The Hardest Trip

“When you go through hell, keep going”. (Churchill)

14 years. I have been through losing a home, and gaining several others, marriage, and divorce, long relationships and short, loss of a job, another marriage, losing relatives I adored, watching my friend die of cancer, having two nephews, happiness beyond belief and sadness beyond words, too … But the one single thing that ripped my chest open, yanked my heart out, and threw it against the ground, reducing me to a big pile of nothing had to be a 5 pound cat.

But this is not about me and my grief. It is about the most loved and adored cat there was – my buddy cat, Fero.

I adopted him when he was 3 months old, when my former husband wanted a cat that behaves more like a dog. My husband was adamant about an Abyssinian. I didn’t care. I just wanted a cat. And a dog Fero was. But he was also a human, and a cat. And so much more. An angel, a total pig when it came to eating, and a motorboat, too.

Fero died this morning, after a long time of fighting whatever reduced him to 5 lbs (from 14) and about a month of fighting kidney failure. The way out was not his choice entirely, and I hope that one day I can forgive myself for making that choice. And I really wish dearly that people would stop telling me that I did the right thing!

I don’t think there ever was a person that ever, in 14 years, met him, even for one minute, that doesn’t remember him! His favorite thing in the whole world besides food was the doorbell. He loved to greet everyone when there was ever any movement at the door, and that included us, and the plumber, too. He talked to everyone. He asked them how they were, in his sweet growl and told them about his day, in his soft voice too. Someone who would only see him once, like an electrician or a contractor, would say, over years “oh, you have that cool cat”. They would not remember his name, or my name for that matter, but they would remember “that cool cat”. I have a coworker who only saw him once, but his son  picked him up and could not believe the friendliness. He calls him “the purple cat”, although he was not purple. But he was that unique.

Even when he was sicker than sick, the nurses would greet me at the door with “Oh, Ms. Wilson, he has been a chatter box. He has told us all about his life, and about how much he hates that IV, and he’s asking us about our days, too. He must be feeling better”. Yes, he was that friendly!

He had ticked brown hair, beautiful, clear, almond shaped eyes, gorgeous to the very end. He had a smile on his face and a happy outlook about him. A louder than loud purr, and a beautiful, kingly allure. He was royal, and he was what you call “a presence”. You were never not aware that Fero was in the room. He brightened it up and was the center of the conversation. He made sure of it. And he was so worth it! He would not live to be a bore.

Whoever said cats have no personality has never truly met a cat. And whoever said that cats are selfish creatures, independent and wanna be left alone has never met Fero! He was completely selfless. He was more in your business than he was in his. He was at the door when you walked in, next to your lap, when you were on the couch, on the spare dining room chair, at the dinner table, and right next to your pillow, when you laid down for a nap. 

 

This just in August - with my nephews, joining us for dinner and a movie, later. Always present. 

His biggest passion was food. He loved everything, or at least he thought he did. He begged for anything that came out of the fridge, and everything on the counter, or on your plate. He asked politely, with a tilt of the head, in a questioning growl that I will miss soooo much, if he could try anything you were having. Anything. He was always, and I mean always on the island stools when I prepped for cooking, just watching me carefully. He was always on the same chair as me, when I was having my breakfast. Even when he was sick last week, he carefully watched my husband mix the batter for the Thanksgiving pie. His favorite foods, beside any brand of cat canned food were ham, white chicken meat, popcorn and potato chips.

He was not ever a lap kitty. He was too much on alert for the doorbell for that. But he loved to cuddle. His favorite was to breathe hard in your ear while purring, or in the root of your hair. And he loved, loved, loved to have his tummy rubbed. My favorite mornings, here in Utah, were when I would find him in front of the hot vent in the winters, all stretched out asking for me to rub his tummy. He purred, forever and he would never get enough …

He always jumped and was present in the kitchen every single time the fridge opened, or the pantry door. He was so incredibly smart. They tell you that Abyssinians will learn words, just like dogs, and will respond to commands. I don’t like training pets to do things on command much, so I never took the time to train him. But he definitely learned the word “treats” on his very own!

He learned the Windows shutdown song, on my Dell laptop. Every time the song would come on (and he of course was right next to my wrist as I was typing), he jumped in the middle of the room, and headed for the kitchen. He knew it was time for a bedtime snack. And I mean, every single one time, in 14 years! Lately, I muted my laptop, in the hope that he would just chill. It took him probably about a month flat to figure out that the sound was gone, and he was now sitting perched over my shoulder on the back of the couch, just so he could watch my screen. When the screen would turn blue,  I was not even closing the lid, but when I pressed the shut down button and the pictures would disappear – he knew!

He loved to redecorate my house with his toys. I have a some cat toys, small, furry things I bought over the years, and people have given me, as gifts for all my cats, and I keep them in a plastic basket, out of the way. He would meticulously pull each one out, and spread them all over the dining room floor, where they would get premium visibility. I listened to him, and only put them away when I had guests.

I’ll miss his wet nose in my ears. And his jumping in the middle of the kitchen every time the laptop shuts off. And his bony fingers mashing and webbing into mine. I’ll miss the smell of his feet, and of his breath. I’ll miss sharing my meals with him, and especially the popcorn and my breakfast bar in the morning. I’ll miss his nose glued to my bedroom door in the morning and to my entrance door when I come home from work.

14 years. We have watched each other at our worst and our best. I have cradled him to sleep as a baby  and as an old sick kitty, and he has cradled me, through my many disappointments. At the end of the hardest day in my life, there was always his reassuring paw on my forearm, and his soft talk, and his deep, brown eyes, and his friendly tilt of his bony, earful head. He’s made me love cats more than I thought possible before, and he’s made me hate people more. I just hope I gave him at least an ounce of what he has given me.

When I adopted him 14 years ago, I signed a piece of paper that made me promise I would care for him, that I would not declaw him, and I would not allow flees, worms or any kind of parasites to live in or on his body. That I would not hurt him, or adopt him further to other people. I kept that promise religiously for every single day of every single one of those 14 years. Except … for the past months, where he’s been sick. I could not shield him from this one. The Big one! I could not. I did not know how. And I will never forgive myself for it, either!

Even skinny, he was still joyful, happy and communicative – till the kidney failure set in. And then, a week ago, he stopped eating. I knew he was near the end when my baby stopped eating. Stopped begging for food, and stopped jumping in the kitchen every time the silverware drawer would open. Then, two days ago, he stopped drinking. And then moving on his own.

I am not running through this to give myself absolution. This was also part of his life. The very sad, but fortunately, very short, part of his life. He trusted me blindly. I moved him across the country and I would crate him every single day in the car ride, and he never fought it. He talked and talked in the car, but I think he was asking for explanations. Oh, how I wish I could give those to him!

I am not quite sure how I’ll move on from here, but like Churchill said … I’ll have to just keep going. Blindly, and hurt, and down, I will keep crawling, and praying that my Fero is well and we shall meet again, on a sunny, beautiful pasture, somewhere.

They say kitties go to kitty heaven when they die, but I swear Fero would love a people heaven. Full of good hearted people that would listen to his stories and would feed him whatever they could spare.

Wherever he is now, I hope he’s free of pain, and there is plenty of foods and toys for him to enjoy. I hope it’s warm, and there is a vent he can purr by. I also hope they have a Windows, not a Mac, computer with a Windows XP song.

There is no way I could ever, in a million words, even begin to do justice to this amazing cat! I am just trying to leave a mark in time about his beautiful givings to us, and I am just trying to get this out of my chest, as it smothers me. As it should!

I am forever humbled that this unbelievable creature has spent most of his short life with me. I will never be the same because of his passing, but mostly because of his life and what he has taught me. Egyptians worshiped cats, and now I know why.

Rest in peace, little buddy. Until we shall meet again, momma loves you forever and always just the same.

 

June 1, 1998 - November 26, 2012 

A Quiet Weekend under the First Snow

“It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

 

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, --
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.” (Emily Dickinson – The Snow)

Yes. It’s here. We did have a couple of flakes … sometime in October, I think – but the first true “dump” happened this weekend. The last tomatoes got chopped up and frozen for the winter, so, I guess fall is officially over.

We did miss putting all the patio furniture away yet. Our patio set and the grill are now sitting, desperately in awe, under a foot of snow, on the new patio. The last blooming roses are confused, too – and shivering. Oops! I guess it was unexpected. 

 Our laden with snow back patio

We were scheduled to go to an outdoor wedding this weekend, and we decided that would not be the right thing to do. Especially with Aa. still fighting a cold. Plus, the roads looked iffy on Saturday, still. 

One of my scared roses

Instead, we stayed in, watched the snow piling up after Friday dinner, and behaved like total pensioners: read, surfed, watched bad, way too early Christmas movies on TV, wrote, archived pictures, and ate creamy white, spicy sausage and corn soup with garlic toast. We are craving apple pie, too! We’ve been eating way too much. But I guess it’s just the body’s natural response to winter: we need to build up fat, for hibernation, right?! Right! 

 

Spicy sausage and corn soup with garlic toast.

Some people say this is too early. After all, my Canada sister has not seen snow this season yet! Neither has my Romania family. But it feels and looks fairy-like and gorgeous all around. 

 

A close up view of The Valley, from our dining room window

 

It feels like Christmas, without the tree. It really does. It’s a coziness and a familiarity in the air that we have craved for, all (crazy busy) year long! So, we’re enjoying it – even before its time.

And early or not, cold or not, one thing is for sure: it looks so beautiful! 

 

Our back door view: Mount Timpanogos

My Ten Reasons to Move to Denver

I had been to Colorado before, but not to Denver. My previous love of the state was only enlarged when the love for its capital city was added to it!

We went there on a direct flight from the tiny town of Provo, UT, for an extended weekend, to partake in the Great Beer Festival of 2012. As it often happens with most travel, we went there to spend some time with a friend over beer tastings, and we came back much more rich in memories and experiences. 

 

 

Destination: beer! - with my tasting glass and pretzel necklace, all ready to go!

I have thought about this blog for a while now (we went there a month ago, or so), and I think the easiest way to describe the Denver experience is to say all the reasons why we were both in love with the city and now (semi)seriously consider to move there! Maybe this will give you all an idea what Denver is all about.

1.  It’s a “walkable” city (I like this word better than “walking”). Or at least its downtown is. Streets are clearly marked, and numbered, for the most part. The downtown is buzzing with people, and you will not be a weirdo if anyone sees you walking instead of popping in and out of your car at every corner. 
2.  Along these lines, it feels like a small city. It’s not rushed. Its downtown is cozy, and people are not in a hurry (like New York or Boston). They strut, and stop, and talk and clutch on cups of coffee, and take their time. Most of them look like they live in the swanky condos that line every street – new buildings and old, redone ones, as well.
   
   
   Condos along the water front ... 
3. There are opportunities to get sidetracked and pop into a store, a mall, a park, river front, a book store (about which more, in a sec), a brew pub, a museum at every corner. We were there for three almost full days and we never rode the tram, or took a cab, but we filled the entire time with just walking and “store”-ing and eating and snacking and … Even if you’re not shopping, the architecture alone is beautiful, unique, a mixture of Old West meets 1800’s Old America, and 21^st century svelte construction. A photo opp on every alley.
   
   
   The old and the new in downtown Denver
4. In an area of about a quarter or a square mile, it has three huge book stores: two Barnes and Noble(s) and one local store (“The Tattered Cover”). And they don’t look like sad ghost towns inside, either. They’re full of people reading and buying books. (this comment will make my nephews chuckle 20 years from now. I just know it!)
   
   
   
   Beautiful mosaic murals in downtown Denver
   
   

    

   Cool street sculptures around The Capitol Park
5. They have a Brueggers’ Bagels shop! Ever since I moved to Utah almost 3 years ago, I have missed this delicious place! ( if my husband were writing his blog, he would replace this one with “They have a Panera”).
   
   
   Fair warning on Brueggers's entrance 
6. Wynkoop Brewery  is just one of the way many downtown brew joints. But its Two Guns Pilsner is the reason I wound move for: the best draft I have tasted in a long, long time.
7. The Titled Kilt (just get over the skimpy outfits, please!) has the best garlic mashed potatoes in at least two continents that I know of! The garlic butter is oozing in plentifulness on top of creamy, lumpy mashed taters!
   
   
   
   The famous mashed potatoes at The Kilt - can you see the butter?!
8. Where else in the world did I find fried trout for breakfast nonetheless, but Sam’s #3 on Curtis?! The place is almost as historic as the city itself, and the wait is long, but so worth it. It’s not just the food, it’s the whole sassy attitude of it that would probably bring me back every Sunday morning!
   
   Yeah - that's a WHOLE trout!
9. Although in the heart of Western America, the city is very much connected to the world. It was the central bastion for the western railroads, back in the day, and today, its airport feels like it’s connecting people to any place in the nation and the world, as well. Everyone flies to and from Denver. Even if you need to go a tiny place like Provo, UT!
   
   
   The old heart of The West: Denver railway station
10. For those of you who know me well, you know I cannot live far from mountains. So, the very last reason why I would love to move to Denver (but not the least) is that looking around town, you see the beautiful Rockies peeking up in the horizon at every step! You are in the Mile High City, after all, and gems like Breckenridge and Boulder and even Vail are only a short car ride away! The air is clear and fresh, like you would expect, too. None of the “inversion” mucky air we breathe in Salt Lake.

And a word or twelve about the beer. The Great American Beer Festival was one of the strangest (in mostly a good way) experiences I have ever had. I have been to wine festivals before, but they were in the open air. The beer festival was inside the Convention Center in Denver. After you waited for sometimes hours in the line that wrapped around The Center at least twice, you were inside the huge, main events hall. The air was infused with alcohol smell. It smelled like an old, old, old pub where the wooden floors have been imbued with spilled beer for decades! You could have gotten drunk from the smell in the air alone.

You got a plastic tasting glass (the wine festivals give you a real glass) and you started to walk around, elbowing the crowds, to visit every booth (if you could) and taste whatever beer sounded good by its description or name. The booths are laid out by region (Northwest, Midwest, Southeast, etc), and each brewery pours a taste of several (or just one) of their crafted beers from (plastic) pitchers.

Although all three of us have very different preferences in beers (our friend makes his own, so his palate is very sophisticated compared to ours), all three of us agreed that the most surprisingly good beer we found after two days of tasting was one called “Orange blossom” from the Papago Brewing in Scottsdale, AZ. It’s a vanilla and mandarin wheat ale – and it is just delicious!

We tasted everything! We tasted beer that had coffee in it, and beer that was brewed, it felt like, in an old meat smoker! Beer that tasted like hot chili peppers and some that tasted like coconut. We now know that you’re only limited by your imagination when you decide what to add in beer for flavor!

At the end of a couple of hours of tasting, I am not sure whether we wanted to leave because we were feeling too buzzed, or because we could not take the progressively louder and worse smelling crowd around us?! But about an hour and a half to two hours was my tolerance for the event.

And then, there was the pretzel necklace – for palate cleansing between tastings. And the cheese sampling table. My favorite part about the festival is how it transforms the city! Everyone you run into, in a restaurant waiting line, or in the elevator, or in the shuttle ride back to the airport is asking you if you’re here for The Festival. And then you end up exchanging experiences and “brew talk” about the beers you tasted and what you have “learned”. It gives the city a happy, familiar, friendly heart, even more so than its native, originally beautiful one.

...It was a beautiful October day, 2012 ...

Please click on the picture for the whole photo adventure ...

The Grotto – A Photographic Journey

You would think that, by the way I have not posted anything all month, I didn’t do much! But it’s been a long and beautiful Indian Summer, for the most part, around here – plus or minus a couple of hours of snow falling! We’ve been visiting neighboring states, a couple of trails, celebrating the fall at Oktoberfest, and packing the garden away for the winter. In a nutshell – we should be ready for what comes next, and we’re totally exhausted. But that’s the topic of another blog.
  

One of these past weekends, we went for a short hike on the Grotto Trail, on Nebo Loop. About half an hour away from home, it’s not even a mile long, but the beauty of the whole trail will make you stop in breath-halting awe to admire the mountain and the river. So, you might end up spending more time than what a regular 0.3 mi walk would take.

The air was clear and bright and it reminded me of the liquid, honey-like air of the Smokies. It was just a peaceful, gentle autumn day, filled with color, perfect for shooting, walking, picnicking and just … being in a long, restful sigh.

I could not say more than what the pictures say, so I will let them tell the tale. 

All around us, there were mountains of color - the aspen and the maples spotting and accenting the green of the pines.

 

On the trail - a carpet of dry and swishy leaves. You can sort of "see" the material-ness of the soft, liquid, lazy air. There was no humidity, though!

 

This guy has become a tradition in our fall pictures. I still can't tell what kind of winter he's telling us about ... hmmm ... 

 

 

To get to the grotto, you'll have to cross the river in several spots, on makeshift bridges like these. I was nervous at first, as I muster no balance, but after seeing 3 year olds do it, I gained some courage ... 

 

It's fall ... For sure: the leaves are giving up. 

 Almost there: last "bridge" before entering the grotto.

 

The waterfall inside the grotto - so peaceful and serene! 

Standing tall and cold ... 

 

A closeup of the falls.

 

A peekaboo view from the mouth of the grotto into the inside of it, with its bleeding waterfall heart.

 

 From the inside of the grotto out. And somehow, I never get tired of Utah rock!

 

  

Towards the end of the day, we found the perfect spot for lunch. 

What this day will probably look like, to our brains, about 100 years from now ...

"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!