking softly, and still slow, from my dashboard. 

They are sometimes biased, and a little annoyingly conservative, at times (after all, they are human, and Americans, you know!), but they keep it interesting! They tackle topics that scholarly college professors would tackle and you feel a bit elated by rising above the ordinary with their observations on people, life, religion, etc. They keep me learning! And boy, I have so much to learn, still – as we all do, of course! They keep the Alzheimer’s away (I hope), as they challenge my attention, my opinions, my brain. 

I am not in the mood for it all the time, as a true fan would be, but I always feel more intelligent (really) after I listen to them. And I keep coming back, every day, as to my supply of “smart pills”.  

I love that they use good grammar and full sentences, that they say “I have given” instead of “I have gave”. They use words like “connubial” and “bacchanalia”, which were so dusty, back in the back of my gray matter, somewhere. I smile, drive along and feel a few minutes, a few words smarter. I am finally so happy that they are there for me, to fill my empty commute time with interest, culture and insight. Man, how we need this kind of solid, timeless education for our young folks! Away from the poisons of today’s cheap and cheesy entertainment and reality junk that ruins our society! 

One thing that still puzzles me: NPR is sponsored, amongst others, by … The Poetry Foundation.  First question is: wow! In the era of The Jersey Shore, in America, we still have a poetry foundation, and apparently, they have money?! The second one is: do they have enough to sponsor anything?! One art supporting another tells me that all might not be lost in the human world. At least not yet! 

The Last of a Generation

“Why have so much stuff? People have so much stuff. In the end, you can only fit so much in between 4 pieces of wood!” – Bica, my grandmother (Feb. 1927 – August 2012).

To so many people she was a puzzle. She was a constant controversy and a constant topic of debate. “She talked too much. She hated too much. She was too blunt. She was too feisty” – they said. To me, she was my grandma.

I saw everything and none of these things in her. She was my dad’s mother, she gave me my only aunt, and she taught me to always clean my face when I am eating and to always keep my elbows off the table. More than anything, she taught me that size doesn’t matter and to have a backbone!

She was a power house of a woman, less than 5 ft tall, always moving, always doing something, always talking. She grew up in the deep, deeper than deep mires of poverty: in a country house at the end of a dirt road. The house had one room. She had 10+ siblings. She left the country and moved to the city when she was very young. She went to school and she became a nurse. She married a construction engineer and had two kids. And she never looked back to her poor beginnings. 

 September 2001 - with my sister and bica back home

She was the toughest human I know. She was made of the stuff steel and diamonds are made of. She was unmovable. Un-crack-able.

My bica died today, and I feel like with this one branch in our family tree falling, our family is smaller, and sadder. She is my last grandparent to lose, and the one who lived the longest. I am amongst those very lucky people who not only met all her grandparents, but grew up with them, and was molded by them. I am grateful for every day I had with them, every lesson they taught me and every breath they took with me in the same room.

Today is a sad, sad day. My sister and I lost a whole generation. We can’t call them on their birthdays anymore, and our Christmas lists are yet shorter. More than anything, this made me ponder upon what is really important. And bica was right: “stuff” and things are not important. She only takes her small body and the clothes on her back today, with her. And she leaves behind a whole legacy of 85 stubborn years of living. I am not going to remember her “things”. Only her drive, her laugh, her bite and sarcasm, her lessons.

Good bye, bica. You leave a huge empty spot in our lives, but not in my heart. Although you’ll always be part of me, I miss you more than words can say, and I hope and pray that you are finally at peace. 

 Me and all my grandparents: from left, bubu (mom's father), bica, maia (mom's mother) and bicu (dad's father). No idea how old I was here, but I was an only child at the time, thus the excessive attention I am receiving.

Chasing "The Family Robinson"

The chairlift assistant is buried in her romance novel. She almost fails to stop the chair! I chime “Is this where we get off for Stewart Falls?” and she jumps as if a wasp has bitten her bottom: “Ah! Oh, yes! Yes, ma’am! I am so sorry!” – as she throws to book to the ground.

We get off the lift we took from Sundance Resort, up to Ray’s Summit and we ask for directions for the Stewart Falls trail. My husband has wanted to show me these falls since I moved to Utah, a couple of years ago. Falls in the desert – you know they have to be something else!

She tells us that the trail loops around eventually taking us to the bottom of the mountain, where  we just took the chairlift from. Yeah, right! It felt like the lift took us 6000 ft up! There is no way, under no kind of sky am I ever going to climb down that long of a distance!

But we take the trail. Most of it was narrow and brushy. We walk through tight spaces, up and down pastures and stretches of woods. We stop and shoot. We gasp when a valley opens up. It’s ever so quiet. 

 On one of the trails, just starting up ...

There is no lush freshness of the woods of Blueridge Parkway, but there is no humidity either. You give. And you take. That’s life! Tall, crisp, dry pine trees and aspens are bordering the trails.

Butterflies and 'hoppers

We go through “the meadows” and they feel like we just reached the place where The Wilderness Family  would have pitched their abode. It’s remote, and there is nothing but grass, trees and mountains all around. You’re at the bottom of this valley, like in a cauldron. You’re trapped. It’s tomb-like tranquility. 

Walking through the 'Robinson Meadows', as I nicknamed them

 We climb up some more. The brush closes in on us and I am scared to death of snakes! I hear them. Swish-swish in the tall grasses! My skin crawls. I am always scared of snakes when I hike! I have never been bitten by one, but I never want to see one that close either! Yet, they are my biggest scare. Maybe even more than bears and wild cats. At least those you hear and see first. Snakes are elusive little devils. They are just there and you’re dead! I think.

I yell at Aa. to not leave me by myself, and protect me from snakes. He lags behind shooting yet another flower, yet another bush. There is not much he could do, really, to protect me. But being alone on the trail makes it that much more treacherous for me. Like a room closing in its walls, to a claustrophobic person. His closeness makes the walls move away.

The butterflies are wild today! They don’t seem to mind the scorching heat. They travel from bloom to bloom and are ever so friendly. So are the grasshoppers.

We make it to the falls, and like I expected, it is tiny (in water quantity), because of the desert and the dry summer, yet tall and majestic, and it falls with a big splash, from 230 feet.  We sit on rocks and eat our sandwiches, watching a couple of Alaskan huskies taking a bath in the stream. They look so hot! We watch a family of six. All kids are huddled around the mom, who is carrying one infant on her back. The dad wanders off – looking bored and uninvolved. Typical. And sad, of course. 

Stewart Falls

We hear thunder and get ready to head back. We walk through brush some more. Narrow trails and tall pines guide us towards Sundance. Yes, the trail seems to take us back down where we started. After a short while, we are seeing the villas of Sundance, and we know we’re on the right track. Then, the woods swallows us again, in its shade. I walk along the stream, chatting away, until  all of a sudden I hear a ruffle to my left. I look down and see dry leaves move. I see the distinctive pattern of chained diamonds, on a skinny yellow-mustard frame. It moves as it swishes through the pine needles. I scream like a baby woken up by a nightmare! And I jump straight up into the air! Interesting how instincts work! Like, would gravity not factor in and pull me back down towards the ground?! No! At that moment, I am not thinking.

“A snake! A snake!”

‘Where?” – Aa. asks.

I point: “ Right there! His head is facing away from us!”

“Oh. There are two. Keep going”.

And I keep running like freaking hell is what I do! And I don’t stop running till I hit the road.

The hike was amazing - beautiful and awe-inspiring, refreshing, quiet  and serene, long and tiresome. We were sore for a week after that. The rain never came.

Enjoy the pictures here. There is none of the snake. 

Stewart Falls is almost at the bottom of Mount Timpanogos (11,000+ ft). This is Mount Timp, as seen from the chair lift in Sundance

  

Too Long ...

I have been trying to figure out what my favorite memory of my sister is. We have been so close, growing up, growing old, when together and apart. I cannot pick, ever, because every second with her is a blessing and pure joy! How can you grade happiness?!

As I have said so many times before, I would not be who I am today if it had not been for her being in my life, for her love, patience, lessons of kindness and strength. I think of her every time I make a decision and every last second of my waking days …

I am so grateful that God has given me 34 years today of sharing my life with her. And on her big day, I have decided that my favorite memory of her will always be the last one. It’s the freshest and it keeps it raw in my mind and heart why I love her so much and how sweet it is to spend time with her.

The last memory of us together is from too long a time ago: last year, in May, when I visited them in Montreal for my second nephew’s baptism. She was happy and fulfilled that she was a mommy for the second time, and that we were able to be all together as a family - a rare thing in our international family’s life! It’s been too long since that day … way too long …

Happy birthday, sorela, and hurry up and come up here, already!

Te ubec!

 Montreal - May, 2011

My Husband, the “Sniper”!

Note: No, I have never seen Caddyshack. But I can relate!

You know what they say: “When in the Wild West, do as they do!” – right?! Right!

Well, I have been waiting (and watching) patiently for two years to learn how things are done out here, in The West – where the skies are tall and the land just strolls for hundreds of thousands of miles with no shame, into the sunset.

Things are different, here, my friends. They shoot people who walk into their houses, they still sit on the signal when the train goes across the plains, because, you see, the rails have made it out so far – it’s a big deal when the train arrives in town! They still look for fortunes – lost people of The East, moving here, in search for a better, richer, simpler, less “political” and more free lives. People still make their own justice here . Sure they do. Who knows whether they even have a sheriff in these parts, right?! Or when the sheriff is out of the bar and ready to take action.

You get the idea! Whatever the John Wayne movies taught you, back in the day – it’s all alive and well, out here in the Wild Wild West. And that’s part of the charm!

But I never would have thought that the Wild West would be alive and well in my own back yard. Literally. Let me explain.

We have had gophers. Since early last fall, we have lived with mounds and mounds of dirt being unburied by the little (or huge) cheeky creatures and with plants dying all over the yard. We have tried poisoning them – no good! Not sure if they eat the poison, but if they do, it’s definitely agreeing with them. We have the “buzzers”, these rods you stick in the ground and they vibrate, making these “horrible” electric noises, apparently meant to shoo them away. These devices moved them about 10 feet away from the flower beds, … till last week (for about 2 months). But now, they can’t hear the buzzing, either. Or if they can, they don’t care.  

Pest control people didn’t want to kill them last winter, because, apparently, gophers hibernate, and they don’t eat poison during winter months. Wrong! No hibernation here! Feeding off of plant roots?! Definitely! Now, in the summer, pest control people are not returning calls. Evidently, too busy killing the suckers everywhere in town! Or who knows …

Well, this weekend, my husband decided to do what every good Westerner does – take the matter in his own hands! So, while sipping coffee on a lazy Saturday morning, on our kitchen bar stools, I point to him the little rodent digging in the back yard. Before I could even say “gopher”, Aa. stands up and marches, resolute as anything, to the basement. He comes out with a freaking huge (to me!) rifle  to shoot the thing.

Calm as ever, he pries the back patio door open just a few inches, sits on the floor, Indian style – so that he could “hide” behind our fence so the neighbors across the road won’t see a tall man pointing a rifle at the road, with the rifle to his eye, waiting for the thing to come back out. This gopher was the size of a small rat. Same color as the dirt. I doubted very seriously that he could shoot him with one bullet. I am all freaking out, because I think: “oh, crap! The gun will make so much noise, the neighbors will call the police on us, for hearing gun fire within the city limit.” Aa. explains that “the gun is a .22. It makes no more noise than a firecracker”. – like that’s supposed to mean anything to me.

A gun is a gun is a freaking gun for me!!! What do I care?!! It will make noise and it will make damage – that much I know! I am freaking the hell out!  I am sitting on the floor, in the front room, caressing, and reassuring my cats, who, in their infinite wisdom, are hiding away from the back of the house, where Mr. Aa. is on the lookout, carefully, and feeling that something is “off”. I can see Aa. but I can’t see the back yard.

After about 3 minutes of waiting, a short, brief, very confident shot is fired. Aa. was right. Not louder than a firecracker! No resounding noise. No echo. Almost no pull!

“Did you get him?” – I ask full of fear and awe.

“Yep.” – he comes back in one breath.

After a few seconds, he says: “Oh, sh^t! Not all the way. He’s walking away, but he’s hurt!”

“Go out there with a shovel and finish him off!” – I find this voice inside of me coming out with definite hatred!

“OK”.

And off he goes. And I watch him bury the thing, after finding  “lots of blood” – making the mound all “clean” and all.

And there the gopher goes … Hopefully, one down, the rest of them left for the pest man to “finish off” on Wednesday, when we finally made the appointment.

I am not sure how to put into words how I feel about this whole thing?! I didn’t grow up with guns! I hate guns! I am even scared they could misfire and kill me if they just sit there, in front of me, laying down! I am that scared of them. Is it right to shoot a gun within the city limits? I am not sure. He has a permit and everything, but is it OK? As long as we’re safe, and he was!, is it still wrong to protect your house? As I have said – nothing else worked. I am sick of the critters! I am sick like you would not believe it! I would kill them with a shovel, too, but some of them are enormous – the size of a medium dog, even! A shovel and my lack of strength would only annoy them! We need something sure. A gun and a precise gunman is definitely that! Sure.

I am positive my “gun friends” are laughing out loud reading this, but I am still nervous! Although a small piece of me smiles with joy that one set of teeth is not going to ruin my work of two years anymore, a huge part of me is afraid of what consequences gun use can have. My best friend shoots foxes in her back yard in Virginia, who threaten her chickens, and she lives smack dab in the middle of a bigger city than we do. So, I guess it’s all OK. But such an out-of-body experience for me to witness!

Apparently, I am not all the way American, and definitely, not all the way Western, yet! *sigh*.

A shallow grave: somewhere, under this mound, there is a dead gopher - next to their favorite plant.

A Weird Season

You all might remember my year of wealthy harvest last year. Especially in the realm of tomatoes. This year, however, it’s very – very different.

Here we are, at the end of July, and I had about … 5 tomatoes out of my garden and one green bell pepper. Some green onions for a salad or two. As for our herbs, I did make a couple of batches of cilantro and basil pesto, and Aa. has made dill bread I think twice.  And that is that so far.

The tomatoes are good and tasty, but not as incredibly sweet as last year, and definitely not as huge as last year – they are small and dense. The pepper was tiny. Maybe the size of a golf ball! 

 Small harvest (in so many senses on the word): tomatoes, one pepper and pears ...

Everything just barely started to grow about two weeks ago. I water the garden every night, but the drought has just been way too serious this year for my water to be enough. The tomatoes are about 3 feet tall now, and very thick, but they don’t have tons of fruit nor blooms! So, they have enough water to grow, but not enough of a good combo of shade, sun, natural rain water and healthy air (I’ll explain in a few) to really produce.

Cabbage, kale and cucumbers just now spreading out ...

The funny thing is: we used the same spot in the garden for the veggie beds as last year, but we bought more good soil, with manure in it, and we tilled! With a tiller! Tilling is something I don’t believe in, especially with a  bonified tiller, but we did it this year, just because Aa. believes our soil is way too dense for anything to grow in it. And yet, the results are not as impressive as last year.

Every time I water for at least an hour at a time, my whole yard sucks the juice dry in seconds after the hose stops. It’s really quite depressing to watch. I guess, this is life in the real desert. And I have said it before: why the Mormons thought this is God’s blessed land, I have no idea! It’s definitely not easy to keep anything green here. We’re back at hunting down tomatoes at the Farmers’ Market this year, but, surprise-surprise!, the farmers are not that fortunate, either! 

The whole garden - to the left of the tomatoes, there are peppers and herbs (yes, that small!), and in the front bed, in the middle, between the cucumbers and cabbage: eggplants... 

Another thing that’s been plaguing us this year has been just the filthy air. I have been surprised at the air dirtiness in Utah since I moved here – none of those “clear mountain mornings” Willy Nelson sings about in his cowboy songs – but this year has been the worst, I think, in my two years of being here. Part of the problem is the wild fires that have scorched the desert all summer long. We have had so far around 600 wildfires statewide. You have no idea what the air smells like and breathes like when all you have around you is brush smoke and ashes!

I have never heard of trees exploding from extreme heat till I moved here. But apparently that’s what has happened this year in Utah: once a wildfire starts, even in the desert, the dry trees and dry roots and brush self ignite and burn extremely fast! And the proverbial desert wind carries the plunder in a hurry! They burn for weeks. My migraines and sinus garbage have been insane this summer!

I know that ashes are supposed to be a natural fertilizer, but I am not sure the simple (lack of) air quality has not been extremely poisonous to plants this year! 

 The sky above our house, earlier this month, while fires were burning all around us ... 

I look at my garden and it tries as hard as it can to stay green. In sort of a forced grin, it thanks me for the little water I give it. But the stuffiness in the air and the dryness of the sand torture it.

As I have said – some of the things just started to expand in the past two weeks (we have had some random, very, very short lived and rapid summer showers), so maybe all is not hopeless yet! There will be slow growth and some lost plants, I am sure. But I am still patiently waiting to see how strong and stubborn life really can be, even in the absence of life’s juice and clean oxygen!  

Things I’ve Learned from My Dad

How to tie my shoes …How to wear my shoes correctly – are all parents such sticklers for wearing the right shoe on the right foot? My dad surely was …

How to do math, by “seeing” it – we both suck at it, so he taught me this trick where you have to write the numbers in your head like they were on paper, and add them, imagining you’re writing the total down, with your pen … You can’t make a mistake. He was right.

How to cook pretty much anything with anything. There is no ingredient that is taboo; there is no mix and match that is wrong.

How to bone a chicken in no time flat! How to butterfly a chicken breast and a steak.

How to marinade and pickle things.

How to stock up for just about the rest of my life, in food, especially.

How to make wine.

He taught me one of my biggest passions – photography. We shot the pictures and worked them together, in his dark room, ever since I can remember.

He taught me to see, to really pay attention, and to notice what’s beyond the surface. Always.

He and I being born with the same affliction, he taught me how fragile health is, and how to make the most of my life – as limited as my body allows it to be.

He taught me the incredible wealth of books. He taught me to have opinions and stick to them. He showed me, through him, the power of consistency and perseverance. He taught me stubbornness.

He taught me how to party hard and laugh even harder. In my darkest and saddest days, I can never imagine my dad not smiling, laughing out loud or cracking a joke. Sure, he can seem very serious at times, but to me he will forever be a clown. There is no one who can make me laugh harder than dad! And I am not alone! He is famous for his hilarious parties, where people leave with stomach aches, not from his delicious food, but from laughing so hard! People flock to him, for fun and good times!

He taught me how to save for darker days. He taught me how to look for bargains and save, save, save. I never did inherit his love of shopping, though!

He pushed me off the edge – always. Whatever I was doing, I could always do better, go further, reach higher. He was right – I always could.

He taught me not to be afraid. He was afraid of things, I think, but he always demanded me to not be; to believe that fear is stupid. My dreams have come true, because dad’s permanent encouragement.

He taught me to always say the truth, and if it gets me in trouble by saying it, to keep fighting for it. It is the right, most valuable thing.

He taught me how to be a real friend. He was always loyal to his friends and family. But he also told me that it’s OK to let go. If someone is not worth the trouble, you can let go of their friendship.

He taught me to fight for what I believe in, but also to give up a fight not worth having. “The smartest one gives up first, a fight not worth it” – he says. 

He taught me the love of mountains and of clear pasture mornings, where the dew is thick and cold and the cows are mooing in the valley. He taught me how to pick wild mushrooms and make wild strawberries and cream.

He taught me to love animals, sometimes more than people.

He taught me to love my sister and care for her.

He taught me how to make fire and smoke meat. How to tend to a garden and how to not live without pets or even adopted strays. A typical Cancer, his home is his heaven. And he taught me that, too. I love to travel more than he did, but I surely love to have a home I can come to.

He taught me everything I know about music. He taught me The Beatles, Janis Joplin and CCR. These are names I remember hearing back in the days of baby food and diapers. Seriously. I can’t imagine a family gathering where dad is not playing the air guitar and dancing on some old 60’s rock song.

There is one thing dad tried to teach me and he never could: he never taught me how to ride a bike. I think he considers that his personal failure to this day. I don’t. 

I look at parents today, especially dads, and especially dads of girls, and I am flabbergasted how little they are involved in the life of their children. My dad taught me almost everything I need to know about life, growing up, being tough, living, giving, loving and having no regrets. He taught me “things” and he taught me values, and feelings, and stands.

My dad is 60 this week and I still think of him as young. He’s a goofball and as serious as a heart attack all in one person. He’s the first I think of when I head to a concert, and the first I think of when I head for the kitchen island with a butcher’s knife, ready to chop a piece of chicken: “what would dad make of this?!”. 

I only think 60 is a scary age when I think I’ll get there in 23 years – way less than I have lived so far. But 60 for dad is just coming of age, to me.

I called him yesterday, and I asked: “So, dad, do you feel old today?” He goes: “How can I feel old? I was just born today!”

That’s my daddy – in a nutshell.

Love you dad, and hope you make us laugh for many, many, many long years to come!

                                             

You tell me who the 5 year old is!
(dad, dancing on CCR for my birthday this year)