tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92087623906200996392024-03-13T03:05:20.598-07:00mountain Lyon notesAbout art and life in the West. Except when it's not.JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.comBlogger655125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-62717230889454724842024-02-25T16:49:00.000-08:002024-03-02T10:41:09.313-08:00Mom: the Last Chapter<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOeJ6yGlJrEoxBDpAmliWhyphenhyphenhrlKQ5Tl0eeCl_IwsOxdd3unn2fh3336NEc4SjNDaAIy0uQzcLHaCV8jFOprleORv0_DV6Xy-lslO6LsTa4w6ckYjsoBzrkF-r2sosJiZ-u9a4axZem5UZUW2WsTAmN_AQxiLmdPhxcwdvfIjNkqvdhd-uciYI1gIQ6s9c/s1870/Mom%20Thanksgiving%20dress_8152.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1870" data-original-width="1403" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhOeJ6yGlJrEoxBDpAmliWhyphenhyphenhrlKQ5Tl0eeCl_IwsOxdd3unn2fh3336NEc4SjNDaAIy0uQzcLHaCV8jFOprleORv0_DV6Xy-lslO6LsTa4w6ckYjsoBzrkF-r2sosJiZ-u9a4axZem5UZUW2WsTAmN_AQxiLmdPhxcwdvfIjNkqvdhd-uciYI1gIQ6s9c/w300-h400/Mom%20Thanksgiving%20dress_8152.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 12pt 0in;"><i><span style="color: #333333;">In the months since I blogged last, my mother passed away. I've processed it like everything else, through words. Here are some things I can share about a woman who lived her best life, right until the end.</span></i><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Once, when I wrote a silly but true story about sheep and goats in rhyme, Mom asked if I would tell her story. I knew I would, of course I would. But it felt wrong to ask her to sit for an interview. I didn’t like the signals it might send, as if we were agreeing it was official now: she’d die someday, maybe even someday soon. The last thing I wanted to imply was that I thought we needed to rush, or that I was giving her permission by taking one more thing off the bucket list.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">She was doing a great job checking things off the bucket list on her own. I’ll get to that, but first I want to start by saying that if there was one constant in Mom’s life, it was that she was quiet. In an era when women were expected to be kind, she exceeded expectations. In a time when women were expected to stay in the background, she did exactly that, raising eight children and making them feel loved. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 12pt 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">[And here I'll skip to her final six years, after the death of my dad, who passed away in 2018. In the years since I'd come along--and I was Number Six of eight children--Mom had learned to assert herself, and she'd spent the last six years taking care of my dad through a terminal illness. She and I lived in the same valley. She was in a retirement home. And for all the changes she'd made in her life, she was still soft-spoken, even if she told people what she wanted more often.]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">After the funeral, neither of us could talk about those final days of Dad’s. We did some family history together, but I always felt I was in the presence of a master who was terribly far ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">In 2019 we took a trip with Oldest Sister and Our Nephew to a historic site in Colorado called Seventeen Mile House. One of our ancestors had lived there and helped run the place, which was a pretty progressive thing for the day because our ancestor was female, mixing with rough teamster types. Mom was happy on that trip. It was lovely to see, and it was what I’d hoped for her: a time and place where she could make her own decisions and do what she wanted. What Mom wanted most was to follow her own roots. Nine Mile House was only a long day’s drive from where she lived, but this was the first time she’d been there and she was so happy, she glowed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">The last part of 2019 was hard for her. She was sick and had to cancel a cruise she'd been looking forward to for months. She was in the hospital several times. Eventually we discovered how to treat her. She ended up on a strict diet (for heath reasons, not weight loss) for the rest of her life. I remember wanting so badly to give her some years that were just hers alone, making her own choices. In the end I think we managed it, but first, there was COVID.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">During the pandemic I ran supplies up to Williamsburg, leaving them near the front door for her. As restrictions eased we spent some time face to face. She was still very careful with her diet, but her health improved, and she was up to having lunch with me now and again as restrictions eased further. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">I noticed Mom had an elegance that few at her age could match. I remember one day—I can’t remember when, exactly—an older gentleman held the door at the retirement home for her. Then he turned to watch her walk through. That guy was scamming on my mother! And he wasn't alone. Mom laughed it off; she and other widows in the community agreed men their age who were looking to get married only wanted “a nurse or a purse.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">After Dad died she said she’d wait at least a year to make any big changes in her life and living arrangements. 2019 had been taken up with sickness and then COVID made it hard to do anything. Now that it was over, it was time to have another serious conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">So I asked her. “Do you want to move in with us, or another child? I know it’s been a long time since you and Dad decided you wanted to live here. Do you still like it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">“Actually,” she said, “I think I want to get married.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">I was shocked. But, I reasoned, if I really wanted her to make her own decisions, I'd best step back and let her make this one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">I can say the man she chose was not looking for a nurse or a purse. He was her friend, and he was nearly as surprised as I was when she asked him to marry her. He said yes, though. It took some time for me to get used to the idea; I'd hoped she'd have some years with nobody else to look after, or to tell her what to do. But it was clear the man she chose made her happy, and I couldn't argue with that. She married again at age 85.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Mom still made her own decisions. She took a trip or two without him—including a cruise to Mexico with a group from the retirement home. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">We gathered at Williamsburg for her 87<sup>th</sup> birthday party after Thanksgiving, 2023. My kids and I shared some cake and a laugh with her and her new husband, and I gave Mom some earrings that were just right for a dress someone else had given her--secondhand, I think, but it doesn't matter because it was the most beautiful thing. She went and put it on, and I was so impressed by my lovely mother, I took a picture. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">We were back a couple of weeks later for a Christmas party she’d planned on her own for all the family in the region. We had a good night, laughed some more, and I felt such admiration for her then. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">None of us could have guessed that was our last party together, or that the photo I took on the night of her birthday would end up on the back of her funeral program. She went to the hospital between Christmas and New Year’s, and it was serious. But when she went home, she seemed to be recovering, even if she had to stay on oxygen. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">I gained even more respect for her second husband during her hospital stay. He took her to the emergency room and kept showing up for her, even though it was physically hard for him to do. On January 30, he called to tell me she had passed away. It happened very quickly on what had started out as a good day. She was feeling up to going to the dining room for breakfast, and they were waiting on their couch to go down, laughing and talking. And the next moment she was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">The day after the funeral we did a little memorial at the retirement home. To be honest, I didn’t want to do it. The funeral had been exhausting and I was ready to move on, but we’d promised we’d do it and their activities coordinator told us so many people passed without leaving so much as an obituary. So we met in the little chapel up there, and it filled to capacity. Frank shared his memories, we shared ours, the attendees shared theirs, and I realized Mom had touched so, so many lives. It wasn’t a complete surprise; she’d tell me now and again that she was worried about someone, and we’d talk about the situation and how she was helping. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">From time to time she’d played piano for the residents because she didn’t want to get too complacent in her skills. On the day of a summer party, when they had brought in a bouncy castle and water slide, she surprised everyone by putting on a bathing suit and plunging down. She had gained an adventurous side I don’t remember seeing as a child. But she was still visiting her friends, listening to them like always, living her faith.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Her home was full of the family history that occupied so much of her conversation. That, and notes on gospel topics for the church lessons she delivered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">She had lived in her community for 11 years, and some of them were rough. As I thought about it, she’d had several hard things hit her while she was there—things that could break the spirit. Each time, she came back, blooming like a tulip in the spring.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;">As people filed out of the memorial I thanked them for looking after her. They all said, “No, she looked after us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-65047553825798777522023-12-21T16:20:00.000-08:002023-12-21T16:20:52.063-08:00Top 5 List for 2023: Meeting people where they areI will skip the top five blog pots this year. The truth is I didn't blog often enough to justify it. Instead I'll do five surprise moments of the year. In each of them, either I met someone else where they were, or they met me.<div><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Great Smoky Mountains National Park</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHEkb63KgrEigHkxuMejGEXp23Qac4xCKMmDDS9R2xH783Hyr9ksJ2N7DoN47RB-BxFGu3MjvhsGDcyjdfntTekfxtLRRToKnfWz7wqo8CzVZXwhZuT6rEF3Hr1RJbH0U0mBeuPoHp_Ls_7eFbcq_x-AiiVyAX6_C6nySiSpX3Hi4AUVsqkX_YPOVDleJ/s4032/IMG_8332.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A waterfall is framed by the arching branch of a tree" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHEkb63KgrEigHkxuMejGEXp23Qac4xCKMmDDS9R2xH783Hyr9ksJ2N7DoN47RB-BxFGu3MjvhsGDcyjdfntTekfxtLRRToKnfWz7wqo8CzVZXwhZuT6rEF3Hr1RJbH0U0mBeuPoHp_Ls_7eFbcq_x-AiiVyAX6_C6nySiSpX3Hi4AUVsqkX_YPOVDleJ/w640-h480/IMG_8332.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>This experience sticks with me because I went with Brother #1 (that's ranked by birth order) and his wife. We don't see them very often. Husband and I had planned the trip to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park because of a conversation Brother #1 may have forgotten by the time we acted on it. He's lived in a lot more cities than I have, and when I asked him what part of the world felt like home, he said the Smokies. (He currently lives a four-hour drive away, so we didn't exactly meet him where he lives, but it's closer.) Years later, we finally arranged to take a vacation with him and his wife on the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. We rented a cute little cabin that went all in on its bear theme. We drove through the park. We hiked. We took pictures. We realized that not every national park tourist trap looks like Jackson Hole. And we went to the Hatfield and McCoy Dinner Feud in Pigeon Forge. It was entertaining and the food was great. I loved how every question I asked was answered with "Yes, Ma'am." But the best part was seeing what a fun time my brother was having at the dinner feud. He cheered and laughed and clapped and bought souvenirs. Well done, Hatfields and McCoys.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">Touring the Cod. </h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMK4ircxQdv2Jt8FZlQZAsTyURKqHer2OQLK0KDG8OVFpAd8bYa5teOA1tWb0fih4l_CJCul1e2V2VhqUHjYXBDHyLoGp_Va-IejlnTjiL03BKj1FZohKbU_jvkwS2X3wNcoFgfIFQSAPOAUWMvloxYtMcilSCNLnoFDXvjVUiTtPfrDS_Yliy-Jz-gov/s4032/IMG_8359.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The inner workings of the submarine, including a bank of dials and a couple of steering wheels, are shown in red "night vision" light" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfMK4ircxQdv2Jt8FZlQZAsTyURKqHer2OQLK0KDG8OVFpAd8bYa5teOA1tWb0fih4l_CJCul1e2V2VhqUHjYXBDHyLoGp_Va-IejlnTjiL03BKj1FZohKbU_jvkwS2X3wNcoFgfIFQSAPOAUWMvloxYtMcilSCNLnoFDXvjVUiTtPfrDS_Yliy-Jz-gov/w640-h480/IMG_8359.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Husband and I went to a decommissioned, World War II-era submarine-turned-museum in Cleveland, Ohio. My honest impression: it was a hell-hole in the water, and that's before it actually saw action in war. People aboard had absolutely no personal space. Fold-up cots were all over the ship, in places that were dedicated to many other things besides sleep. Those bunks that were low to the ground had canned goods stuffed under them. The inhabitants had one luxury: a tiny shower where they spent three minutes, once a week. I've been in many military museums with Husband, a history buff who is fascinated by the design, weaponry and engineering feats that help win wars. When we go to places like the Cod, we come away with completely different impressions. But because we've shared the experience, I know he agrees that it is very sad that people spent so much time packed like sardines in a metal tube. At best they lived in fear for their lives, at worst they didn't survive, all because of world leaders' heartless ambitions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Husband knows I agree that if you're going to go to war, you should go into it with the best tools and a mindset to get it over with as quickly as possible. Because the only thing worse than a war is a war that goes on forever. (That was my lasting takeaway after reading Sun Tzu's <i>Art of War</i>.)</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Concert Hall. </h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRi8dxCM-uXmqUqzCbVzjnHNwMPiDKsI3T5UUqV0wz8ZrgDwjl4CNDM-0liKA6Ac1MSdlHw1hSDj4jiUKinIY6okLy9kuOt_cnQ2DVLzb0qTcxjX9N7N30eMP-EfvCux1H3yhpcnVGlistjULAhwqyeCCLBfB6iPjvJWYbtG4Cj6GVhYhJL9PnL49O5yom/s3024/IMG_8783.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="A concert hall with wooden walls and a ceiling that looks like a starry sky" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRi8dxCM-uXmqUqzCbVzjnHNwMPiDKsI3T5UUqV0wz8ZrgDwjl4CNDM-0liKA6Ac1MSdlHw1hSDj4jiUKinIY6okLy9kuOt_cnQ2DVLzb0qTcxjX9N7N30eMP-EfvCux1H3yhpcnVGlistjULAhwqyeCCLBfB6iPjvJWYbtG4Cj6GVhYhJL9PnL49O5yom/w320-h320/IMG_8783.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div>There is a beauty in being married to someone with very different interests from yours. If I never stepped out of my comfort zone, I'd have never toured the Cod. Husband did the same for me and went to two concerts; one a strange folky blend of lyrical beauty (Gregory Alan Isakov) and one that was hard-core classical (Rachmaninoff compositions, choral and piano). During the first, I remember looking over and seeing Husband leaning back, eyes closed. We'd been listening to beautiful songs, but most of them had a lonely sound that intensified when you heard one after the other. Was he suffering? No, he told me later. He was immersing himself in the experience. After that, Isakov became the soundtrack for the lonely roads we traveled the rest of the summer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Rachmaninoff concert was a harder sell, but he went with me, and he said he liked the piano music the best. I got a smile when I told him I couldn't imagine seeing Prelude in G Minor done any better. </div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">A tiny retreat near Great Basin National Park. </h3><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggb8kAAT2R4BiUX07ii_OA6qskI7RIjdqpwTzeSHD30Ik7BtjvRS2xi8PC2wYRHCeo_Kdto_qWT1JMLkN_tNe4qjpUEY28RwfEOQWJA4BSXR7-tFNUs6k11tDD03vZpat4-5micwce3PpcKgHKW6hguN68gOBun3iCTuwIDe1XpYH5XIzSbv1gVQejCVWk/s1032/Screenshot%202023-12-21%20at%204.41.39%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a deer in an orchard" border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="1032" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggb8kAAT2R4BiUX07ii_OA6qskI7RIjdqpwTzeSHD30Ik7BtjvRS2xi8PC2wYRHCeo_Kdto_qWT1JMLkN_tNe4qjpUEY28RwfEOQWJA4BSXR7-tFNUs6k11tDD03vZpat4-5micwce3PpcKgHKW6hguN68gOBun3iCTuwIDe1XpYH5XIzSbv1gVQejCVWk/w200-h167/Screenshot%202023-12-21%20at%204.41.39%20PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>Most of the family came together for a few days at Great Basin National Park. I expected most of the good things that happened on that trip: pretty hikes, family time, time with my granddaughter, great food cooked and eaten outdoors. I did not expect that we'd be sharing our vacation retreat with a herd of deer and a flock of wild turkeys. When we came back from a day of adventuring, the deer would be grazing in the orchard. They'd look up at us and go back to grazing. And they made the experience even more magical.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">A birthing suite and a graveside, all on the same day. </h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVe3L8HZ0Zsgvc2oMz31WoN1aKWppJsa-P8gJmXiOJpg8tLtCiv5mpGUuPm77TpDrpLjX8ufhlVI-UWeie5w7zmjBhE5Kd3hX9yI84C3z_8pcAprpHOo4Jj6vcc3S0BdcE8Ju7ghQPrSvrNyhN2mCdLnuSSI2OlAEB7Ai8RlB7aWr58Ow4uobVhpt_EWsD/s2127/IMG_9314.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1573" data-original-width="2127" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVe3L8HZ0Zsgvc2oMz31WoN1aKWppJsa-P8gJmXiOJpg8tLtCiv5mpGUuPm77TpDrpLjX8ufhlVI-UWeie5w7zmjBhE5Kd3hX9yI84C3z_8pcAprpHOo4Jj6vcc3S0BdcE8Ju7ghQPrSvrNyhN2mCdLnuSSI2OlAEB7Ai8RlB7aWr58Ow4uobVhpt_EWsD/w400-h297/IMG_9314.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div>We welcomed our second grandbaby into to the world on the same day as the funeral of Husband's mother. I am still processing the whiplashing emotions of that day. My son, the proud papa, was unable to mourn with us and we were limited in how we could celebrate with him. He texted the news and some photos as we were driving to the funeral. If there was anything that carried across both events, it was a sense of reverence. Husband spoke at his mother's graveside and I was so proud of him for honoring her memory at such a difficult time. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of the day I was able to visit my sweet little granddaughter in the hospital and see my daughter-in-law--looking so much more alert than I remember feeling at that stage--and my son. I got to hold Baby Girl. I captured my son's expression on my phone. He looks a bit bewildered, and I remember that feeling, too. Baby Girl is sweet and beautiful and healthy and I had the chance to hold her and cuddle her a lot in those first days. And it happened again: I walked away with a new, bright ray of sunshine in my heart.</div><div><br /></div></div>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-91996726338425198582023-12-05T19:09:00.000-08:002023-12-06T05:31:20.846-08:00Missing Mr. Steve<span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZT_UTrEXBmSfbiss_f4RXFKaSbLKq7xzUq6K1pwuk_cosmWw7dyn9rZQFnimJn5Xqq4iHqHzHgHdtvDqMOiBz1aOxJ_9ZaqI1I6jBECb3W26SysslTy2oxx1gvnNKOiavW_p3tj38NMVsVTpjOQm40A_7jPOf4tuKOGPqVr1CumKMpjD0ZNnUMJzdo0ua/s4032/IMG_5535.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a scowling black and white cat lounges on grass" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZT_UTrEXBmSfbiss_f4RXFKaSbLKq7xzUq6K1pwuk_cosmWw7dyn9rZQFnimJn5Xqq4iHqHzHgHdtvDqMOiBz1aOxJ_9ZaqI1I6jBECb3W26SysslTy2oxx1gvnNKOiavW_p3tj38NMVsVTpjOQm40A_7jPOf4tuKOGPqVr1CumKMpjD0ZNnUMJzdo0ua/w400-h300/IMG_5535.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />In the early days of our relationship, I tried to chase Mr. Steve off our property with a board.</span><p></p><p>I saw him for what he was: a scruffy white-and-black tomcat, most likely dumped near our property like so many other strays. On the scale of feral to tame, he leaned feral. I couldn't guess at his age or his history. If he had been a pet before he came to us, his domestic life likely ended long before he ended up on our doorstep. He discovered where we fed the local ferals. Unlike the rest, he stayed close to the house.</p><p>We tolerated each other until the day he got in a fight with another feral tomcat. It looked bad. Fur was flying, and since we as a family had begun befriending both of the cats, I decided to break it up before somebody got hurt. When they came apart I stomped my foot between them. The other cat ran away. Steve jumped up and bit my leg. We locked eyes for a millisecond while his teeth were embedded near my knee. His expression said it all: <i>Oh crap, I'm in trouble.</i></p><p>It wasn't just a scratch. It was a full-on, four-point deep puncture wound. By the time he scurried away, I was the rabid one. I found a long, skinny piece of wood and chased him around the property with it. The board was for prodding him out of spaces, not beating. But still: Not my proudest moment. I fully intended to drive him away forever, until I realized he could get into a lot of inaccessible places and he was too fast for me. Eventually I burned off enough energy to come to my senses. </p><p>I was not his friend. When the initial anger burned away, I might have lured him into a crate and shipped him off to animal control if the rest of the family hadn't pled his case. Also, while I wasn't a Mr. Steve fan, I had to admit it was stupid of me--I mean, monumentally, mind-knumbingly stupid--to try to break up a cat fight. I decided if he was going to stay, we'd have him neutered, and he made the first of many trips to the vet. Still, though he began acting like he wanted to come in, I didn't let him into the house all winter.</p><p>One night my son asked if we could allow Steve in for a visit and I said no. Steve was too dirty. Son promised to bathe the cat and I relented. I remember lots of yowling from the back bathroom before Son brought a damp Mr. Steve into the living room and placed him on the couch. Mr. Steve pooped on the leather without missing a beat.</p><p>As soon as he was dry, he went back out for the rest of the winter. From his place by the back door he asked for attention from all the family members. He got it from everyone but me. </p><p>Spring came. I was planting zinnias when he came up and plopped himself between my hands. I petted him, he purred, and just like that, we bonded. He helped me with all my outdoor chores, and little by little he became as much of an indoor cat as any of them do. (A lot of cats end up at our place. Some want to come in. Some don't. Even among those who choose the domesticated life, it's not practical to have them inside 24/7.)</p><p>Steve's design wasn't indoor-friendly. He had a chronic sinus condition that always came back, no matter what the vet did. His fur was gossamer-fine but he had way too much of it, and its texture was oddly sticky. He attracted dirt and dead leaves like a dust mop. It matted terribly, and he resented any attempts to brush it out. And while he had too much fur everywhere else, it was thin on the tips of his ears. They were always sunburned. </p><p>But Steve understood his job as house cat. Love and be loved. Show up on the yoga mat for the morning session, and on the couch for movie night. Make sure that wherever you put yourself, you're offering your head or your belly to be rubbed. Purr a lot.</p><p></p>We tried all kinds of strategies for dealing with his matted fur. I brushed him until he threatened to take my hand off. I trimmed off the mats a few at a time, chopping fur and feeding treats until his patience ran out. One spring I got a prescription of kitty valium, drugged him up, bathed him and tried to give him a haircut. The drugs didn't help. By the end of that miserable afternoon I was holding him while we cried together over a pile of wet fur and a pair of dulled hair scissors. <p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy01N6t4lwolOTFivA3SPywfJQPiEVwYDLKyD9ogkA3m45N4ilIMDJHjCz2vsnj1IlHj1_fPbpCqr2lcJxmzsA6zRdOxKAVNdXDi_8XDw_wegi7faygS5Ulls6MxHteTIQfctxKdXMxQmXkLgWrrh7zzf7IjmMu-eTEV-6xiIScO_w9f2hCdfoFMypjgd9/s2343/IMG_8465.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="a cat who was sheared so close, pink skin is showing through his fur" border="0" data-original-height="2343" data-original-width="2343" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy01N6t4lwolOTFivA3SPywfJQPiEVwYDLKyD9ogkA3m45N4ilIMDJHjCz2vsnj1IlHj1_fPbpCqr2lcJxmzsA6zRdOxKAVNdXDi_8XDw_wegi7faygS5Ulls6MxHteTIQfctxKdXMxQmXkLgWrrh7zzf7IjmMu-eTEV-6xiIScO_w9f2hCdfoFMypjgd9/w320-h320/IMG_8465.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>After his second shearing</i></td></tr></tbody></table>Eventually I paid the vet to shear him in the spring, like a sheep. We did this twice, and both times he seemed to fall deathly ill right after the procedure. The first time I thought he was truly sick. The second time I wondered if it was humiliation. Poor Steve. But then his hair grew back and he was his old sniffly self. <p></p><p>He hated being sheared, but oddly, he was happy at the vet's. I think it was because it was just him and me in the room, no other cats or humans vying for attention. I did nothing but pet him. All Steve wanted was to be loved. </p><p>On his last night he curled up with us on the couch. I'm glad he got some cuddle time before we sent him out for the night.</p><p>Bret found his body the next morning. He'd been mauled by a dog. Whoever the culprit was, he's most likely out in the world with a badly slashed nose. As for me, my heart hurts, not just for Steve but for Genghis, the young cat that disappeared a couple of weeks prior. She didn't have as much history with us, but she was beautiful and fun to watch, and now I'm afraid I know what happened to her.</p><p>My friends know we have no shortage of cats. They know how angry I get when someone dumps yet another one on our corner. But it's not because I don't like critters. It's not because of the money we spend to fix them at the vet's so that we're not wading in kittens every spring. It's because I have to decide, time and again, how much room I'm going to let them have in my garage, my house, my heart. </p><p>I'm glad I didn't drive Mr. Steve away all those years ago. He taught me a lot about love and redemption. But I am missing him today.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-3204583932932056882023-11-28T07:50:00.000-08:002023-12-11T06:57:23.520-08:00Review of Romney: A Reckoning<p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUjCtEqS-mxUt08_FbWS582tvo7_ewnFD9E9VzInc7s25jUrWa5TW3UvTuB9PjMbeVHbR2-cBKi7z1zi_QENhrfgaM5IYvDtJDjXOfkxzPMdCJjy5bjJHJznCKi7B-aWo0Cb_8OyFcxY1XOz8Zw0nUXoWxbbcpwZB86NpbdM45ccaROE0BulOXHCyFhWx/s3807/FullSizeRender.heic" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Book cover: Romney: A Reckoning" border="0" data-original-height="3807" data-original-width="2855" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAUjCtEqS-mxUt08_FbWS582tvo7_ewnFD9E9VzInc7s25jUrWa5TW3UvTuB9PjMbeVHbR2-cBKi7z1zi_QENhrfgaM5IYvDtJDjXOfkxzPMdCJjy5bjJHJznCKi7B-aWo0Cb_8OyFcxY1XOz8Zw0nUXoWxbbcpwZB86NpbdM45ccaROE0BulOXHCyFhWx/w240-h320/FullSizeRender.heic" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>So much of this book felt personal, probably because I share Romney's faith and because I used to think of myself as a Republican. I was there when the people of my state were slow to embrace Trump, hesitating over his moral baggage. I was there when many of my fellow Utahns changed their minds. And like Romney, I was stunned when the delegates of my state booed their former 2012 nominee. When Romney felt politically homeless, I could relate.<p>Romney was booed over his impeachment votes to convict President Trump. His deliberations are spelled out in the book, and I appreciated how seriously he took them. I also appreciated his musings on his own Senate colleagues' lack of backbone--their dislike of Trump and his methods, coupled with fear of being rejected by their constituents if they voted to impeach. By the time the senator was deliberating over his first impeachment vote (and there was a lot more deliberation than I realized at the time), Romney had already lost the biggest election anyone can lose. Maybe it didn't scare him as much as it did them. </p><p>Of course, being fabulously wealthy helps. By the time Romney was deliberating over his second impeachment vote, he recognized that some of his colleagues were afraid that violence might come to their families if they voted to impeach. In <i>A Reckoning</i>, he admitted most of them couldn't afford the vast sums he was spending for his and his family's security.</p><p>I also appreciated how the book handled Romney's religion, without any of the heavy-handed background that often comes with a book that tries to explain a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints member to the mainstream. (Too often it comes across as the religious equivalent of man-splaining. Faith-splaining?) But there were so many places where Romney's faith showed. He prayed over votes. He idolized his wife so much that when he and Ann ran an ad showcasing their family life in a Massachusetts campaign, his advisors told him to pull it off the air. It was performing badly; voters couldn't believe they were really like that. (They were really like that, author McKay Coppins concluded after unprecedented access to Romney and his notes and documents.)</p><p>But my favorite part of the book was how it ended, with Romney enjoying a vacation with his children and grandchildren (possibly because I'd done the same only a month before). There was plenty in the book to scare me, yet I closed it hoping that a younger generation will find a way to strengthen our democratic system and to fix the excesses they've inherited. Romney left politics saying it was time for younger people to lead. I agree. </p><p>Then he went on enjoying his remaining healthy years with people he loved. That, too, is an idea I can get behind.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-78892581453996919172023-11-03T17:19:00.000-07:002023-11-03T17:19:15.558-07:00My reading and sleeping habits are changing, and that's a good thing<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs24aFK7wmSJ43XzOJ7E509QLO9396cbFXtg7qjmWyw4hHh92MDyndohlvaz70beIBLaAJWhG0nbxzkd3jaGNih230szW78Gr20CJZ2c8w2XLpOezcWsxA0yB7NJfYV3phsx_CdGQcJ6UNXSp_x8U1cGTFL6-siaBm9VkIYAwPRhY52EdXCdF0uP0eHAjM/s3024/IMG_9283.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Reading glasses on a book in front of a fire. The book is McKay Coppins' Romney biography." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs24aFK7wmSJ43XzOJ7E509QLO9396cbFXtg7qjmWyw4hHh92MDyndohlvaz70beIBLaAJWhG0nbxzkd3jaGNih230szW78Gr20CJZ2c8w2XLpOezcWsxA0yB7NJfYV3phsx_CdGQcJ6UNXSp_x8U1cGTFL6-siaBm9VkIYAwPRhY52EdXCdF0uP0eHAjM/w320-h320/IMG_9283.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My latest read. I may have to do a review on it.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I've known for a long time that the way I read for pleasure is not recommended. (Mostly at night. In bed. And until recently, on a device.) Sleep experts say you shouldn't read in bed. They especially say you shouldn't read on a device in bed. And while I'm not ready to give up my read-until-I'm-so-tired-I-can't-do-it-anymore habit, I am finally conceding: reading on my phone is not healthy.</p><p>I was an early embracer of iPhone/iPad reading. And one of the chief advantages I found with it (other than being able to find any book I wanted, any time) was being able to read in bed without disturbing my husband. If I woke up in the middle of the night, I'd just read until I fell asleep again.</p><p>Or alternatively I'd check social media, or my news feed. And some story or post would reference an event I didn't know, so I'd Google it. Then I'd decide how I felt about it. Then I'd remember I was supposed to be sleeping and try to go back to the e-book, but by then I'd be too distracted to stick with it unless it was a page-turner. And if it was a page-turner I still wasn't getting back to sleep.</p><p>Over the last few months I've gone back to reading paper books in bed. That's right. After 14 years of e-reading, I've gone back to 570-year-old, glare-free, distraction-less technology. Which means I have to work a lot harder to get the book in the first place. The one I finished today was not in the first bookstore I visited and sold out in the second. (We were coming home from vacation, so we had the luxury of looking in more than one town.) I called ahead to a third store to verify it was in stock before we stopped to pick it up.</p><p>If I can't find what I want in a library or bookstore, I may have to (cringe) order it from that A-place. But I want to buy it from a local bookstore if I can, even if it means going to a shop that devotes less than half the space to books that it did ten years ago. A place that has diversified away from reading material so much, I'm surprised it still has the word "book" in its name.</p><p>I realize I have no right to feel betrayed by this. Readers like me are the reason it happened. I fell for the instant gratification of ordering a book and having it land on my device in seconds. A decade ago, e-books looked like healthy, disruptive technology. Also in my younger days, sleep came easier. The phone-induced insomnia only sneaked up on me gradually, but let me tell ya, it's a thing.</p><p>I made the decision to shift my reading habits in the summer, and I racked up a pretty large pile of unread books. I've been working through them, and blessedly, that sweet, fuzzy-brained tiredness I crave while reading in bed usually kicks in after just a few pages. The best of the books keep me engaged enough, I read them during the day, too. I still have some of my summer reading pile left. The true test will hit when I run out. </p><p>There's only one problem. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I don't want to turn on the light and disturb Husband. So if I'm going to read until I go back to sleep, I must leave the room and take a blanket and pillow with me.</p><p>Fortunately, the middle-of-the-night wakefulness seems to be happening less, too.</p><p>I'll drop a qualifier in here: I am still an avid audiobook consumer. I don't see that changing anytime soon. But I listen to audiobooks when I'm driving or housecleaning or pruning trees. They don't affect my sleep.</p><p>I am not carrying this experiment off perfectly. I still check social media sometimes, before I remember I don't do that anymore. But overall, my habits and my quality of rest are improving. </p><p>I'll let you know how it goes.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-69555631474871446342023-11-01T08:52:00.002-07:002023-11-01T08:52:56.469-07:00Rock panel art critics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nIzD-tqSJegqAhCrpk_j0ph0GN3onLSNuVxmP9DBFGiiWNR1Xmt7Via9t-fOfmNcAigM9ThrIIxS8PAZ8RaBGIf3ADuMsMa-bCIln4scqi7eDTzcFBZoP6NT0l227ljXxgnWMMsU_FVKC6Zi0aI996tZBtA2mAceyDB5bPHbLlgVQEnC_29tMat4DH4m/s4032/IMG_9261.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="An erosion-carved red butte rises up from a high desert landscape" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6nIzD-tqSJegqAhCrpk_j0ph0GN3onLSNuVxmP9DBFGiiWNR1Xmt7Via9t-fOfmNcAigM9ThrIIxS8PAZ8RaBGIf3ADuMsMa-bCIln4scqi7eDTzcFBZoP6NT0l227ljXxgnWMMsU_FVKC6Zi0aI996tZBtA2mAceyDB5bPHbLlgVQEnC_29tMat4DH4m/w640-h480/IMG_9261.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>We keep going back to the Four Corners. There's something about the blend of geology, pre-history and desert sun that is irresistible to us. So this year we celebrated our 31st anniversary by returning to a favorite part of the world. Though we've been to the region many times, we went to several places we'd never seen before.</p><p>One of them was the Wolf Man Petroglyph in Butler Wash. And let me tell ya, hiking on BLM land is nothing like hiking in a national park. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgsBk8bmtni-ShmBYQT3tEhM_Q6UWYxQKeV-tDuKEKAnNhjz0lxEyrYFMYIPxtdffCOP1MqsHm55m52SinB5yVpNx_EEyY-GY1f3tiCg3lGKbk55wN4rL8vQK9I0ml785dqTJfnI_s9lgkP2vFMn4kbsoB0wOkhvMxaLf66vGZdpqbAxK0ot3s1T34y4gf/s4032/IMG_9218.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="A narrow path passes through reeds taller than a person" border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgsBk8bmtni-ShmBYQT3tEhM_Q6UWYxQKeV-tDuKEKAnNhjz0lxEyrYFMYIPxtdffCOP1MqsHm55m52SinB5yVpNx_EEyY-GY1f3tiCg3lGKbk55wN4rL8vQK9I0ml785dqTJfnI_s9lgkP2vFMn4kbsoB0wOkhvMxaLf66vGZdpqbAxK0ot3s1T34y4gf/w480-h640/IMG_9218.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>For one thing, it's hard to tell where you're going, because the trails are not marked with signs. Is this the right way? Was the path made by feet, or deer? Do I turn back here, after all that humiliating scramble past washed-out trail (that was a trail, right?) that severely challenged my fear of heights? Or at least, it challenged my fear of falling into a crevice and remaining wedged there until Search and Rescue pulled me out. I have to give Husband credit. He helped me face my fears and didn't laugh at me once.</p><p>As it turned out, the rock panel was in a completely different direction. We almost missed it, but it was way back where the trail first dropped into the wash. We turned right when we should've turned left.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjcBl2SHSjdd6D0huLQhT6vTeSbQa1fKcu-4cCnBs687cihMScDUApiO7OEEHdFWKnOsVR5ldJ0fviHOkYfwNHcJaDwzLGyoOfdfvW_oDkDBjhlRDhKqJVsurURQXPpn1Db_A6i0gYdX2EC4QCwpfJ7ReWWv8kLUJfEH_1tZzlYwlgE9DItqpN6DkTlPD/s4032/IMG_9219.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjcBl2SHSjdd6D0huLQhT6vTeSbQa1fKcu-4cCnBs687cihMScDUApiO7OEEHdFWKnOsVR5ldJ0fviHOkYfwNHcJaDwzLGyoOfdfvW_oDkDBjhlRDhKqJVsurURQXPpn1Db_A6i0gYdX2EC4QCwpfJ7ReWWv8kLUJfEH_1tZzlYwlgE9DItqpN6DkTlPD/w640-h480/IMG_9219.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>We have seen enough rock art panels that we are armchair critics now. This one is well executed. The images are clear. The bullet holes are evidence that some some knucklehead got there before we did. (I wrote another word before I settled on knucklehead, but this is a family blog.)</p><p>On the way back to the car we agreed we would read the guidebook more closely. We'd assumed that finding the trailhead would be the hard part. </p><p>So we read the next installment in the guidebook about Monarch Cave, but we were already aware that the mileage estimates between turn-offs were written before GPS technology. They were less accurate than we'd hoped. Still, we took the turn-off close to the trees the guidebook mentioned. The write-up promised we'd wander through a shaded path on our way to the cave, and the odometer showed we'd come roughly the right distance.</p><p>The trail took us through the trees. Then it went straight up the white stone slope ahead. We were soon out of the promised shade, gaining altitude on face of what our geologist son-in-law said is probably one of a long line of fossilized sand dunes.</p><p>At least the way was well marked, cairns pointing the way to a decent crossing from one slope to the next. By now we admitted to each other, this was probably not the way to Monarch Cave. But we had no doubt we were on a trail to <i>somewhere</i>, and it was kind of nice to continue on a path that was so clearly marked.</p><p>A group of hikers showed up, heading back down. They set us straight: we were not headed to Monarch Cave. We were going to the Progression Rock Panel, but it was worth seeing.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtOsE7pruLUR-6-OYe61nQyTcb1sRnnmJf7IJT-qq6Y4u1ToQDir3WL8xjBemVaqcGdL0g3KrCXYkFlgleKlVgl1bvpdb8SIW-ANPAJWBUPm-e9ujuLe6uNSoZQxEFrXshZWhCfY5QugTERhokaUE7y-KB1NqYM6bCuSLZvSezOYhhr0zUSJg1MNAo5XR/s4032/IMG_9239.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Two deer are chipped into the desert varnish of the rock, and a number of small human figures march above and below them." border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibtOsE7pruLUR-6-OYe61nQyTcb1sRnnmJf7IJT-qq6Y4u1ToQDir3WL8xjBemVaqcGdL0g3KrCXYkFlgleKlVgl1bvpdb8SIW-ANPAJWBUPm-e9ujuLe6uNSoZQxEFrXshZWhCfY5QugTERhokaUE7y-KB1NqYM6bCuSLZvSezOYhhr0zUSJg1MNAo5XR/w640-h480/IMG_9239.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Also well done. One of the hikers we met on our way back down believes this panel marks a<br />highway of the ancient puebloans, and I can see that.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>And, they said, if we walked a few more minutes past it we'd see the Bears Ears monument on the other side of the ridge.</p><p>The guidebook didn't even mention the Progression Rock Panel, possibly because its existence wasn't public knowledge when the first edition was written. But the hikers were right--it was worth the hike and the view was gorgeous.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNIeiB9teZW61kvik9K5VXvE6GBN0Yk1xlTWc4D4UmAYXmOGxEyFerEGIlITp8XpSy_q3QkSUyLdx1t_FCUuW6Gxh2eYr3tVf0zBq9u4nHQDI5A2Y_Ygayy-Gu7WMMbwE1nbzMHAu1uIGK483feuKHadq_RRwqvrz45JTXkw7zGKRKzDkxqzAmzKDsGhp/s4032/IMG_9259.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Limestone rock frames a distant view of Elk Ridge, composed of contrasting red rock." border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNIeiB9teZW61kvik9K5VXvE6GBN0Yk1xlTWc4D4UmAYXmOGxEyFerEGIlITp8XpSy_q3QkSUyLdx1t_FCUuW6Gxh2eYr3tVf0zBq9u4nHQDI5A2Y_Ygayy-Gu7WMMbwE1nbzMHAu1uIGK483feuKHadq_RRwqvrz45JTXkw7zGKRKzDkxqzAmzKDsGhp/w480-h640/IMG_9259.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The two little bumps on the red ridge in the background are the Bear's Ears.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>And there may be a metaphor in there somewhere. We were on a trail we didn't expect, wondering where we were, sure we were not where we had intended to go. But in the end we were rewarded with prehistoric art and an amazing panoramic view. We couldn't have planned it better.</p><p><br /></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-3336918902912289402023-07-16T20:40:00.002-07:002023-07-16T21:07:04.412-07:00Night songs on the Wyoming plains<h3 style="text-align: left;">And why it's important to bring everyone to the table</h3><p>There is a bird near the Sweetwater River that sings a beautiful song in the dark morning hours.</p><p>I know this because I was lying awake in a tent near the river bank, well after midnight. Husband and I had helped prepare, serve and clean up after dinner for more than 400 people, out in the middle of the Wyoming plains. The setup was truly amazing, with enormous propane-powered woks and burners, a bank of serving tables, a dry storage trailer, a cold storage trailer, and lots and lots of hand sanitizer. </p><p>And it was work.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIvhGr39Ub_3nPlQ3o0bexIab2ZbY8XZb289XHLJBpYnHJM9V6QR7SGkmh4TBvFL1n5fjVtxT3kmlS2RblyZpRE17qpiL6ZJ8nz9SjsWjaENER4C9uUTdWMheYHza1XNOYTitAEC1sNe41lonVZ5vjT8jEc7gDzTEygUo1cQtZDC2V9XdXHY6WFh70sbCK/s942/IMG_3019..jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="sunset over the camp" border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="942" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIvhGr39Ub_3nPlQ3o0bexIab2ZbY8XZb289XHLJBpYnHJM9V6QR7SGkmh4TBvFL1n5fjVtxT3kmlS2RblyZpRE17qpiL6ZJ8nz9SjsWjaENER4C9uUTdWMheYHza1XNOYTitAEC1sNe41lonVZ5vjT8jEc7gDzTEygUo1cQtZDC2V9XdXHY6WFh70sbCK/w640-h480/IMG_3019..jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo courtesy of Bret Lyon</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was exhausted and yet, for reasons I can't explain, I couldn't sleep beyond sliding into a short dream about white sauce and an enormous whisk. We'd had pasta Alfredo that night, out in the middle of nowhere, with no kitchen. </p><p>The group of 400-plus people was there for a Mormon handcart trek re-enactment, and I've already written about <a href="https://mountainlyon.blogspot.com/2017/06/trekking-in-martins-cove.html" target="_blank">my experience</a> with a youth group there years ago. It was a pretty personal post, and this one will be, too, so if that's not your thing this is where you want to stop reading.</p><p>This year I returned to the pioneer trek as kitchen help. I did not go into this assignment blind. I knew the Wyoming plains can be hot, wind was absolutely guaranteed, and there would be no shade beyond what we brought with us. I went fully expecting to come back exhausted, but I couldn't believe that I could be this tired and still have insomnia. Why was that? And what was that bird singing such lovely notes? I was a native Wyomingite and I had no idea.</p><p>Somewhere in there I realized something was very wrong with our air mattress. It stayed fluffy, but the tent was pitched on an angle and I was slowly migrating sideways down its surface to the west, forcing my husband out of bed. I realized what was happening when he got up and tugged on the sleeping bag. I had way too much empty space to my left. I moved over and tried to stay on my side after that.</p><p>The next day we served up a hot breakfast of bacon and eggs and sausage. Prep started at 4 am. After that we figured out how to level the air mattress and I was able to catch a nap. I looked forward to bedtime as I stumbled through dinner prep and cleanup (cold lunches were packed by the participants and eaten on the trail, so we got a break in the middle of the day). That night found me, once again, unable to sleep. First there was the sound of happy people around me; lucky people who might be able to sleep until five-thirty the next day. Even when they went to bed, I was wide awake.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7u8K30l7BU2TulDgMFbeHHdNAKaAPiMSbOtjP5P3rvWdvTzKTBa4XKE4FYJsC4uefoVfaj-mqwqYI5mvTG0B2bRKArPRvYPG-8lJLK0hPQKjuR4GpAVwfcG1XJSvdz16s5JfHAE2DL6Kos4m7ZQVUnj7dE_2G1pZIEUGOfi3pGLYpUW52KjQZ6p4JhAvI/s4032/IMG_8629.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="dozens of people load up on food while more wait in line" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7u8K30l7BU2TulDgMFbeHHdNAKaAPiMSbOtjP5P3rvWdvTzKTBa4XKE4FYJsC4uefoVfaj-mqwqYI5mvTG0B2bRKArPRvYPG-8lJLK0hPQKjuR4GpAVwfcG1XJSvdz16s5JfHAE2DL6Kos4m7ZQVUnj7dE_2G1pZIEUGOfi3pGLYpUW52KjQZ6p4JhAvI/w640-h480/IMG_8629.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p>I did wonder: why the elaborate food? Couldn't we have cut some corners, served some prepackaged things? Did the teenage trek-goers really care what they were eating? But the food committee chairpeople were savvy both about cooking and camp logistics, and I had to hand it to them: they didn't just make big plans, they made them happen.</p><p>That night as I tried to sleep, I gave up hope of having a good time. I just wanted to do what I'd agreed to do and go home alive. But I didn't want to spend the next days full of resentment, so I prayed for a better attitude. I drifted off to sleep very late, but early enough that I didn't hear the mysterious bird.</p><p>The next day started a few hours later. I cooked gluten-free hot cakes on a grill by the table for people with allergies and food sensitivities, and to my surprise I was loving it! The people who were on a special diet were so glad to have food that worked for them so they could still participate. We got lots of thank-yous for the work we did, even from teenagers. My friends who were there spotted me and came over to chat. I was still exhausted and feeling every one of my fifty-five years, but I was also doing a lot better than just surviving. Later that day I had a shower in an outdoor booth set up by the committee chairman, and it had hot water. It was the best shower ever.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYW9UG9aeEVj5SWbxlZFmplJAtFTlxMu3ENfJ7cIwENGxRe155Ee3YbhpsLQ-qtBsNnksnBGp-SIhrbMWF5pRNmRxeVmeV28B5toVUGC0Hkm0hn-hCwG4h-_5aTrZaeZj2eeshsTxalJxWswkMbChuiQDB9twcgeEtxNGt5EBowSCfL_TxgS6ZI3P5yfJ/s4032/IMG_8621.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="green landscape" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYW9UG9aeEVj5SWbxlZFmplJAtFTlxMu3ENfJ7cIwENGxRe155Ee3YbhpsLQ-qtBsNnksnBGp-SIhrbMWF5pRNmRxeVmeV28B5toVUGC0Hkm0hn-hCwG4h-_5aTrZaeZj2eeshsTxalJxWswkMbChuiQDB9twcgeEtxNGt5EBowSCfL_TxgS6ZI3P5yfJ/w640-h480/IMG_8621.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plains by the Sweetwater</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>At dinner, a friend of mine asked how it was going. She knew what my job was like. "I did food for Young Women's camp and it was so hard. I was so tired I just prayed that I'd be able to sleep so I could do it again the next day," she said.</p><p>It was nice to know a younger, fitter person would find the work hard. I wasn't sorry I'd prayed for a better attitude, because it seemed to be working, but I decided I'd try again and ask for sleep when bedtime came.</p><p>That night--our last one there--the food committee chairman came to talk to me. By then he knew how physically demanding the work was for me; for all of us, really. I'd been cranky that first night and sassed him. He'd had his own challenges that day, and he sassed me right back. But on that last night, he told me he was glad I was there. "I really hope you'll come out from the background. We need people like you," he said. "People with empathy, who sometimes feel things so much they get offended."</p><p>And that's when I told him what I'd been thinking for three years. The stuff I've been too afraid to say publicly anywhere, at least where people I know might see it. "I didn't used to be in the background," I said. "But COVID was very isolating for me. This is me, trying to get back into it."</p><p>And he instantly knew what I meant. COVID turned my town into an uncomfortable place. I have had different political views and convictions from most of my neighbors ever since I moved here almost 30 years ago. I thought we'd all reached a point where it didn't matter, but COVID and the 2020 election turned everything ugly. Suddenly it seemed people were slipping their political views into everything. Parties. Social media. Over the pulpit. It was the kind of thing that wouldn't bother you if you agreed with what was said. For me, there were days when it was a real struggle just to show up. I did keep showing up at church, because in spite of it all I felt a real connection to God there. I'd never needed it more.</p><p>I'm not excepting myself from all the political talk, by the way. I was pretty open, too, for a while. (Say, around election time, 2016. Remember when we thought that was a horribly contentious year?) It took me years to realize there probably wasn't anyone alive who knew me and didn't know what my convictions were. I was probably OK to move on and talk about the things we might have in common.</p><p>I have tried to make 2023 the Year of Reconnecting. In my own slow way I have made progress and scored points in both forgiveness and redemption. I have also bruised my nose against some barriers, but overall I'd say it's been a success. Enough that I dared commit myself to spending time with strangers who might spend the whole time saying things I didn't want to hear. </p><p>But they didn't. Not once. </p><p>The food committee chairman told me about his own struggles, which made mine seem pretty tame. He's a former mayor of a different small town. He wasn't just seeing general posts on social media. He was getting them personalized in the mail. </p><p>In 2023, on the plains of Wyoming, we agreed it was time to put all that aside and bring everyone to the table. "That's why food is so important," he said.</p><p>And that was when it made sense. We weren't cooking stuff to impress people. We were bringing folks together. Not just so that we can have another chance at convincing them, but so that everyone can sit down and tell each other what is important to them and why. So that we can all walk away with a full belly and a better understanding of each other as human beings.</p><p>I'm making this conversation sound more orderly than it was. I was tired and my emotions were right there on the surface and I cried a bit, but it was a great epiphany and it was worth it. I didn't expect to be inspired in the middle of nowhere doing dishes and flipping tortillas, but there it was.</p><p>After the cleanup was done I went to bed and prayed for sleep. Outside, the teenagers were having an impromptu party. It was loud. There were shouts and screeches. And just when I was about to feel sorry for myself they began singing something familiar. Something that took me back to my childhood, listening to the local AM radio station while Dad got ready for work. Was that... </p><p>SWEET CAROLINE! BOM BOM BOM!</p><p>They were singing Neil Diamond.</p><p>These were happy people with full bellies. Kids who had spent all day sweating in the sun, who had every reason to be tired and anxious to go home. But they just wanted a little more time to be goofy together with their friends. And Bret and I laughed.</p><p>They did go to bed. I slept better than any other night I'd had out there. The next day we cooked the last breakfast and collected more thank-yous and eventually drove home.</p><p>Husband and I listened to Neil Diamond from Farson to Montpellier.</p><p><i>PS--I was serious about putting a name to the bird that sang to me that first night. I've googled. I've searched a birdsong database. Nothing. After hearing so many clips of bird song, I can't even describe it well except to say it was musical, the middle part had many repetitions of the same note, and the ending notes descended. The pitch was medium or even low. The bird hangs out either on the prairie or the riverbank. If there are any ornithologists out there, and you know what kind of bird it was, please share in the comments. Thank you!</i></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-81031630018022425342023-06-27T07:10:00.000-07:002023-12-14T07:36:52.187-08:00Tips for avoiding M-Town: Advice for a lonely road<p> It's kind of hard to write this post without "outing" a certain town, which risks slandering its fewer than 40 residents. But honestly, this travel advice needs to be read by the five people who will make the drive from Tremonton, Utah to Wells, Nevada on a Sunday this year.</p><p>The advice is this: PLAN YOUR BATHROOM STOPS. </p><p>If you guzzle 32 ounces of bubbling caffeinated wakefulness in Snowville (It's a long drive past scenery where nothing moves), chances are you will start wanting a bathroom about here:</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwoeKkYnfw1gsSLfBQeSrwpYelx7JA4d0WYegQylbVoXZca67vR0mZBQkhHbizAPmJH2HYbP4o49uZCUMUveKQGhYdwf8g8xL6mweQ9RTI_2epwE_RzvnAZGAKUvmNatPHoEMT9zsyzWbTBBlcOC7qD0yOfbnm7B2iwdAmU687u-JrNTLQyG6KzE4fMJdW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a sagebrush plain with a mountain in the distance" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwoeKkYnfw1gsSLfBQeSrwpYelx7JA4d0WYegQylbVoXZca67vR0mZBQkhHbizAPmJH2HYbP4o49uZCUMUveKQGhYdwf8g8xL6mweQ9RTI_2epwE_RzvnAZGAKUvmNatPHoEMT9zsyzWbTBBlcOC7qD0yOfbnm7B2iwdAmU687u-JrNTLQyG6KzE4fMJdW=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Notice there are no towns. No gas stations. There isn't even a bush.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohZBrH82itvYyv_70z1_ig26uOd6KpnFb4E0yZPk5ocpwsFsdlpaAOHW9Y0JVeeNQOaBCANyzCnXtXB9djU04NwITAHR5Im_vnfMEa7ogrSYqyqW3KqNwl_1fkeHVc8VJOij-RreYfthG07h0G74ADl-FGADA7PdVbcb3HmmkKpdW-2xCZ84iw1Tjbe5h/s3072/IMG_8542.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="more sagebrush flats and mountains" border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhohZBrH82itvYyv_70z1_ig26uOd6KpnFb4E0yZPk5ocpwsFsdlpaAOHW9Y0JVeeNQOaBCANyzCnXtXB9djU04NwITAHR5Im_vnfMEa7ogrSYqyqW3KqNwl_1fkeHVc8VJOij-RreYfthG07h0G74ADl-FGADA7PdVbcb3HmmkKpdW-2xCZ84iw1Tjbe5h/w640-h480/IMG_8542.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>So you keep driving, feeling more and more uncomfortable, until you come upon M-Town. It has a gas station with old-fashioned pumps, but it's closed on Sunday. The one place that's open is the bar. And that bar does have a bathroom the size of a water heater closet, but it's SCARY. Like, I-can't-believe-people-use-this-and-then-go-back-to-putting-stuff-in-their-bodies-here kind of scary.</p><p>I did buy a can of Diet Coke before I left so they'd know I was a paying customer.</p><p>Maybe that M-Town Bar facility has been bleached down since I stopped there, questioning my drink and bathroom choices. </p><p>If you don't want to find out for yourself, make sure you go easy on the liquids, do a bathroom stop in Snowville and hang on on until Wells.</p><p>To my five fellow lonely road travellers: You're welcome!</p><p><br /></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-75444557788368450772023-04-15T16:49:00.001-07:002023-04-15T17:26:35.172-07:00Gaps in a smile<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTrJJoFzSNhkh16qMeVFLSfhkSF0Z648jdOuq9993cXTmJWiXZROBB84sfkkJzrL1CmaXGpeTfH-xC1oKKPev-iQidcVHLHE1vdCNCmRietI60jPqbeR2p_AH1B-TSYJEw2oHB7g8YR_lWdMJHVR2sE4MRGO_UCqc7PbIPGmsLmCdHqHb6I0V2d-q9g/s3027/IMG_8272.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="tractors line a road in front of a snow-capped mountain" border="0" data-original-height="2120" data-original-width="3027" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsTrJJoFzSNhkh16qMeVFLSfhkSF0Z648jdOuq9993cXTmJWiXZROBB84sfkkJzrL1CmaXGpeTfH-xC1oKKPev-iQidcVHLHE1vdCNCmRietI60jPqbeR2p_AH1B-TSYJEw2oHB7g8YR_lWdMJHVR2sE4MRGO_UCqc7PbIPGmsLmCdHqHb6I0V2d-q9g/w640-h448/IMG_8272.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A farmers' salute to a lost friend.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The neighborhood took a hit this month. A farmer friend left on vacation and passed away from a massive heart attack. And while we have suffered losses before--big, awful, tear-jerking ones--this one hits especially hard.</p><p>If God had decided to make someone as different from me as possible, Bill is what He'd have come up with. Bill's politics were about as far from mine as you could possibly get. He spent most of his time in a tractor. He didn't filter what he said. I'm not proud to say it took some time to see past the abrasiveness and realize the truth.</p><p>Bill didn't care what other people thought of him. He just cared about other people.</p><p>He plowed us out when it snowed, even after we were able to plow ourselves out with the four-wheeler. He bought big, showy fireworks from Wyoming back when you couldn't get them in Utah, and invited the neighborhood over to watch them. He lent me the first Dean Koonz book I'd ever read (it wasn't the last). When a heap of firewood went up in flames behind our house, he was there with a garden hose, making sure my kids were safe. </p><p>We served together on a little community board where I was the only woman. He was president. He said he wanted to hear what I had to say, and he meant it.</p><p>After the last time he plowed out our driveway, Husband and I tried to figure out a way to say thank you. We knew Bill liked cheese. We are food snobs with some knowledge about the local cheese scene, so I took over our favorite. Bill and his wife sent me back with a few pounds of Colby cheddar and Monterey Jack from their own fridge. At least he let me leave the aged white cheddar. I came home and put the cheese on the table, and Husband laughed. "That didn't go like we wanted," he said.</p><p>But we should have known that was how it would go.</p><p>I didn't know it was the last conversation I'd have with Bill. I went to his funeral today, and like everything that swirled around our neighbor, it was larger than life. The church was packed. The service made us laugh and cry and I think it will help, now that we've had a chance to say goodbye properly. But it hurt. I didn't go to the graveside--I figured the family could use less of a crowd. But nobody could miss the tractors lining the road on the way to the cemetery, parked by his fellow farmers in a final salute to their friend.</p><p>He is not the first to leave our road. We have lost so many good people, to cancer, to illness, to age. Each one of them has left a hole, like gaps in a smile. This is the price of living in one place for thirty years--you get to know know people very well before you say goodbye.</p><p>But I thank God for the chance I had of knowing them.</p><p>Rest in peace, Bill. </p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-78585290122317464112023-03-09T07:01:00.005-08:002023-03-09T07:24:15.205-08:00Hello, the 80s wants the Cold War back.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSO3A3i9Sw4j8-suil53r4pum4OP0nBotaf2Oc3TxxwMFk6n6-_UG1RmkmjE6SvQa-z01Q5tm6s4TwzwnxeQVxNmYfRdpokWn43kKK8BYLrBvZqFBVB_k8T_o3kFVT2Ip-8bNkIfvklKNd4JTZdBTX8I9E7k1HjG-WSO4RMEvDvP8Unycu6JsKQxWsA/s640/IMG_0099.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="sunset over a snow-covered mountain landscape" border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSO3A3i9Sw4j8-suil53r4pum4OP0nBotaf2Oc3TxxwMFk6n6-_UG1RmkmjE6SvQa-z01Q5tm6s4TwzwnxeQVxNmYfRdpokWn43kKK8BYLrBvZqFBVB_k8T_o3kFVT2Ip-8bNkIfvklKNd4JTZdBTX8I9E7k1HjG-WSO4RMEvDvP8Unycu6JsKQxWsA/w640-h428/IMG_0099.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This isn't a Russian winter. It's just cold. Really cold.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I remember where I was when the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces treaty was signed (touring a university I thought I would attend). I remember the caution I felt with the hope. So Reagan and Gorbachov had reached an arms-reduction treaty. There had been so many talks, so many treaties, but the Cold War was still the Cold War. Did I dare hope I would get to live in a world without the threat of nuclear war someday?</p><p>INF banned missiles, though probably not the ones closest to my house. I grew up in Cheyenne, Wyoming, on the doorstep of FE Warren Air Force Base. Its reason for being was long-range missiles, located in silos in secret locations on the plains. INF was about short- and medium-range missiles.</p><p>Growing up, I heard many times that Cheyenne was the #2 target on the Soviet hit list. (Later I would talk to someone who used to live near a different military base, far away. She also grew up hearing the base near her home was the #2 target. We laughed and wondered how many #2s there were in the US, and if there was a #1.)</p><p>But in Cheyenne of the 80s, the Cold War felt real. I was reminded every time Mom drove me to visit a friend who lived On Base. Sometimes, when we drove to the little guard hut at the base entrance, we were judged to be the ordinary mother and daughter we were and waved through. Sometimes we were asked to park and show ID. And sometimes those guards called the family we said we were going to visit to make sure we weren't spies trying to sneak in. </p><p>Many of our church congregation members were from the military, and I remember an especially strange Sunday when they all showed up in battle fatigues, looking stressed and sleep-deprived. They were on high alert. Some didn't know why. Some might've known, but they couldn't tell us. I still wonder what was happening in the world that day. I didn't know at the time that the Cold War was approaching its expiration date. We were still watching Hollywood propaganda-style movies like White Nights (I saw it) and Rocky IV (I skipped it). We were having endless--and endlessly annoying--philosophical arguments that started like this:</p><p>"Imagine Russia has launched all their missiles, and they're on the way here, and there's nothing you can do to stop them. Do you push the button and launch all of ours?" </p><p>And some know-it-all would chime in: "You don't push a button. You turn a key."</p><p>I always said no, I don't launch, and somebody in the room always told me I was stupid.</p><p>I heard doomsday talk at home and watched silly old civil defense movies in junior high about how to survive in a nuclear fallout shelter. I was probably more steeped in apocalyptic thinking than other gen-Xers. I didn't really expect to make it to my 30th birthday.</p><p>I remember where I was when the Berlin Wall came down. (Home, watching it unfold on TV.) It seemed too good to be true. I'd wished for that moment for as long as I'd understood the term "nuclear winter." </p><p>It was real. The Cold War really did end. And while we had plenty of other things to worry about, like terrorists getting ahold of decommissioned nuclear bombs, the world seemed like a safer and more hopeful place than the one I'd known all my life. I made it to my 30th birthday, my 40th, my 50th.</p><p>Then, a couple of weeks ago, <a href="https://www.reuters.com/world/putin-update-russias-elite-ukraine-war-major-speech-2023-02-21/">a world leader</a> said it would be impossible to defeat Russia on the battlefield in Ukraine. He reminded the world he had nuclear weapons <a href="https://www.reuters.com/world/what-is-new-start-nuclear-arms-treaty-2023-02-21/">and suspended the New START treaty</a>. By this time, the INF treaty was already dead, with the US withdrawing in 2019 citing Russian non-compliance, and Russia following suit a day later. </p><p>Soon after that, in a family discussion about current events, I once again heard, "Well, the Russians better be careful because if they launch their missiles, we can wipe them out." He probably thought this was a new conversation.</p><p>The 80s called. They want their Cold War back.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-88370416845906727512023-01-27T14:39:00.001-08:002023-01-27T14:39:37.077-08:00Why Am I Painting The Living Room?<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN00s7QYRB4dBi6T2v6hDxcX4yiBJALOWYRa5pappuX57U0xRpBB3lUCch6gYXXBLpKPFCOTolC5zxtZjiIo8qjDPZRuNXxGPumlP6I5ZZFfVdNqClrlL3eP8d1CAFoWh-cdtKjAyo0mjBhmW994eI1UnjIYmsyH3-Iqbcs_VI56YqozhtbKhKaiJnRQ/s2775/IMG_8036.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="clock on a turquoise, fake-textured wall" border="0" data-original-height="2750" data-original-width="2775" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN00s7QYRB4dBi6T2v6hDxcX4yiBJALOWYRa5pappuX57U0xRpBB3lUCch6gYXXBLpKPFCOTolC5zxtZjiIo8qjDPZRuNXxGPumlP6I5ZZFfVdNqClrlL3eP8d1CAFoWh-cdtKjAyo0mjBhmW994eI1UnjIYmsyH3-Iqbcs_VI56YqozhtbKhKaiJnRQ/w320-h317/IMG_8036.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Finally! Time to get rid of the faux finish.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />When you live in the sticks, it's all about timing. The plans to expand the porch, replace the garage, paint the front rooms--they're not gonna happen unless you do them yourself. Or alternatively, you must wait until the contractor is lean and hungry enough to drive a half hour from the nearest population center to work on your place.</p><p>Which is why my living room has languished in the color we gave it in 2013. It was pretty chic for its time. Oldest daughter did the base coat and I did the faux finish. It celebrated my personality (I'm not afraid of color) and my family could still tolerate it (it was not the Neon Yellow Debacle of 2007). I might've taken serious steps to redo it before now, but for two things:</p><p>1. Some family members said I shouldn't change it, even if faux finishes are out, because they like it. Granted, they might have been having flashbacks to that calf-scour yellow mistake, which they would probably say anything to avoid.</p><p>2. Time. I didn't have it, and I knew nobody was coming out here when the whole valley was in a humongous housing crunch/building boom. </p><p>But then, around September, a miracle happened. Housing prices quit climbing, and then they fell. Surely this meant the boom was over. Surely amid all those subcontractors, somebody was hoping to pay off Christmas. I began dreaming of a change. Something bold but tasteful. Something that would play up the old-fashioned arches and the art deco fireplace. I kicked ideas around in my head, got permission to spend money instead of time. Waited until January, when other would-be clients are out of money and not competing for a spot on the contractor's schedule. Browsed websites for licensed and insured professionals.</p><p>Finally I scheduled an appointment for a quote with a painter and received an immediate confirmation text. Now that I had a deadline, I needed a plan. I loaded up on paint sample cards, ran them past Husband, consulted with Oldest Daughter. An appointment reminder text arrived from Painter Guy. I narrowed about twenty cards that were almost the same color down to two: a dark receding color and a lighter, happy one. I would pair them for a sweet combination, eye-catching without assailing the senses.</p><p>I arranged to work from home, made sure I wasn't involved in anything I couldn't walk away from, and waited for Painter Guy to come. When he was fifteen minutes late I texted to let him know I had a Zoom meeting I couldn't get out of in 45 minutes. Five minutes into that meeting the phone rang. I silenced it. Still don't know if it was Painter Guy calling from a different number than the text. All I know is no message was left, and I've been ghosted. Again. </p><p>Stupid Painter Guy.</p><p>So I'll just leave you with a choir asking the question I've pondered all day: Why Am I Painting The Living Room?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zosujv8nPcE" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-59432346021195883222023-01-07T08:22:00.000-08:002023-01-07T08:22:44.149-08:00The Dream Interpreter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5_2Y7scdOcPoVZZElzF3mfnJ6xHfirJotepULZ3NWXjb9QAGaueWj6jjGb58dWX1InG-z-mowH9-pKdrSa989cBFSiYvYi6_ODG6hR0U5Son1U0s_PuV9-H_hPs42-BsWSnHHgYU6FEs-Y71MHkNIfLqk7t6p8lraiwpLE2BtGvlvszmopgg3aV-UA/s3744/IMG_2622.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3744" data-original-width="2766" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY5_2Y7scdOcPoVZZElzF3mfnJ6xHfirJotepULZ3NWXjb9QAGaueWj6jjGb58dWX1InG-z-mowH9-pKdrSa989cBFSiYvYi6_ODG6hR0U5Son1U0s_PuV9-H_hPs42-BsWSnHHgYU6FEs-Y71MHkNIfLqk7t6p8lraiwpLE2BtGvlvszmopgg3aV-UA/w295-h400/IMG_2622.jpeg" width="295" /></a></div><div>I have some common recurring dreams. Sitting down to take a final exam, only to realize I haven't attended even one class; realizing in the middle of an important, public task that I'm not wearing as much as I thought I was; feeling rooted to the ground when it's time to run from terrible things.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I have another one. It has many variations, but it starts like this: I'm in a building where a lot is going on. I'm talking variety shows on a stage like the ones I used to be in when I was in school; gatherings of people talking; a warren of hidden rooms waiting to be explored in a church house I thought I knew. In one dream it was just a big open-air structure with a roof and ribcage-high walls, overlooking trees. I knew the sea was nearby, but I couldn't get to it until I found the door. And that is what all variations have in common: I can't find the exit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Every time I think I'm on my way out, I end up in a new room where new things are going on. A play or market here, a potluck there. I forget my plan to leave and sit down instead, watching whatever is happening or chatting it up with neighbors. Then I remember, I should be getting home. I look for the door, find it and throw it open to see either a hallway with more doors, or another room with more action, more distraction.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not a scary dream. I don't feel trapped. I just never get out of there. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few months ago I sat across from an amateur dream interpreter. He was a curly-haired boy who looked like he was about 16, sitting at a table-full of women at a writer's conference. He offered to interpret dreams for all of us, so I asked him what my recurring dream meant. I expected a funny answer. </div><div><br /></div><div>"The dream means you're wanting to change what you do," he said. "And the frustration you're feeling--"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's never scary," I reminded him. "Sometimes it's entertaining."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, but the tension you're feeling when you can't leave is because the structure of your world is preventing you from doing what you'd like to do."</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, that wasn't funny at all. It pretty much summed up my experience. Even the word "structure" hit, because so often in my life, when I took on one role I had to let go of something else. I was well into my forties before I started wondering if I'd be able to do more than one thing at a time if my society were built a different way. If it allowed parents--not just women, parents--more flexibility in their lives. If it stopped telling us that child-rearing is easy (voice of experience here: it's not) and therefore beneath us. If people could stop feeling like they're betraying their own potential if they raise their own children, and like they're betraying their own children if they nurture their dreams.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat there, not saying anything because there was just too much to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>The dream interpreter continued around the table, analyzing other dreams. Then he handed his phone to a friend so she could snap a photo of him, surrounded by so many females. We all huddled up and smiled. In seconds the picture was on its way and everyone left for the next session. That boy really was young. </div><div><br /></div><div>And what should've been funny and fleeting is still rattling around in my brain. Whole clunky volumes of thoughts.</div>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-51361235235945686972022-10-27T15:26:00.003-07:002022-10-27T15:26:45.784-07:00The healthy writer's journey<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTG2Gyexhey6ubjA-dqX1MeLV2aVlWM6rj5eEh5nWK80Vj3uNOec5iynpCQglgPAlYggTjiTLKH3D1rgPLOeFvlHWTGtTYLPnY43DIZwoOTboVmR0vo3ngBpV_5ozmiDA2CczoW5XI5iZakSgud4pZ0X4pJCqrgMXeHocxWyw4AYzKDi8sq8qR_Lkdw/s4032/5ADF2869-5FE4-44BF-9521-69183C8C226D.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTG2Gyexhey6ubjA-dqX1MeLV2aVlWM6rj5eEh5nWK80Vj3uNOec5iynpCQglgPAlYggTjiTLKH3D1rgPLOeFvlHWTGtTYLPnY43DIZwoOTboVmR0vo3ngBpV_5ozmiDA2CczoW5XI5iZakSgud4pZ0X4pJCqrgMXeHocxWyw4AYzKDi8sq8qR_Lkdw/w640-h480/5ADF2869-5FE4-44BF-9521-69183C8C226D.heic" title="a mountain lake surrounded by rocky hills" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lake Louise, in the Wind Rivers. I'm told there are three lakes with that name in that mountain range.<br />This it the one at the end of a rugged, rocky trail.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />This summer I made a decision in the early morning hours of a sleepless night. My joints and muscles ached so much, there was no way I could ignore them enough to sleep. Especially in the strange bed of a vacation home at high altitude in Wyoming.</p><p>The day before I'd finished a hike with the young adult children. For hours I'd tried to hide how it nearly killed me. It was hard to discuss when they were obviously unfazed. To be fair to myself, it was a six mile hike, rugged, with lots of uphill/downhill work and many rocks to scramble over. I'd done it the year before, though Husband and I hadn't tried to keep up with the youngins that time. Only a year before, I'd done that hike and slept well after a day of hard exercise.</p><p>So yeah. You're not supposed to make decisions at 2 am, but I did it anyway and launched a new exercise program in late summer. It started with trail walking or yoga at 7 and a personal writing session at 8. I learned to love the smell of juniper and sage on the trail. I learned to stride unashamed into a convenience store wearing exercise gear and no makeup, and to go through the day with more of a natural look than I'm used to doing at my age. If I applied anything serious to my skin I'd end up sweating it off, no matter what I did or when I put it on. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7JUgAVACaJpDjOoZulaB5GJN59bndbu-eAh0ovIbAuTAx2cScQpSPovI4weI4Iec-dz1bncSAnrWlGgpJorgbFcdc9gL9Kz9hVYf1jcUGNUixOUE99uCnN5l5IAa6pvac9cwrrST4favLSWNXbR5eiF3AS6qzn4zCO_bbSruUsq1Ln9PF--x0skkmg/s3088/D5D3C1E9-6F7A-4ACD-A849-553B188A65C8.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="selfie on the trail" border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7JUgAVACaJpDjOoZulaB5GJN59bndbu-eAh0ovIbAuTAx2cScQpSPovI4weI4Iec-dz1bncSAnrWlGgpJorgbFcdc9gL9Kz9hVYf1jcUGNUixOUE99uCnN5l5IAa6pvac9cwrrST4favLSWNXbR5eiF3AS6qzn4zCO_bbSruUsq1Ln9PF--x0skkmg/w240-h320/D5D3C1E9-6F7A-4ACD-A849-553B188A65C8.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br />I reconnected with that lovely, muscle-humming feeling of blood pumping through my veins and arrived in my writing chair feeling fabulous. <p></p><p>I registered for a writing conference, finished a manuscript (working title: <i>The Madres Deal)</i>, entered its first chapter in a contest connected to the conference. I'm still deep into the revision process, but I have faith I will finish because I know who the characters are and how the story ends. The first chapter won the mystery category at the LDSPMA awards. </p><p>In the week before the conference, Husband and I celebrated our 30th anniversary with a trip to southern Colorado, where we witnessed some of the most beautiful autumn scenes I've ever enjoyed in my life. We did a hike the National Park Service described as "strenuous" with lots of rocks and uphill stretches, and I slept well when we were done (I might've taken some ibuprofen, though). </p><p>Now before this starts sounding like a fairy tale, I should be clear that all this work did not transform me into a supermodel. In fact, I still look a lot like myself. And the reason I have the time to write this blog post is because I must've picked up a bug at that conference. I have spent a couple days away from the office, coughing some, sleeping a lot, taking it easy. So I'm not superhuman, just healthier than I was three months ago.</p><p>I did have something of an epiphany at the awards ceremony. By dumb luck, Husband and I sat next to a man whose PR prowess and historical research dwarfs anything I have done. I have struggled with whether to include his name--it feels like name-dropping and I respect him a lot after an hour of eating and chatting together. But I will say that he was a finalist in a book category, and sitting there I realized that the book he'd written wasn't the greatest thing he'd ever done. Not even close. In fact, he was probably there to show respect to those who'd nominated him more than to collect an award. And it was OK. It was OK for him to be an author AND something else. In fact, his work outside authorship is more important.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3KiThaN2A9icg47ekXUHmUSvNa1FnMjDbMz_ZHgv-jHwvEMk-Hyjmdy2VbyyXsnz4VAVDYDB8DRAiZ82vtd5yq_iuCyLpWbHdD7-HeGr7Y3IyjMmxH6Zl-Djs9PD9H7hIzm5MWlOBfO0xsVO4MK3mZm3YTySvM27Qxd6YpLw7WMj8ra5f-5E3ru0yg/s4032/8F71E5E0-AE40-4C9C-AC36-D419F7FC3525.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3KiThaN2A9icg47ekXUHmUSvNa1FnMjDbMz_ZHgv-jHwvEMk-Hyjmdy2VbyyXsnz4VAVDYDB8DRAiZ82vtd5yq_iuCyLpWbHdD7-HeGr7Y3IyjMmxH6Zl-Djs9PD9H7hIzm5MWlOBfO0xsVO4MK3mZm3YTySvM27Qxd6YpLw7WMj8ra5f-5E3ru0yg/s320/8F71E5E0-AE40-4C9C-AC36-D419F7FC3525.heic" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Husband and I At Mesa Verde</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It clicked for me then: this writer's journey I'm on has been long--longer than that of my friends--and it's had a lot of big rocks to scramble over. I learned early on that my writing life could take over my real-world life if I let it, and I drew some boundaries to make sure that didn't happen. I'm not sorry; it meant I was present at some important times. But it still hurt now and again, feeling like I was left behind. </p><p>Along the way I've discovered I'm good at other things, too. I really like my day job, I love that I'm paid to do it, and it's been delightful to devote some time every day to both my job and my creative self. I still don't know exactly where it will lead me, but everyone keeps saying it's important to enjoy the journey. </p><p>This summer, I've managed to hit that note.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-90950461815865404312022-05-18T08:19:00.003-07:002022-05-18T08:19:38.396-07:00COVID Comfort Reads: The Madness of Crowds<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmBFBTnDx9uVSgHlIvnqxzSmZsMoHFNs1T4FU-KIvyesaVV5mTeGWJNYnMzg8I_rsAfyDSJ4Qn0T7SCpynQX9AeNdKp6LveJkq0g7PjrWQFvYrlUzk6R9zXuSBzU6YF3932M3r62dOHW93mwQ1ysVGHRpGGgjkDuli1eddZsxELdAKhtCFntwhRYJqw/s4032/IMG_6072.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmBFBTnDx9uVSgHlIvnqxzSmZsMoHFNs1T4FU-KIvyesaVV5mTeGWJNYnMzg8I_rsAfyDSJ4Qn0T7SCpynQX9AeNdKp6LveJkq0g7PjrWQFvYrlUzk6R9zXuSBzU6YF3932M3r62dOHW93mwQ1ysVGHRpGGgjkDuli1eddZsxELdAKhtCFntwhRYJqw/w640-h480/IMG_6072.jpeg" title="An empty bench looks out into a sunset" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">I have fan-girl gushed about Louise Penny before. Her latest novel was not supposed to be speculative fiction, but it was set in a world that never really existed: the 2021 we all expected and did not get. The one in which the pandemic was over. It was a little disorienting to hear about post-pandemic life while COVID was still very much going on.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But for a mystery, it took on some hefty topics that the pandemic put into the collective consciousness. Specifically it grapples with how society should behave with its weakest members. How one idea can galvanize some and horrify others. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It didn’t seem like this murder story would be a comfort read/listen, but I enjoyed it twice. Because somehow, hearing these topics faced with even a small degree of honesty and courage was comforting. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It ended well, of course. That helped, too.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I listened on Audible. Robert Bathurst was the narrator, and he has become another recognizable voice on the long drives of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-71132894824459059802022-05-10T07:01:00.000-07:002022-05-10T07:01:08.728-07:00COVID Comfort Reads: Land of Wolves<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nG4l1aAy-9w98gdWJFCZnB3-T4QHrEYBRgXv2-SY1PFIpEpObJYIi7a2qyaDHUpvjopTc5vzFYBOcCAcyb4RmIdektwsqUQrjX4H_xsyDiZr4CUnqBRa_-9Mlv1SVyQSIbm7MoIFUB8rUJ3pn2M9eo9mwF5XAtzDTeoNuakByyXqI6jG8_CWZWEnpw/s3881/IMG_2561.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2910" data-original-width="3881" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2nG4l1aAy-9w98gdWJFCZnB3-T4QHrEYBRgXv2-SY1PFIpEpObJYIi7a2qyaDHUpvjopTc5vzFYBOcCAcyb4RmIdektwsqUQrjX4H_xsyDiZr4CUnqBRa_-9Mlv1SVyQSIbm7MoIFUB8rUJ3pn2M9eo9mwF5XAtzDTeoNuakByyXqI6jG8_CWZWEnpw/w640-h480/IMG_2561.jpeg" title="a mountain lake is viewed from a rocky cliff" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This was not taken in the Bighorns, which inspired the Longmire series. But it was taken in the right state (unlike the series, which was filmed in New Mexico).</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Readers of this blog already know I am an unabashed Longmire fan. I’ll drop a couple of potentially controversial thoughts for those who also follow Longmire: Craig Johnson's books are better than the old TV series. So much better. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I honestly wonder if the TV years had a weird effect on the series. My favorite mysteries were released before and after the A&E and Netflix years; my least favorite were written at the height of the TV series, which by the way was significantly different. Different plots, the characters had some of the same names but not the same personalities. The storytelling often lacked the humor of the books.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I’m so happy to say the end of the TV series didn’t end the good writing. <i>Land of Wolves</i> is a new favorite. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Here’s why the book makes my comfort list…. Hmmm. The plot is not particularly comforting. It’s a murder mystery. The murder grows out of a truly awful situation. But my favorite thing about this story is that Longmire, a tough guy with a habit of responding to life-threatening situations without calling in for backup, finally has his past trauma catch up with him. It goes beyond battle scars. He is clearly struggling to process the events of a previous book (one that will never make my comfort reads list). And somehow, it was healing to read about a hero who was admitting some past events had left their mark on his soul. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">All that, and Longmire still managed to be funny. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I listened to Land of Wolves on Audible, narrated by George Guidall. A couple of times.<o:p></o:p></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-71499815435185303542022-05-03T18:18:00.004-07:002022-05-10T06:48:16.929-07:00 COVID Comfort Reads: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine: a Novel <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMUff7kcNh9bf3TrsAyTGnW_ktP1FMAehmyl3_fr_iyOw7kOYrPDzDDCClmewTzfzw--OoAauDQQz_Mt_5ZV42N1F_cugO7bxESEUbt3LxlLGHu4Af6QKKX9_xJcq8ul-FnBavbifeN8xqdAkzGxXfBKm0lGaYnFd6WL-m0pVdHdIKJFn0QmkCTmUM4A/s2817/B9102374-D30A-4BB8-B59E-3C9CDD0445F1_1_201_a.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="barely-green trees line a street leading to a snow-covered mountain" border="0" data-original-height="1585" data-original-width="2817" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMUff7kcNh9bf3TrsAyTGnW_ktP1FMAehmyl3_fr_iyOw7kOYrPDzDDCClmewTzfzw--OoAauDQQz_Mt_5ZV42N1F_cugO7bxESEUbt3LxlLGHu4Af6QKKX9_xJcq8ul-FnBavbifeN8xqdAkzGxXfBKm0lGaYnFd6WL-m0pVdHdIKJFn0QmkCTmUM4A/w640-h360/B9102374-D30A-4BB8-B59E-3C9CDD0445F1_1_201_a.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Gail Honeyman's</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> book is for anyone who has felt socially awkward. For those who have been forced to take a long, honest look at life and not liked what they saw. For people who have tried to make their lives over and not quite gotten it right the first time.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It seems there’s so much I could say about this book, but no, that really about covers it. Well, that and dealing with substance abuse and unacknowledged trauma. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The Jane Eyre references were just a bonus. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The story features real people, most of them not in the least bit glamorous. I loved them. It ends well. And it’s told in a way that’s funny enough, it hurts less than it should. All good features of a comfort book. I had two friends--people who did not know each other--tell me I'd love it. They were right.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I read it. And I read it again.<o:p></o:p></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-31087153658077378182022-04-25T07:02:00.004-07:002022-04-25T07:03:01.974-07:00COVID Comfort Reads: The Breakdown<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMzobbcMUWx3VA2a38YhLSYQc-maaQ-zykrcBslGur-MepQJ6wwe1O_6uyu0M1zdEJ9EUd0GBlalkOfBCGWTg3qDoIzPXpmMe6iBNwRRHxQbtS_eUBA8fWhGlfR5b_stbZme50tlXlvuKE6Hf7vtsJAu17V4wTM38pyu0acnYMqe1vNdYdzULLLbfig/s5472/IMG_0087.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="drooping daffodils" border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMzobbcMUWx3VA2a38YhLSYQc-maaQ-zykrcBslGur-MepQJ6wwe1O_6uyu0M1zdEJ9EUd0GBlalkOfBCGWTg3qDoIzPXpmMe6iBNwRRHxQbtS_eUBA8fWhGlfR5b_stbZme50tlXlvuKE6Hf7vtsJAu17V4wTM38pyu0acnYMqe1vNdYdzULLLbfig/w640-h426/IMG_0087.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">I shouldn’t have liked <i>The Breakdown</i>. Somehow the cruelty of messing with someone’s head is as disturbing to me as physical violence. But the story was so well done, I stuck with the plot even when it was painful. </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It stuck with me, too. Reading it, I thought of the consequences of small lies—the ones that should not ruin a life, but that layer on top of each other until the harmless liar is practically tripping over them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Eventually the main character, Cass, is able to understand that her dishonesty really was small, compared to the lies going on around her. She discovers why her world is falling apart.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">For most of the book, B. A. Paris’s story is unsettling. But it makes my comfort reading list because when Cass understands what it happening, she goes about getting her life back in an intelligent, satisfying way. At the very end, she even displays the honesty she had lacked for most of the plot. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After such a long, slow boil, I was afraid the ending would erupt in violence. It wouldn't have surprised me, but the actual ending was so much better than that, so much more beautiful. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That’s why it makes the comfort list.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I listened to it on Audible, read by Georgia McGuire. I will probably listen again.<o:p></o:p></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-72763064084794787922022-04-18T08:07:00.002-07:002022-04-18T09:10:37.163-07:00COVID Comfort Reads: The Scorpio Races<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rt4tQ8J4_oLWI-NMJ_eMtGrUVZJg368_7bMdgITU-rOL1E0MjVQC3xxGDecvrKXqgk27XmcMm0RcPo1XP2wpH6Gxxa-SajiZ0oAFG2E2HYkfttvagOhEZzzjWdyAQrd4sWGyzSvO89qIsafhvrICyrABfD8xKozfb1PWx9nut_7zRebtyhNB38Tijw/s5472/IMG_0246.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A river in front of a snowcapped mountain on an overcast day" border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2rt4tQ8J4_oLWI-NMJ_eMtGrUVZJg368_7bMdgITU-rOL1E0MjVQC3xxGDecvrKXqgk27XmcMm0RcPo1XP2wpH6Gxxa-SajiZ0oAFG2E2HYkfttvagOhEZzzjWdyAQrd4sWGyzSvO89qIsafhvrICyrABfD8xKozfb1PWx9nut_7zRebtyhNB38Tijw/w640-h426/IMG_0246.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>I've struggled with how to illustrate my comfort reading posts, and settled on the scenes that will forever be connected to them in my head: the landscapes I saw during the days when I was reading and listening.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /></i></div><div style="font-style: italic;"><i><br /></i></div>For me, COVID meant reading and listening to books a lot. I found myself enjoying some stories more than once. In this series I'll introduce you to my favorite comfort reads from the pandemic.*<div><br /></div><div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><i>The Scorpio Races </i></h3><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">by Maggie Stiefvater<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I discovered this book years after it came out, and well before the pandemic, but it remains a go-to comfort read/listen. For me, this is the author’s best work, telling the story of struggling siblings on an island dominated by monsters from the sea. These bloodthirsty water-horses are a spectacle for tourists and a fact of life for island-dwellers: one that brings both commerce and death.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The setting is its own character. It’s harsh. Some natives love it enough to stick with it, even though staying there guarantees a hard life. Some natives can’t wait to leave it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">By the end, I loved at least one of the island’s sea monsters. I enjoyed spending time with the characters, and while I knew they might still have a lot to deal with after the final pages, I also knew they would handle it because they were tough. And that is what makes <i>The Scorpio Races</i> a comfort read/listen.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The audiobook was narrated by Fiona Hardingham and Steve West. Their voices will always be part of the story for me.<o:p></o:p></p><div><br /></div><div><i>*I know it's risky to promise another series, but this time it's a safe commitment: I've already written several posts. Tune in next week!</i><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-72061569560416770382022-03-13T17:59:00.001-07:002022-03-13T18:17:50.172-07:00Confessions of a lamb-nanny<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg89nGhwuASbrQZZvUpn0uNNgmtv-NBuxGSbuAyKhToe4vQr1hFRIRQWF1Jv041bfWhNVsX39iJa1ZTeQGjBkZ5QNb9IwZ2p2oVbbW2K9YVWQLbfXCOWwcH4kpzWE5ZTrW7vdafC4i7B4so0faSqzOfxJ1s47Li2RJOj3FvInKS5qHg0VZ6EpsdCtqU7g=s3806" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A mother ewe and her lamb" border="0" data-original-height="2209" data-original-width="3806" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg89nGhwuASbrQZZvUpn0uNNgmtv-NBuxGSbuAyKhToe4vQr1hFRIRQWF1Jv041bfWhNVsX39iJa1ZTeQGjBkZ5QNb9IwZ2p2oVbbW2K9YVWQLbfXCOWwcH4kpzWE5ZTrW7vdafC4i7B4so0faSqzOfxJ1s47Li2RJOj3FvInKS5qHg0VZ6EpsdCtqU7g=w640-h373" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yenta and Harry</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I have been a hair sheep midwife five times. I should have some confidence in the whole lambing thing by now, but I swear I am more nervous every year. I have seen how the animal kingdom operates. I know it doesn't follow my rules.</p><p>And this last time left me thinking maybe it's time to get out of the sheep business. Go back to goats. Females who don't don't stink, and who I can choose not to breed.</p><p>Five times on our property, a sheep has given birth. And by far, the smoothest of these lamb-births happened when I wasn't home. One day we left for work with two sheep and came home to four. By the time I found them, mom and lambs had bonded. They were feeding, no problem.</p><p>Even so, I worried. I knew how long it takes a human baby to feed, and it seemed like the lambs' sessions were much, much too short. But they grew. They bounded over the grass. They were fine.</p><p>The next lambing event seemed to happen just as easily. Again, they arrived when we weren't home. They were both cleaned up and getting enough to eat. I found the lifeless little body of lamb #3 later. I was pretty sure Mamma Sheep (we called her Meg) did her best for the poor thing. She'd cleaned it up well. It just didn't make it.</p><p>Meg died when she was pregnant with her third set of lambs, and Yenta arrived after that. Her first experience as a mother went OK. She had two lambs and accepted them, but I worried. I witnessed the birth and the awkwardness of lambs learning how to nurse from a mother who didn't seem all that into it, to be honest. It worked out.</p><p>The next year she had three, and she walked away from the last one without even cleaning it up. Wasn't too interested in lamb #2, either. She fed lamb #1, mostly because he was a lot bigger than his siblings and he had an easier time following her. We were lucky to find a family that was willing to bottle-feed the other two, and soon they were texting me photos of happy lambs at their new home.</p><p>Everyone I've talked to with sheep experience says the survival rates of triplets is pretty iffy. Sheep owners often remove at least one lamb without even waiting to see how things go with the mom. Her udder has two nipples. Do the math. Add to that the trauma of giving birth three times in one day, and I shouldn't be judging the ewe too harshly. And yet it is hard to watch a mother walk away from her crying, shivering, hungry baby. When she head-butts it, I want to hit her.</p><p>This year Yenta gave birth to three lambs. She liked one of them, kept it close, and kicked the other two off. They were not allowed too near her or the Chosen One. By the next morning--a slushy spring day--I knew they were in trouble. I made a trip to the farm store for bottles and milk replacer and messaged friends and 4-H groups. I went out and tried to give the two rejected lambs their first bottle. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigvS5mSkJLwY41VP5eALhWtLUz-qqUdVGvmWIpRYyUHk8M6CzkGRILUX0OHHoJULC9Cjm9_oirZbkNUoMbda3oPQixGCUXURAZBxa1m3FPs1BQkkuil4eoc-kWAOOFv_BfzsEwJo6MVD54Rpvb9C65RgEBFfc3JbHrAsTAeXDFngLaMgRedJ8wECq0hA=s3935" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="a ewe with three lambs; one close to her, two off to the side" border="0" data-original-height="2091" data-original-width="3935" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigvS5mSkJLwY41VP5eALhWtLUz-qqUdVGvmWIpRYyUHk8M6CzkGRILUX0OHHoJULC9Cjm9_oirZbkNUoMbda3oPQixGCUXURAZBxa1m3FPs1BQkkuil4eoc-kWAOOFv_BfzsEwJo6MVD54Rpvb9C65RgEBFfc3JbHrAsTAeXDFngLaMgRedJ8wECq0hA=w640-h342" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Her choice is already clear.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>They gummed the nipple and seemed to wonder why I kept shoving it into their mouths. I was composing a text message in my head for my daughter, a former farm-worker who coached many a calf on its first bottle-drink. But before I could put the little body down and go inside for my phone, the lamb understood. She began sucking on the nipple as if it was what she'd been wanting all her life (and it was). </p><p>Watching her, I started a weird calculus in my head. How long could I get away with working from home? Or could I just take a long lunch for a few weeks and slip in a mid-day feeding? How long would I have to do night feedings? The instructions on the milk replacer bag were a lot less rigorous than the ones I'd read online. Could I make it work? </p><p>I didn't want to be a lamb-nanny. I kind of felt I'd done my dues feeding three human babies, two and three times a night. I was getting too old for this. But that lamb was eating, and it felt really good to watch. That lamb and her brother were having the first happy, comforting moments of their lives. It was so discouraging to think they might not make it because I couldn't find the time and energy to feed them.</p><p>Fortunately, one of the families of Ripley's piano students came through. By suppertime, I'd fed the lambs twice and helped tuck them into a warm workshop a few miles away. There, two excited boys were planning their care and thinking up names for them. By the end of they day they texted me photos and names: Aries and Goldie.</p><p>I know livestock owners see the crueler side of critters all the time. And I know that to the uninitiated, there's some irony to me worrying so much about lambs I fully intend to eat someday. I have become enough of a country girl that I can eat what I raise. I am not sure I will ever be enough of a country girl to watch a mother shrug off her children and not be upset. I would sell Yenta right now, except I can't leave her mate Buford alone. I don't know who would buy her, knowing that she's really not that into motherhood.</p><p>Buford is aging and not likely to be with us for much longer. I like him and want him to live out the rest of his life with us. But he might be around long enough to sire more lambs. (I know, I know. It's possible to separate him from Yenta, but that just makes him sad and then he goes around ramming his horns into everything.) I guess I'll just start looking for surrogates earlier in 2023, and after that I'll sell Yenta to somebody that wants a living grass-cutter. I'll be honest about her track record as a mom.</p><p>So... Anybody want to bottle-feed a couple bundles of cuteness come next spring? How about a self-propelled lawn mower? </p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-63601268204879957072022-02-19T09:06:00.001-08:002022-02-19T09:06:44.975-08:00Winter survival gear<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRtVTzi3CASeF54PGAyhUWA2jDuPrt4RxnX1jWYWzbyw0o1onu_krGb4ChEKwhu6pN4Bjt2wKHOlpcDTQFZSWx18oWMepjMewqU_JJ30Of0PylIi6hYGIBTm4ZAjwZcm9J_-Z7p8A4qZ8O5K60uyJyzbmUAFELzvqmN2CiVJ6T8VoDmcX72CceOJ4I-g=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="landscape covered in snow" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRtVTzi3CASeF54PGAyhUWA2jDuPrt4RxnX1jWYWzbyw0o1onu_krGb4ChEKwhu6pN4Bjt2wKHOlpcDTQFZSWx18oWMepjMewqU_JJ30Of0PylIi6hYGIBTm4ZAjwZcm9J_-Z7p8A4qZ8O5K60uyJyzbmUAFELzvqmN2CiVJ6T8VoDmcX72CceOJ4I-g=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><p>I have reached the point of the winter where I must give credit to the things that got me through.</p><p>Socks. Also family, but I can't advise people on how to get a great family in one blog post.</p><p>So we'll stick with socks. I can't believe I used to live life without taking them seriously. I'd wear thin ones with tight shoes, thicker ones with looser shoes, match them to my shirt in the color-crazy 80s, and walk around with nothing but hose or tights between the weather and vulnerable sections of my feet. As a retail worker earning money for college, I used to go through a whole work-day in open-toed pumps in the middle of winter. How did I do that? </p><p>Growing up in Wyoming makes you weirdly proud of the weather you can shrug off. After the wind turned many of my umbrellas inside out, I gave up and still go without them if I can. But if umbrellas are optional, socks are not.</p><p>I was married before I discovered that some socks were pure joy. Husband was working for a fitness company at the time, and they'd go to these enormous trade shows for sporting equipment. At the end of the show, one of the vendors--a high end sport sock company--sold off their display at bargain prices. Husband brought home the most amazing, warm, cushiony, moisture-wicking socks. </p><p>Friends, I was ruined. I could never again think of color as the only thing that mattered in a sock.</p><p>My obsession grew until it changed my whole fashion sense. I bought cowboy boots that would fit over my high-end socks and wore them with dresses, because as a wise former boss once told me, anything is in style if you wear it with enough confidence. You know what inspires confidence? Warm feet. </p><p>I discovered wool socks could actually be soft and warm and thin. I bought them and saved them for the days when I knew I'd need them. Like, when I was supposed to speak to a group of people.</p><p>I don't know why I am admitting this.</p><p>The point is that warm, coddled feet can make the whole person happy. And if there's a non-materialistic angle to this post, it's that some of my favorite marino wool socks have come from the army surplus store in Idaho Falls, for reasonable prices. So if winter is starting to feel long, I can't do anything to make it shorter, but I can give you some practical advice for getting through it. Find some good socks. They're probably on sale now. (Sadly, the ones at the army surplus store are most likely gone. They sell out quickly, so that's the best option at the beginning of the season.)</p><p>PS: After I drafted this blog, I walked down a college campus in my cowboy boots and flowered skirt. A young man I've never seen before walked up to me out of the blue and said, "Nice boots, by the way." And that is the power of my favorite marino wool boot socks.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-47260385157417970292022-01-09T18:59:00.002-08:002022-01-10T07:17:04.960-08:00How I unexpectedly ended up in a snowy Bryce Canyon the day after New Year's<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdmmvWNnbEKWF3jgIkMtLC7XA04TyBYYD2j_Q1-wLYaR68r2_AEiVjHFz7Cw_cP4SJttvQ-cIkU2_wSHOzPx7ZR0virYppJ8ecbW8xf0tMDrOtYEroprZFnZIJI8rKsf2n-f2XrelaxwsUVmge-sPPVNZOyEgoB4-4oLkhmdjCHDoZHx5C8UbdbuTl8w=s3644" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Snow covers the orange rocks and pines of Bryce Canyon" border="0" data-original-height="2733" data-original-width="3644" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdmmvWNnbEKWF3jgIkMtLC7XA04TyBYYD2j_Q1-wLYaR68r2_AEiVjHFz7Cw_cP4SJttvQ-cIkU2_wSHOzPx7ZR0virYppJ8ecbW8xf0tMDrOtYEroprZFnZIJI8rKsf2n-f2XrelaxwsUVmge-sPPVNZOyEgoB4-4oLkhmdjCHDoZHx5C8UbdbuTl8w=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></div><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i> I have wanted to enjoy this view for years. Last week, it happened.</i></div></span><p></p><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">This was the first year we didn’t have any children home for Christmas Day. We knew this day was coming. We all trained for it. They came and went over the college years, got engaged or married, spent the holiday away with the spouse’s parents now and again. I have learned over the years first to share, and later to be gracious about it (or that has been the goal, anyway).</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We had our daughter and her husband over on Christmas Eve, fed other family members on Christmas Day and had our daughter over again the day after Christmas. But this was the first time we didn’t have any children home on Christmas Day.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVTcPkDhPP-dXZtaqoI6H-IYP2rq3JfSGld11mW8TLv91Pd9RNWYgkRU9DwTfAUGoFbpgs1ArCd2qDoI5Bn1CA-5CXJaG7rI1LdZVf208P9sVelrQGFBhFW2S3_N84acAdAL9KRLges6jNF2qQTzDkrqn9cv9g4ksG5DmHf45fmF0XevTwc0FMhT40cw=s1316" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Screen shot of my tweet: I have decided that for the holidays, since I can't have my kids around as much as I'd like, I'll start tweeting kid stories. I won't get in trouble with them. They're not on Twitter. #missingmykids #theygrewup #nowIhavetosharethem" border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="1316" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVTcPkDhPP-dXZtaqoI6H-IYP2rq3JfSGld11mW8TLv91Pd9RNWYgkRU9DwTfAUGoFbpgs1ArCd2qDoI5Bn1CA-5CXJaG7rI1LdZVf208P9sVelrQGFBhFW2S3_N84acAdAL9KRLges6jNF2qQTzDkrqn9cv9g4ksG5DmHf45fmF0XevTwc0FMhT40cw=w640-h171" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>With all the training I’ve done, I thought I’d manage this next step all right, especially since we’d have a larger (for us) family gathering over New Year’s with dinner and games. I was especially looking forward to listening to the steady banter between my kids; it’s the best background music in the world if we can just steer clear of politics. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0aZarNidCHnfVTgbOerq8SyJPIphN-DDs3i6BWskQzTjY_aNJY3LJEMPSj1h1Fps2V03jhvw_qRqJLZj0fuaI0gTnm6mv5dts9ZTY6Y4X2zLANgVAblGfCQZ0R0Mz2eg0P1D5nutdHWVxBB5okGYfqTwRthmZO-KWj55F4Rv3rF8m9RLl2tPSK8RKYQ=s1252" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Tweet: There was the time the family was laughing about how in Hallmark movies, some guy in a flannel shirt always steals the girl from her slick city man. Right after that I noticed Youngest Daughter’s husband—a very bright business type—bought a flannel." border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="1252" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0aZarNidCHnfVTgbOerq8SyJPIphN-DDs3i6BWskQzTjY_aNJY3LJEMPSj1h1Fps2V03jhvw_qRqJLZj0fuaI0gTnm6mv5dts9ZTY6Y4X2zLANgVAblGfCQZ0R0Mz2eg0P1D5nutdHWVxBB5okGYfqTwRthmZO-KWj55F4Rv3rF8m9RLl2tPSK8RKYQ=w640-h182" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My son was driving up with his wife on the 30<sup>th</sup>, and I was getting the house ready when we got a call that started with, “We’re fine, but…”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Calls that start that way are great because you know instantly, things could’ve been worse. And those calls still stink because they are bad news. My son and his wife had gotten into an accident on a slushy road. It didn’t hurt them or anybody else, but it did hurt their car. They couldn’t come. What was worse, this was the latest in a string of car troubles that a young, just-getting-started family doesn't need.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0cNuIGKTvtwTEIUfadrW71RS51QmO49o0buvEILtUojaKazb8HV4MRwuN2QscMv22qR6fGIwLNsMsdPjwcRySZqOJHgb9oN4g2UJpLKo8hog1tj3GK0uCAi84ef73fUNkdkm0_R4SFfl38zMrkMniMM6GQO49ELEt_pTwdwUOEAjaxOSzOBleDALY0Q=s1374" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="1374" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0cNuIGKTvtwTEIUfadrW71RS51QmO49o0buvEILtUojaKazb8HV4MRwuN2QscMv22qR6fGIwLNsMsdPjwcRySZqOJHgb9oN4g2UJpLKo8hog1tj3GK0uCAi84ef73fUNkdkm0_R4SFfl38zMrkMniMM6GQO49ELEt_pTwdwUOEAjaxOSzOBleDALY0Q=w640-h156" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We cancelled the family gathering and drove down to them on New Year’s Day, piling their Christmas presents into the car, catching some fast food halfway there. We enjoyed a really good meal they cooked for us that night. My son did his own pasta sauce, and it’s not like my pasta sauce, and it’s fabulous. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I felt better, but sitting in church the next day, I was still fighting my own emotions. Finally I asked if we could just sit down over some hot chocolate and talk, and we did. I told them that just because I was far away didn’t stop me from wanting to run down to the scene of the accident with blankets and comfort food. I told them I knew they were the ones who had the greatest right to be upset, but I was messed up anyway.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">They told me what happened during the accident. Son even acted it out with hand gestures and sound effects, but he wouldn't do it again so I could film it for the rest of the family. We laughed a little. After that Husband drove us out to Bryce Canyon, where we looked out over the orange hoodoo rocks, covered in snow. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I have wanted to see snow on Bryce Canyon for years now, and now that I have seen it, I want to strap on some crampons and experience it as a hiker. It was lovely.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuP-YTlxaFJ-0dPgzkM9aJV4yZe2gS6CFZVajrJeEtBImsl5DhNg6PMXiHI_TxFNrR2uqET-a9sTvviPt5Sw2wpwKjYX2hygKGhsklduJRyY9KNHirsHKvmKRIQeuFfehtWIklOuYaV1z6dpBgTZ-MHHprw6bgMk_hqmZN1aqDTVQ7qAXlowKX4OCV8g=s1240" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Tweet screen shot: There was that year when my sister passed away and my Dad was in the hospital. I didn't have the heart to set up the tree so my girls did it for me. When they were done I looked at it and instantly felt better. #missingmykids #theygrewup #nowIhavetosharethem" border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="1240" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuP-YTlxaFJ-0dPgzkM9aJV4yZe2gS6CFZVajrJeEtBImsl5DhNg6PMXiHI_TxFNrR2uqET-a9sTvviPt5Sw2wpwKjYX2hygKGhsklduJRyY9KNHirsHKvmKRIQeuFfehtWIklOuYaV1z6dpBgTZ-MHHprw6bgMk_hqmZN1aqDTVQ7qAXlowKX4OCV8g=w640-h179" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">After that we ate pizza in a little restaurant and we drove back to their place. They cooked dinner for us again that night, and it was delicious. We played Trivial Pursuit on their new game system. We offered to help solve the car problem and discovered they had several offers from family members from both sides, so it wasn't a matter of finding a solution. They just needed to pick the best one.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCv8UrniglBNYkaf0h-NdaU7AxoXe9v__Dv-D_D2JzlAhT3l856mMYezZihllz-2b_eK1zUybl20e86tGgiZrpcwbBq51orE8CYHHTINQyWAHbeHEOK7_NKCy6GSzIkHBanMy55GVlGHjlQ_FLAI59j1X2fhx9vIG45bHjsw4RFIos2QL8uCjNcA7_dQ=s1258" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Screen shot of my tweet: There was the year I bought a Wii, back in the day when they were very hard to get. I sneaked away to buy it and they actually had one in stock, and I carried it out like I’d just won it in a contest. The door greeter grinned at me and said, “Congratulations, Ma’am!”" border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="1258" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjCv8UrniglBNYkaf0h-NdaU7AxoXe9v__Dv-D_D2JzlAhT3l856mMYezZihllz-2b_eK1zUybl20e86tGgiZrpcwbBq51orE8CYHHTINQyWAHbeHEOK7_NKCy6GSzIkHBanMy55GVlGHjlQ_FLAI59j1X2fhx9vIG45bHjsw4RFIos2QL8uCjNcA7_dQ=w640-h174" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: small;">It was absolutely the best possible way to spend the day after New Year’s when your family members get in a small car accident and can’t come to your </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">family</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: small;"> gathering.</span>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-9238545416543117642021-11-07T08:34:00.003-08:002021-11-07T12:59:12.135-08:00Bridging the cocoa divide: Part 1. LD's Cafe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVZFzcp0fTNlofcmJPwmFTZb8D-E0O59TajnoaNBM7NYddUIAFvqWxlmBBCatDWqEdCkNDGS7AYxSlqrnwrgzIhxw_yWMV-iTWVJcGTe_dxRadKRWEdkgvroVteJOgrL1Nb-svmfbmFqj/s2048/16F17142-2E0C-4CB4-8A77-7069A7BACB22.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="night photo of the cafe, with Halloween decor in the windows" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVZFzcp0fTNlofcmJPwmFTZb8D-E0O59TajnoaNBM7NYddUIAFvqWxlmBBCatDWqEdCkNDGS7AYxSlqrnwrgzIhxw_yWMV-iTWVJcGTe_dxRadKRWEdkgvroVteJOgrL1Nb-svmfbmFqj/w400-h300/16F17142-2E0C-4CB4-8A77-7069A7BACB22.heic" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>LD's caters to both the coffee and the cocoa set. <br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I am in search of local establishments that give both coffee and cocoa respect. Or at least, coffee and beverages that are not coffee. </p><p>For me this isn't just about a drink. It's about a divide in my society.</p><p>I don't drink coffee because I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which has a health code against it. It's been the subject of exhaustive debate, none of which has anything to do with this project. </p><p>Here's the objective: I don't drink coffee. I have friends that do. And I'm realizing that if we want to sit down and enjoy a conversation over a beverage, it would be nice to go to a place where coffee-drinkers and non-coffee-drinkers both enjoy the experience (More about that below).</p><p>I started this project with an establishment that is more of an institution: LD's Cafe in Richmond, Utah. </p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBWAJdvfIaUIOH-TCifJIU9kXbZVLXFZ7inrln2uz7J8T0ZPOJU5kumph5Xv3mfxGwwn1VZHuQtSnTEvDloZPlWiFaYFnLHZN81A4rHIdakW-l91LNtcDeH_lrRrz6NtbHo8VeSbVcBut/s2048/78DB6E1F-72CB-4B40-A52B-8446363A235E.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="a cup of cocoa topped with whipped cream and sprinkles on an orange counter" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBWAJdvfIaUIOH-TCifJIU9kXbZVLXFZ7inrln2uz7J8T0ZPOJU5kumph5Xv3mfxGwwn1VZHuQtSnTEvDloZPlWiFaYFnLHZN81A4rHIdakW-l91LNtcDeH_lrRrz6NtbHo8VeSbVcBut/w240-h320/78DB6E1F-72CB-4B40-A52B-8446363A235E.heic" width="240" /></a></div><br />LD's Cafe</h3><p><i>Cocoa: Good</i></p><p><i>Coffee: Reportedly good enough to fuel conversation. But the point is that there's a whole lot of conversation going on.</i></p><p>I have known about LD's ever since I moved to this part of the world, decades ago. A co-worker once told me you go there for the atmosphere.</p><p>The atmosphere is awfully orange. It has the look of a place that hasn't updated in a while, but please bear with me--I think there might be some deeper reasons for that. Reasons that have made me take a second, serious look at LD's. Because when I told my friends about this project and asked about the coffee at LD's, information I hadn't asked for poured in. The son who picks his mother up from assisted living and brings her there so she can sit with her people for an hour or two. The gentleman I spotted there with a cup of coffee, his little dog seated beside him.</p><p>I went there just before closing to grab a cup of cocoa. The waitress brought back a mug topped with whipped cream and sprinkles, but it wasn't overwhelmingly sweet, and it wasn't grainy (those are my two pet peeves: tip-offs that the hot chocolate is an afterthought). It was a pleasant mug-full, one I'd do again if I wanted to sit across from a friend and chat a while. But I knew the cocoa wasn't the whole story.</p><p>"I want to go there for breakfast on Saturday," I told Bret. He didn't jump at the idea. This is a good time to admit we are food snobs. It's hard for us to spend money on a meal we could cook better at home. When we dine out, we eat a lot of ethnic food in hole-in-the-wall restaurants. </p><p>I persisted: "It sounds like that pie place in Pennsylvania."</p><p>Now he was grinning. We'd stopped at a little shop in rural Pennsylvania years ago and had some fabulous pie, but the part that really stuck with us was the guy who came in, looked around and asked loudly, "Where's the paper?" </p><p>I realized I'd been hogging it and handed it over.</p><p>So many small towns have an LD's; a place where friends gather. Where, if you walk in at the right time of day, you feel a little like you've wandered into someone else's kitchen by mistake. The men--and in a farming town, it is usually men--look up to see who's walked in, and then go back to their conversation.</p><p>I talked Bret into it. We went to LD's for breakfast, where women chatted over cocoa and soda, a man ate his breakfast and went out, leaving his money on the table, and the waitress bustled around with a coffee pot in hand. LD's is definitely friendly to the coffee- and non-coffee crowd.</p><p>And the over-easy eggs, hash browns and sausage were really good. I'd do it again.</p><p>Still, I left feeling like maybe I wasn't qualified for the project I've signed onto. A cup of hot chocolate and a breakfast stop aren't really enough to know the soul of a place. Maybe you have to go again and again, get to know the regulars before you can really know what you're talking about. </p><p>What if the counters are outdated because the proprietor knows that if he closes the cafe to renovate, the conversation stops? What if that is just too hard to do?</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Update</h3><p> I put this story out on my social media feeds, and heard back from Patti, one of the cafe owner's daughters. I'm sharing it with her permission--and thankfulness in my heart:</p><p><i>I honestly don't remember a time there </i>wasn't<i> the orange countertop! Those that come for coffee kind of have their regular place they sit. Over the years, where they have sat the countertop has worn out a bit. So when we see the spot that is worn we think of the person that sits there, kind of like your place around the family table. When a regular doesn't show up, then Dad always checks to see if they are OK. Some of the regulars are aging a bit. This is just one of many stories about Dad's cafe that I will always keep close to my heart.</i></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Why search for a place that caters to coffee- and non-coffee drinkers?</h3><p>I'll be honest: for the first ten years or so that I lived in this glorious valley, it seemed that most people were happy to stay in the coffee or cocoa enclaves. Two years ago I started questioning that theory. Not only that: I felt it was important for people from both sides of religious, political and social divides to sit down together and talk as friends. And that meant they'd need a place to do it. (Hat tip to Utah Public Radio, which began exploring <a href="https://www.upr.org/programs/one-small-step">conversations between unlike people</a> in 2019.)</p><p>I drew up plans for a beverage blog project that was pushed aside because I was busy with other things. And then 2020 happened, and...good holy crap. If we needed more civil conversation between people with differences before, that need has risen to emergency proportions now.</p><p>So local readers, please tell me: where in the Logan, Utah area you go if you want to have a conversation with a friend without buying a whole meal? Is the coffee or the cocoa or the soda good there, or good enough? If your friend is having something different from you, do they feel like their drink was an afterthought? Like the burger at the bottom of the menu in a Chinese restaurant, for example?</p><p>Leave me a comment and let me know.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-50551012443176211782021-10-17T12:24:00.005-07:002021-10-17T12:24:52.013-07:00Fall Colors 2021<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6FGYtDKoFzhGVgv0BBF4GYi5PaZZfbgaz4sDrJbpR2kJ5okdvizUtjH-LJBSs9R0Z3j5Ev663IZB8L_zxEAPCuYGryNzDwksRzntgEkwwRZls_TV0JAq7eqSjAR9B-peDCs7rn6e3IIm/s2048/2C191D3C-CBCC-4E82-8CA7-1B3C30F09F16_1_201_a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Red and gold-striped tomatoes in a glass bowl" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6FGYtDKoFzhGVgv0BBF4GYi5PaZZfbgaz4sDrJbpR2kJ5okdvizUtjH-LJBSs9R0Z3j5Ev663IZB8L_zxEAPCuYGryNzDwksRzntgEkwwRZls_TV0JAq7eqSjAR9B-peDCs7rn6e3IIm/w640-h640/2C191D3C-CBCC-4E82-8CA7-1B3C30F09F16_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It started with the harvest. Which actually started long before fall, with the cherries and chokecherries, the cucumbers and tiny tomatoes that make up the first Greek salad of the year. We ate and rejoiced and boiled and bottled and when we were feeling like we'd done enough, the sauce tomatoes came on. </p><p>We bottled them for as long as the weather held. Typically first frost comes and we cover the plants. The second frost comes and we cover the plants, but when the tarps come off the upper leaves are singed, and by the third or fourth frost they are too far gone to cover anymore.</p><p>Since bottling tomatoes is all about preserving peak flavor, we don't mess with the green ones. Which means there is a mess when the frost finally claims what is left. But the stuff in the bottles--that's beautiful.</p><p>We are no longer working at home, which means the commute is once again sucking time from our lives. (Don't get me wrong, I really like seeing my co-workers' faces in person and I'm not sorry I'm back in the office.) I bring this up because we can't garden and cook obsessively like we did in 2020. But we can't stop it entirely, either. In 2020 we discovered food podcasts, which explains why were were mail-ordering really, really good pasta in 2021 and covering it with incredible homemade sauce.</p><p>One thing the summer did not give us was clear skies. We were bathed in smoke from the Northern California fires for months. When it finally went away I was stunned by how colorful the world was.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhanUCN6KCBJ3ERBEPeSgGOVMlMDMOCVcuTnHVFg_hMVwN6_I8Kq07ecqIwn8ZgjV0XYIJThbZvxOygB1bZATzp5mA5wSsoAJ_WDYAdov3on14epFNPhdgFue6L6yiCQixt1qF8gh9S2Bp/s2048/IMG_6009.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="sunset photo of autumn trees up a canyon" border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhanUCN6KCBJ3ERBEPeSgGOVMlMDMOCVcuTnHVFg_hMVwN6_I8Kq07ecqIwn8ZgjV0XYIJThbZvxOygB1bZATzp5mA5wSsoAJ_WDYAdov3on14epFNPhdgFue6L6yiCQixt1qF8gh9S2Bp/w640-h480/IMG_6009.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p>We soaked up the colors all the way to southern Utah, where we visited our son and his wife. And we revisited a canyon we first saw in the autumn of last year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzZZRg2WXmws3iF3WrtpVf7tvQytNp_d1YICQlT_9iEVkADj7JR4I0HJlqda-RyjZJmUvKGE45BO52aYdbHQeztzgOt9owI3f6MoS9eGUwXDasyhh4ii_-9R3hHYBEGwwRywaC00_YqCi/s2048/IMG_2189.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Red canyon walls above a gray ribbon of rock." border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzZZRg2WXmws3iF3WrtpVf7tvQytNp_d1YICQlT_9iEVkADj7JR4I0HJlqda-RyjZJmUvKGE45BO52aYdbHQeztzgOt9owI3f6MoS9eGUwXDasyhh4ii_-9R3hHYBEGwwRywaC00_YqCi/w480-h640/IMG_2189.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>The photo above is what it looked like then. The gray you see running through this photo is not water. It is just the path water leaves as it runs through the canyon after a storm.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XEftARU93mCivP7nQ555B8-Wtc1yqvhhRB2Gtue5V1f8VPJMAi3B05N0rN8Si3vlr9xV6YJWznFpiWru4XllBccFUUNDTc-Tux4WJzueRk_-QBjUPsSreCJJEZY_zna4e9-vtoUMlfRu/s2048/11B74A02-D09F-4574-92E2-FF303BC36385.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a narrow pool of water reflects a golden canyon face" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XEftARU93mCivP7nQ555B8-Wtc1yqvhhRB2Gtue5V1f8VPJMAi3B05N0rN8Si3vlr9xV6YJWznFpiWru4XllBccFUUNDTc-Tux4WJzueRk_-QBjUPsSreCJJEZY_zna4e9-vtoUMlfRu/w480-h640/11B74A02-D09F-4574-92E2-FF303BC36385.heic" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>The second time we went, it had rained a lot the day before, and the rain formed little reflecting pools everywhere. I wanted to see it with water in it, even though I knew that to see that, I would have to do this...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPce3HxWnQhLPtgsi30ydxadMe7eWkTcU3vaekmkJ_0zop5NrvRj1UDKAWkyseVMc7rreC3hyphenhyphenEMsTpGvkrS0xZ-9SIzoCHSrT5KBKeAB5AHjZ98nYNlV45K1jA69rkz3HsaZpLfzHgBrq/s2048/C476B069-409B-416B-A28A-FA6DA1340631.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Me, crossing a hand- and foothold path cut into the rock over a larger, deeper reflecting pool." border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPce3HxWnQhLPtgsi30ydxadMe7eWkTcU3vaekmkJ_0zop5NrvRj1UDKAWkyseVMc7rreC3hyphenhyphenEMsTpGvkrS0xZ-9SIzoCHSrT5KBKeAB5AHjZ98nYNlV45K1jA69rkz3HsaZpLfzHgBrq/w640-h480/C476B069-409B-416B-A28A-FA6DA1340631.heic" width="640" /></a></div><p>I was not sure I wanted Husband taking this picture. I was scared when he took it--about as scared as I was the first time I crossed this hand-and-foothold path. But he did, and I realize now what a beautiful place it was. (I was concentrating too much on my feet to appreciate my surroundings at the time.) </p><p>I don't mean to overstate it. As rock climbing goes, this is nothing. Many other people were there and they sailed right through it, including Husband. My son probably could've done it without the footholds. (Um, Son, if you're reading this, that is NOT a challenge.) I had to work harder on it because of my heights thing and my rock faces thing. But it was a proud enough moment, I'm sharing the photo anyway. And look that that reflected rock face. Just look at it.</p><p>Two days after we returned home, this happened.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwaEC1yti2IT7ZKzRqxWIM3JlCf-f0kzf1tXrJvJ7cV2S-lqnIsaXLR-5nJrDcH_zOgkvzRTGjMhpCnD2CuQPSkGXVkMD4IJalSYvT65Hoqmo6HWWJYHkH7Pm4F0VqTmma9LugEYMqYw4n/s2048/IMG_6039.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="snow blankets trees that still have their leaves" border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="2048" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwaEC1yti2IT7ZKzRqxWIM3JlCf-f0kzf1tXrJvJ7cV2S-lqnIsaXLR-5nJrDcH_zOgkvzRTGjMhpCnD2CuQPSkGXVkMD4IJalSYvT65Hoqmo6HWWJYHkH7Pm4F0VqTmma9LugEYMqYw4n/w640-h404/IMG_6039.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>...Which is not to say the color is all gone. The snow melted and surprisingly, it hadn't killed all the flowers it covered. But I'm so glad we enjoyed fall at its peak.<div><br /></div><div>Stay cozy, my friends. <br /><p><br /></p></div>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-3659238715342509602021-08-22T09:10:00.000-07:002021-08-22T09:10:30.555-07:00Geeking out at the Goat Rodeo<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vIVrCZ5sNwE" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I don’t often have a quasi-spiritual reaction to something I saw on TV, but it happened 10 years ago. I stumbled onto a public TV program of the Goat Rodeo, headlined by the amazing Yo-Yo Ma. It wasn’t classical. It wasn’t bluegrass. It was classical-jazz-bluegrass gorgeousness, culminating in a song called <i>Here and Heaven</i>. I watched, chills of joy running up and down my spine. I YouTubed. I bought the songs. I needed more.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And soon I was down a music rabbit-hole, searching out artists like Chris Thile, Mike Marshall, Bela Fleck, Edgar Meyer. My playlists filled up with song names like Barnyard Disturbance and Sinister Minister. My whole music trajectory changed that day, but I was sure I would never again have a listening experience like the first time I heard <i>Here and Heaven</i>. You can only do that once. And as for seeing them in person… well, that would not likely happen, ever. Niche music like that doesn’t come to the Intermountain West.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Nearly 10 years later the project revived and another album, Not Our First Goat Rodeo, was released. I bought the songs and discovered <i>The Trappings</i> and experienced the same chills of joy. And then I found out they were touring, with a stop in Salt Lake City.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">That’s how Youngest Daughter and I found ourselves outside Red Butte Garden on a Tuesday night as rain fell. They were supposed to let us in at 6:30 but it was nearly 7:30 before the gates opened, possibly because the venue owners were wondering if the thunder in the distance was headed our way. Were they afraid that if they let us in, they’d only have to round us up and chase us out again? </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It gave me time to survey other concert-goers. I hadn’t met many other Goat Rodeo fans. What did my music tribe look like? There were a lot more of them than I thought there would be. They stood in a line that went up the mountain until it ran out of road, and then it curved and came down the other side. I expected them to be my age or older, and many of them were, but many were younger, too. The one common denominator was a clean-cut, outdoorsy vibe—but maybe that was because it was an outdoor concert. They came prepared with coolers and wicker baskets, thermoses and wine glasses. Some were wearing water-shedding pants. I pulled my chocolate croissant and bag of chips from my backpack and thought, If I keep doing the outdoor concert thing I will have to step up my game.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Finally we went into the garden and spread our blankets onto the wet grass. My daughter came prepared; her blanket had waterproof backing. The concert started, and the second song they played was <i>The Trappings</i>. The rain had stopped but the wind was wild. On the stage, they hit all the sweet notes anyway. Edgar Meyer dropped that amazing bass solo while the other strings sang. Aoife O’Donovan and Chris Thile blended. And somehow it all fit, as if the notes that moved me were moving all of nature. This moment is what I came for, I thought. This is already worth it. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We sat and lounged and listened to many more beautiful things, and the concert ended but everybody—<i>everybody</i>—knew they were saving <i>Here and Heaven</i> for the encore. And they teased us with a really sweet Bach number first, but then they played it as the wind gusted around us. Everyone was on their feet. My daughter and I sang. The couple in front of us linked arms and danced. And I knew I wasn’t alone: that sound brought joy to everyone there. The energy of it carried me through the drive home.</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So I can check that one off the bucket list. Except I’m not sure it is a bucket list thing if you fully intend to do it again if you have the chance. </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid94gRRKJxJI_foBqobaN_RfDyWajpT9oK7WcZ-_DxX5aUgwSOIquwbxsZiah0F0YWg9-zAcI1ioNKJjEM4szSwB8r1SmX1qcAnY6ATykI4ijEEv7paxeMxZuU8jBGSrGEqP1TVbsqd-45/s2048/505485D6-9737-43FA-880F-E45D25D04430.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid94gRRKJxJI_foBqobaN_RfDyWajpT9oK7WcZ-_DxX5aUgwSOIquwbxsZiah0F0YWg9-zAcI1ioNKJjEM4szSwB8r1SmX1qcAnY6ATykI4ijEEv7paxeMxZuU8jBGSrGEqP1TVbsqd-45/w640-h480/505485D6-9737-43FA-880F-E45D25D04430.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9208762390620099639.post-74668607926690740072021-07-26T18:46:00.002-07:002021-07-27T07:14:53.873-07:00Vaccination follow-up: side effects and no regrets<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ejWRUdwya35uyMF9bwIGld6igEi6ruEzK7flJElGbFWUfMVBdKJw7j0wRLB_utKzT83cOi6aV5cub6lo4mNRKA6kC198s9WuqVeSNEs6DsmJ3bDivMdvV-ORfwRf4YcG3YVG2CVTkP0W/s2048/F2434BBB-E66D-4508-A63A-761DA21AA77B.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ejWRUdwya35uyMF9bwIGld6igEi6ruEzK7flJElGbFWUfMVBdKJw7j0wRLB_utKzT83cOi6aV5cub6lo4mNRKA6kC198s9WuqVeSNEs6DsmJ3bDivMdvV-ORfwRf4YcG3YVG2CVTkP0W/w640-h480/F2434BBB-E66D-4508-A63A-761DA21AA77B.heic" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Now that I am fully vaccinated, I have gone back to moving around the world with confidence, <br />visiting places like this enormously mind-boggling military vehicle museum in Dubois, Wyoming <br />(yes, you read that right).</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I realized this week that while I've been pretty open about getting my COVID shot, I haven't told the whole story. My last vaccination post was written in the window before the side effects kicked in. And for me, there were side effects.</p><p>The day after I got my shot, I couldn't get warm. I felt fuzzy-headed and sleepy. My hips and knees hurt, to the point that I felt it with every step. My fever was low but it made me very uncomfortable. Those intense symptoms went away within a day or two, but some joint pain and strange, sudden chills went on for a lot longer. I didn't keep a diary but it's safe to say it went on for more than a week. The side effects certainly stayed with me longer than anyone else in my family. But eventually they went away.</p><p>Why am I writing this now? Like most of you, I am very tired of the bickering about anything COVID-related, and every time I write a political post (should a post about a vaccine even be political?) I promise myself it will be for the last time. </p><p>But I'm also realizing that there is a lack of frank talk about vaccines, as if it's an all-or-nothing thing. It seems people on either side of the debate want to believe that the vaccine will either kill you or save you, risk-free. Either you die from COVID or you're OK. For me, the answers are somewhere between those extremes. I know people who got COVID and didn't die. They're not entirely OK, either. One sustained damage to her pancreas and started taking insulin. She wasn't sure if it was permanent or not. Another sustained blood clots in his lungs. Another had lingering fatigue. Another had a messed-up sense of taste and smell for weeks, and hair loss. All of them were out of commission for a while. If I get a flu vaccine to avoid the inconvenience of being sick during flu season--and I do--why wouldn't I want to avoid getting COVID, where the stakes are so much higher?</p><p>But the life-and-death stakes are there, too. An oft-repeated statistic is that <a href="https://www.sltrib.com/news/2021/07/13/utah-hospitals-are/?fbclid=IwAR08X0yN43m4N-5GPi3PcN5PndS4uz1JaxyQAID7IGdA2qufgoC_rfB5RXM" target="_blank">95 percent</a> of those in my state who go to the hospital now are unvaccinated. National experts are <a href="https://apnews.com/article/coronavirus-pandemic-health-941fcf43d9731c76c16e7354f5d5e187?fbclid=IwAR2Qb0_4cKjiB07v-ZdQHA-6ICbo9bnteGEu3MKuRqUXPHSPhLJsU7HroXQ">saying the same thing</a>.</p><p>I decided the risks of not getting my shot were a lot greater than the risks of getting it, and to this day I am glad it was made available to me. I took it, waited the two weeks, stopped wearing my mask except around people who were medically fragile, and pretty much picked up the life I lost in 2020. The biggest difference: I was dosing myself with ibuprofen until the side effects went away. Now I'm feeling back to normal. I've been on several long (for me) hikes and come back feeling great.</p><p>So I will say to my fellow Americans, I am not one of those who would force you to get the shot. I believe it should be your decision. I believe some of you with certain health conditions should not get it. But there's a lot of <a href="https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2021/06/14/1004757554/anti-vaccine-activists-use-a-federal-database-to-spread-fear-about-covid-vaccine">irresponsible information</a> churning <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/blogs-trending-57928647">out there</a>, so I beg you to get your information from people whose day job is about protecting your health and your immune system. </p><p>And if you leave me a comment, make sure it's free of profanity, personal attacks or the word "stupid." My tolerance level is wearing a bit thin.</p>JoLynne Lyonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01029955836072785693noreply@blogger.com0