tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55504102454277034162024-03-21T19:03:36.928-07:00Dry Creek: An Experiment in Sustainable LivingSteve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-92148796093295713832017-11-02T20:33:00.002-07:002017-11-02T21:21:18.221-07:00I Once Thought I Saw Too Deeply; I Now Know I Didn't See Deeply Enough: Moving from Unbelief to BeliefThis post is an assignment. Mormons are encouraged to share their beliefs. That should be easy for me, as the gospel has brought me great joy. Although I'm still learning and growing, there are two versions of myself. The only way to describe the first is to picture a lone person standing on a slender flat-topped butte surrounded by nothing but empty space. The man is there all alone in the eternal star-studded night. There might be happiness or joy out there on some distant world, but from that pinnacle there is only cold nothingness. Connection is only an abstract, theoretical possibility. All the data then seemed to say to me <i>I am alone, and so is everyone else; they just don't know it. </i>I related a lot with Hemingway. All was <i>nada y pues nada. </i>At one point I dropped out of college and proceeded to try and slowly drink myself to death because nothing had meaning to me. My parents were great; my siblings were great; I had truly wonderful friends. I knew I could write and could probably make it as a writer if I tried, but I just couldn't believe it mattered, and so I quit life.<br />
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At one point I found a book called <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Outsider_(Colin_Wilson)" target="_blank">The Outsider</a> </i>by <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/dec/09/colin-wilson" target="_blank">Colin Wilson</a> that details this common sentiment among 20th Century writers. In it, Wilson quotes from <a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Henri-Barbusse" target="_blank">Henri Barbusse's</a> novel <i><a href="https://research.bowdoin.edu/dante-today/written-word/henri-barbusse-lenfer-1908/" target="_blank">L'Enfer</a>, </i>where the protagonist concludes <i>I see too deep and too much. </i>Life, I concluded was banal; others, for whatever reason, somehow were blind to it.<br />
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The second version of myself, although not always thrilled with how any particular day is going, is rooted in a deep, general happiness that transcends the circumstance of the moment, and a real connection with my God, my Savior and the world around me. That is a direct result of my spiritual conversion. I sometimes feel guilty about this change. My two older boys were raised by a different father than my two younger boys, even though all four were raised by me. I don't believe I was ever a bad father. I seldom spanked my kids, but I could really yell, and I was horrible at listening. I can still lose my temper, but that happens less and less all the time, and although I still wander around in my own little world--thinking, creating and writing in my head--I'm less authoritarian, kinder, and a little more connected. My two older boys got gypped. It has absolutely nothing to do with them; and everything to do with the gospel of <a href="https://www.mormon.org/" target="_blank">The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints</a>.<br />
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So, I should want to shout that "I once was lost but now I'm found" from the roof tops.<br />
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Yet, I don't. This post is an act of will. My will--because I know what I have is worth sharing. <i>The Outsider </i>discusses a certain type of writer who has a terrible secret to share--that all is nothing in the end--and they don't want to share it, but they are compelled to share it anyway. They have to. The misery is too painful to keep inside. When <i>that </i>was my secret it oozed out everywhere--in my demeanor, my taste in music, my writing, and my dreams. It had to. I couldn't bear the darkness alone.<br />
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Now, I have the opposite problem. I carry around this great joy that is unconnected with anything that's going on around me, and I have no adequate way of expressing it. I want to. I want others to feel it also. But, I know it won't be my words that pass it along; I doubt anyone will even believe me. I don't necessarily fear ridicule. I'm pretty secure in being a lone wolf. I was that for most of my life. What I fear is being misunderstood. I fear being taken as a salesman. For peddling happiness, or God, or the Church like cheap trinkets on a street corner.<br />
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I don't want that because my beliefs are too sacred to me. The world has enough televangelists, enough politicians, enough PR men, enough salesmen.<br />
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What I want is <i>real connection</i>, and the truth is I doubt I have what it takes to share the joy I feel inside. People who have died and visited the other side before being resuscitated express this. On the one hand they want to shout <i>God lives and he loves you. </i>On the other hand, at least at first, they are stunned to silence by the overwhelming weight of bearing the good news.<br />
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But I do want to share a video. I'm thinking perhaps it speaks for itself. At least for some. I know not all will feel it. The music of the spirit is like that. One has to be ready to hear it. So much of earthly music is like that too. I once wrote off opera, jazz, Bob Dylan. Now I hear deep enough to get them. I once couldn't hear silence well enough meditate, now I sometimes can.<br />
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I hope you can feel the spirit as <a href="https://www.lds.org/church/leader/thomas-s-monson?lang=eng" target="_blank">Thomas S. Monson</a> humbly accepted the calling to be a member of the <a href="https://www.lds.org/church/leaders/quorum-of-the-twelve-apostles?lang=eng" target="_blank">Quorum of the Twelve Apostles</a> of <a href="https://www.lds.org/media-library/video/2013-02-1010-the-church-at-a-glance?lang=eng" target="_blank">The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints</a> many years ago. I know I can. He is now the President of our church and our Prophet. I love this video because it is so opposite of the rhetoric and noise of this world:<br />
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The LDS church is not the only place I hear God speaking, and no church leader would expect that of me. If we believed our church was the only source of light, we would come to the conclusion that it was pointless to share our joy; we'd come to the conclusion that nobody would ever convert because there'd be no connection. You can't be drawn to what you don't recognize. One is drawn to goodness because goodness is our natural home. It is where we belong. So, I also recognize God in the words, thoughts and just the simple happiness of spiritual leaders of other faiths, such as the Buddhist <a href="https://plumvillage.org/about/thich-nhat-hanh/biography/" target="_blank">Thich Nhat Hanh.</a><br />
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But those are other voices, other faiths, other windows to the divine.<br />
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A writer's job is to bear witness. To share truth as we know it. This is mine:<br />
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I know that God lives; I know that we have a purpose; I know that deep down, there is a well of happiness in each of us; that we are connected to a light, a glory beyond all human capacity to express. I know that at times this life feels fake, plastic, unreal. We may feel, much as the writers chronicled in <i>The Outsider </i>by Colin Wilson, that we are somehow disconnected with everything around us, that we carry a deep, dark secret, an immense loneliness. That's because we do. It's because this world is not our real home. This life is a temporary assignment, like going off to college, to learn and grow and enjoy--yes. But it isn't our destiny. It isn't where we ultimately belong. It is a stop over on the road to eternity. That emptiness, that deep longing for something more is God-designed to urge us forward so that someday we can return to our source, our light, our Savior, our God. But, we don't have to wait to get a glimpse of it, a taste of it. We can tap into it now and feel deep joy in this present moment no matter what that entails.<br />
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I bear testimony of this in the name of Jesus Christ,<br />
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AmenSteve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-59760639966965843552017-09-27T20:31:00.003-07:002017-09-27T20:31:39.058-07:00Fall into Winter, Journal Entry No. 2: Drives, Books & DaydreamsSeptember 27, 2017, 8:14 p.m., 58 degrees Fahrenheit. The nights have warmed; the song of the crickets and cicada have returned. Outside the air is rich with the aroma of wet earth and cottonwood--deep, vital creek-bottom smells, the odor of spring. It even feels like spring after two nights of frost. Clouds have moved in and obscured most of the sky. I didn't notice if it was moonlight or the last hues of day that made the clouds visible.<br />
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. . . . .</div>
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I spent my afternoon driving back and forth across 35-miles of this great valley that stretches 70 miles west from Dry Creek almost to the Nevada border. I made the 45 minute commute home, picked up Everest, and then drove back across a good portion of the valley again to take him to the Chiropractor. Then it was a stop at McDonald's before heading back home. But I seldom mind driving here. This wide-open valley is my home. Having less than two people per square mile, its wide-open roads are about as traffic-free as roads can be in the twenty-first century.<br />
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I particularly love a forest of Russian olives and a single, giant cottonwood that has grown around some springs that seep out into the desert a ways out. There are hundreds of the silvery-gray trees massed thickly together. When driving past, I always imagine what it would be like to have a house hidden back there under the shade of that one giant tree. A narrow lane could wind through the Russian olives, barely visible from the highway. One could trim the olive trees and put in footpaths. One could wander around his own little oasis for eternity and no one would notice.<br />
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I can kind of do the same thing at Dry Creek--although I seldom do--but it would be different out there. Our property runs along a canyon at the edge of the foothills, borders property of the state Fish and Game, and sits adjacent to the National Forest. You expect woods here. But out there in that big expanse of desert--now that would be something.<br />
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. . . . .</div>
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After returning home, I read from <em>The Mystery and Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls </em>by Hershel Shanks. Again, my mind started to wander--this time to the Wadi Quamran settlement near the shores of the Dead Sea. The book covers multiple theories about the people there, and as the author presented the pros of each theory, I saw the complete society form before my eyes, and then as the author presented the cons and postulated the next competing theory, the community would dissolve and bleed into a new one.<br />
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I had the idea that it would make a great novel--to start several historical novels about the same place but erode each narrative until it was incomplete, fragmented, and then bleed the narratives into one another, layering up the stories like strata of an archeological site.<br />
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Maybe some day I will get around to writing such a book (or any book). But Marci is home from her second job, and it is time to enter this strata, this place, this <em>now</em>. There will be more time to wander the different landscapes of my mind later.<br />
<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-34678312029067279842017-09-25T19:38:00.000-07:002017-09-25T19:45:16.390-07:00Fall into Winter: Journal Entry No. 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgxw6LI_Qv7D0MJdsHtHcMY0bX-bfzO04MBB2zSBHCRimu59_ANS8ozBvZX6rifJnFZ04y_Rb96748oOrChBArV93BzfqvkSe1ZRnYcVo8KsZXORh4EH-tvpVfS3QKM1CVG7MwaNJLMI/s1600/Mt.+Katherine+9.25.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgxw6LI_Qv7D0MJdsHtHcMY0bX-bfzO04MBB2zSBHCRimu59_ANS8ozBvZX6rifJnFZ04y_Rb96748oOrChBArV93BzfqvkSe1ZRnYcVo8KsZXORh4EH-tvpVfS3QKM1CVG7MwaNJLMI/s320/Mt.+Katherine+9.25.17.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Katherine from Dry Creek 9.25.17</td></tr>
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7:45. The last of the light. The evenings have been silent for a little over a week now. Cold has cut off the song of the cicada, the song of the cricket. Now there is only stillness except when Oreo, our blue-heeler, barks.<br />
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A fire glows in the fireplace and is reflected onto the coming of the night through the front window. Today edged above 60 degrees, but last night we had our first frost. Most of the garden survived though.<br />
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I came home, put a pizza in the oven that Everest had preheated, and then put some dishes in the sink and headed outside. <br />
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I caged the apple tree we planted in the spring. The deer have returned for winter, and last week they stripped off its leaves. Luckily, they haven't chewed off the branches yet. I also caged the new cherry tree. Then I came in, ate some pizza and watched an episode of <em>Escape to the Country, </em>a British show that I like.<br />
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After that, I did up the dishes and returned outside. I transplanted an aspen that was in a pot sitting on the front walk. I am slowly planting a forest west of the house as a sun and wind block. The ground was still plenty moist from a heavy rain that turned to snow in the early hours of the morning Sunday.<br />
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Then I brought in firewood and lit a fire.<br />
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Things are generally simple here. Lots to do. Lots of routine. I'm ready for that at this stage of my life. I don't even mind dishes.<br />
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I love being outside, even if it's just to get firewood. I love the smell of wet wood, of chimney smoke. I love little noises--a distant dog barking. In the morning, there is the yelp of coyotes and our rooster crowing.<br />
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I am glad the heat is gone. Summers are getting far too long. I don't see how anyone can deny climate change anymore.<br />
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Although we could have fires all winter, we only have them in the fall (before we switch over to the furnace), at Christmas time, and in the spring (after we have stop using the furnace).<br />
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There is no heat like fireplace heat. It sinks in deep, warms you down to your bones. But sending smoke up the chimney constantly is hard to justify anymore.<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-44646688096713567272017-07-11T09:15:00.000-07:002017-07-11T09:22:44.786-07:00Dry Creek In the Year of the Cat, Part I: For Now We're Going to Stay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday I knew exactly what I wanted to write for this post. I was headed down an empty highway of this big, open valley, headed to work in a neighboring town on my day off to get a few things done, and I was listening to "Year of the Cat" by Al Stewart. <br />
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Oh how I love that song. I know the lyrics well, almost, but not quite, by heart. When I was younger I was drawn to the escapism, the exoticness, and the romance of the song, crystalized in the first verse:<br />
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<em>On a morning from a Bogart movie<br />In a country where they turn back time<br />You go strolling through the crowd like Peter Lorre<br />Contemplating a crime<br />She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running<br />Like a watercolor in the rain<br />Don't bother asking for explanations<br />She'll just tell you that she came<br />In the year of the cat</em><br />
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Anticipation is the teens and twenties. A restless desire to be anywhere but the present. Life is wide-open, full of potential. The now sucks, but the future is open, there to be molded by fantasy, dreams and aspirations. One morning happiness will just appear it seems. The right woman to make everything right. "She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running / Like a water color in the rain." Wow! Finally, at last. Happiness:<br />
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<em>She doesn't give you time for questions<br />As she locks up your arm in hers<br />And you follow 'till your sense of which direction<br />Completely disappears</em><br />
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That is youth, or at least mine. Only a little of it was reality. Most of it was my imagination. But I did have a couple of weeks when a female friend from Germany came to visit while I was in college. We went on a long road trip from Dallas to Big Bend National Park and crossed the Rio Grande on a row boat to Boquillas, Mexico, spent the day strolling dusty calles and playing with the village children. So there was a woman in a country where they turn back time. I had my Year of the Cat.<br />
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Yesterday though, I was more focused on the final verse:<br />
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<em>Well morning comes and you're still with her<br />And the bus and the tourists are gone<br />And you've thrown away your choice you've lost your ticket<br />So you have to stay on<br />But the drum-beat strains of the night remain<br />In the rhythm of the new-born day<br />You know sometime you're bound to leave her<br />But for now you're going to stay<br />In the year of the cat</em><br />
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Recently Marci and I decided we would have to leave Dry Creek. The teaching positions we've been waiting for five years in this county of two people per square mile opened for others and not us. It seemed it was finally time to leave this fantasy and move on to the city and reality.<br />
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Listening to "Year of the Cat" yesterday, I realized I have two loves: Marci and Dry Creek. As a child, I couldn't wait to get away from here, but from college on, I have been driven by the desire to return. Because Dry Creek is in a rural area and employment is scarce, in a very real sense, it is in another land. Children grow up, go off to college, get careers, and spend the rest of their lives trying to get back to this area. For 13 years I taught in Arizona, spending nine months each year pining for my chance to return to Dry Creek each summer.<br />
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Finally, five years ago I decided to heck with it, I'm going to live the dream instead of simply measuring out my life in spoonful reality. Without any jobs in place, we packed up and moved to this piece of paradise. Although I didn't regret that decision--five years <em>is </em>five years after all--it seemed like the time was right to move on.<br />
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But in the process of letting the residential treatment center where I teach know I was looking for employment elsewhere, I was offered a healthy raise. I discussed it with Marci.<br />
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<em>Well morning comes and you're still with her<br />And the bus and the tourists are gone<br />And you've thrown away your choice you've lost your ticket<br />So you have to stay on.</em><br />
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Marci is my life, not Dry Creek. I will follow her wherever she needs to go. Yet, in a weird way, Dry Creek is the other woman. She draws me, she dazzles me, she occupies my dreams and my time. I guess my mom had to deal with the same thing. My step dad was always outside spending time with this land, often only a block or two away, but away none the less lost in his secret connection with his other woman, this place--a daily wild, exotic escape from reality.<br />
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Life is uncertain. To learn and grow we must free ourselves from the demands of the selfish "I". We must be willing to let go, eventually, of everything except our connection to our creator. So, I can't say we'll be here forever, but for now, we're going to stay<br />
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in the year of the cat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The van stuck in the driveway Christmas time 2006 before our house was built. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mitchell helps grandpa burn at the bottom of "the big canyon".</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite maple grove on the property</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCATTANyHzE-AYLywLH8_aceHpNVi_SI1TrDZt3Xm2lCYpl1GR5_uc2SPtB8E2ieXZbWvrTCkXfiVY6qJK3fU-CIbt194tUbsJEsHrlHM9xLDeGsxhG5jBRDXJqRNqfcfLJBLmdZ_GCI/s1600/FH010011_edited_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCATTANyHzE-AYLywLH8_aceHpNVi_SI1TrDZt3Xm2lCYpl1GR5_uc2SPtB8E2ieXZbWvrTCkXfiVY6qJK3fU-CIbt194tUbsJEsHrlHM9xLDeGsxhG5jBRDXJqRNqfcfLJBLmdZ_GCI/s320/FH010011_edited_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rio in the apricot tree</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyso82CnxZ8CIm2yv7l2RA8Sk8MuHkHi916ZOm-zG1uMpkromD491F45Ftqttcro6ruFL2HDPAjfh_gGJJ0q8RtFLdH_uzckf3hOmjV7SjZm7ftiVDWWcWZX3v0fd0unADuMJpmtvNV-I/s1600/FH010024_edited_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyso82CnxZ8CIm2yv7l2RA8Sk8MuHkHi916ZOm-zG1uMpkromD491F45Ftqttcro6ruFL2HDPAjfh_gGJJ0q8RtFLdH_uzckf3hOmjV7SjZm7ftiVDWWcWZX3v0fd0unADuMJpmtvNV-I/s320/FH010024_edited_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rio and Everest with Grandpa at the front gate of Dry Creek</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4yqiVL5gEU8TIqcTBD3NMrYrXDqaQZZ_Z7LJ2c5ViNuwatSBt6pCYUI4GGUFgg3EGREa5gv5_2OJd1MeAwufF8C0IjUdGOtAdq8NsJo1pWNjc9CEp_Fvk_oKpGSAsRp380w9cGqkw4Q/s1600/DSCN5705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4yqiVL5gEU8TIqcTBD3NMrYrXDqaQZZ_Z7LJ2c5ViNuwatSBt6pCYUI4GGUFgg3EGREa5gv5_2OJd1MeAwufF8C0IjUdGOtAdq8NsJo1pWNjc9CEp_Fvk_oKpGSAsRp380w9cGqkw4Q/s320/DSCN5705.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After Dad died, I erected this sign near the apricot trees he loved.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuybg9q_GPEkKMALuMEDzfH5JrJVf3qRYULd-TxECVxOXaDb9qBiYlq3QLQpxvqV8vWw47Edteqgth5R8HUKAZynrrhHzhM-ytBmxpU48IjUylQS3mEKQePZXnk-eJupd66ZMZo0jwJfI/s1600/DSCN5715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuybg9q_GPEkKMALuMEDzfH5JrJVf3qRYULd-TxECVxOXaDb9qBiYlq3QLQpxvqV8vWw47Edteqgth5R8HUKAZynrrhHzhM-ytBmxpU48IjUylQS3mEKQePZXnk-eJupd66ZMZo0jwJfI/s320/DSCN5715.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The line of cottonwood Lloyd and I planted along the road</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeJ-HbuBfSvHcKvC2BUL1YqLKcZN8VKqGYPO5Bo_CA-6L-IVmYd2cHME6mPOQB0vLZQzeVxj2yHTBBoQWsCXAHVjYS3dP8WQTdjo6tj8b5vKq_jUBSbO4B8yBVbSmpPlUFqeyZu-roQc/s1600/DSCN5721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeJ-HbuBfSvHcKvC2BUL1YqLKcZN8VKqGYPO5Bo_CA-6L-IVmYd2cHME6mPOQB0vLZQzeVxj2yHTBBoQWsCXAHVjYS3dP8WQTdjo6tj8b5vKq_jUBSbO4B8yBVbSmpPlUFqeyZu-roQc/s320/DSCN5721.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A piece of old farm equipment that came with the property</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRrrVPOt0J1BJVwjl-MzJFZRDjSZOyknKLwD0fTx4nUUhZr1fsItccKRgUQzJTpWSAg2LviqTfu5yhyphenhyphenLiWqB5suj6F5sc7c70OqpjHlvd2z2Xt2Ad3y9Qf0xSlcN-d1fYTUBxPk0XKug/s1600/DSCN5726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRrrVPOt0J1BJVwjl-MzJFZRDjSZOyknKLwD0fTx4nUUhZr1fsItccKRgUQzJTpWSAg2LviqTfu5yhyphenhyphenLiWqB5suj6F5sc7c70OqpjHlvd2z2Xt2Ad3y9Qf0xSlcN-d1fYTUBxPk0XKug/s320/DSCN5726.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everest at Dry Creek</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpKjR5xZ05q5hzq62jkWQMmxf_5oxpw5z-Hz9ae0RG0ILyA4pE5IWKLxoYrSkWJfQf8rp2MiPU9WHv9R0Thi9Eyz6U-AVKXSdTUJKi3qp2M4HEtCxb7Pxco_IdJIcyPVkCQyYCK-Egqs/s1600/DSCN5901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpKjR5xZ05q5hzq62jkWQMmxf_5oxpw5z-Hz9ae0RG0ILyA4pE5IWKLxoYrSkWJfQf8rp2MiPU9WHv9R0Thi9Eyz6U-AVKXSdTUJKi3qp2M4HEtCxb7Pxco_IdJIcyPVkCQyYCK-Egqs/s320/DSCN5901.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first garden bed outback of our new house</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAUMZza7mj5TLrdNeojEjLulc2cwsJpzLFYL-t5_qx5Kka8uApe1ic6l4Ou6tDXOQlGOUG5-2vBy5SNpgKYzTwwKirs_FICHOvu5eDGRlPadTo15y4ZqurJ-zGna5tdwPTZhOvbdyCrk/s1600/DSCN5905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAUMZza7mj5TLrdNeojEjLulc2cwsJpzLFYL-t5_qx5Kka8uApe1ic6l4Ou6tDXOQlGOUG5-2vBy5SNpgKYzTwwKirs_FICHOvu5eDGRlPadTo15y4ZqurJ-zGna5tdwPTZhOvbdyCrk/s320/DSCN5905.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Planting the first vegetables.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyW9NqE_qLt0aPwt_saKI2CZmVo9t_1V2LZegeBpiQdq8ilR3RFfDdAUMH1lV3gHAR-v8182LTG7uV3lBKo5qNDa452O-fgAgBV2yACyGhzT5X7mP-puG-V7X0DZnwE_fzZv5wVi4Yoo/s1600/DSCN5915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcyW9NqE_qLt0aPwt_saKI2CZmVo9t_1V2LZegeBpiQdq8ilR3RFfDdAUMH1lV3gHAR-v8182LTG7uV3lBKo5qNDa452O-fgAgBV2yACyGhzT5X7mP-puG-V7X0DZnwE_fzZv5wVi4Yoo/s320/DSCN5915.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What led to building Marci's shade house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-X4qiuPhg6dSiUzh_85zcjOP8nv7i0eBPCRRoCuIdzv8bVJgkGVdO5qwPZAm8kfTHz1Yl5LPBdXtPn20FB6Gq9gc2-cYvjnubGVsCSP4BLldRL6m8jU-iKHmiOWlGYKIVpe9E7Lfx4M/s1600/DSCN6052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-X4qiuPhg6dSiUzh_85zcjOP8nv7i0eBPCRRoCuIdzv8bVJgkGVdO5qwPZAm8kfTHz1Yl5LPBdXtPn20FB6Gq9gc2-cYvjnubGVsCSP4BLldRL6m8jU-iKHmiOWlGYKIVpe9E7Lfx4M/s320/DSCN6052.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It starts to come together.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCja1ezJbHQzvRUCCbx0G9Ok9KtqRpVM0Y1kAGylNUvZPtKnpG7QF-nZfy9wDV7EFVRH_TrmWkfBQugOjdsvffK3EHSY2GHi7hlow1D-ZbmDTgTq7NedbiJzrFESbmOj18RWmV-sLl9k/s1600/DSCN6798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCja1ezJbHQzvRUCCbx0G9Ok9KtqRpVM0Y1kAGylNUvZPtKnpG7QF-nZfy9wDV7EFVRH_TrmWkfBQugOjdsvffK3EHSY2GHi7hlow1D-ZbmDTgTq7NedbiJzrFESbmOj18RWmV-sLl9k/s320/DSCN6798.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adding a fountain and dining</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttTkfM_gaCkS5zEqIMPxIhVnfwDwuCeko8LjXChk8O_2Sxa1DE8Sd78EqBBIlS1V24WIxR8-38e_JSXbMbMIJO547pIKdUbWTMnogcpuldAtvYRqSL66wuMgXvlFWA469N6n69jcWcz4/s1600/DSCN7063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttTkfM_gaCkS5zEqIMPxIhVnfwDwuCeko8LjXChk8O_2Sxa1DE8Sd78EqBBIlS1V24WIxR8-38e_JSXbMbMIJO547pIKdUbWTMnogcpuldAtvYRqSL66wuMgXvlFWA469N6n69jcWcz4/s320/DSCN7063.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front walk and grapevine</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-63VRJcrDAcI4wU3nk6WV-C7XYxpsRjLvzCvMaIjaH23dsgGKMT3kRyisXo0KWgq-4mlshI2aGnSCPVBAIUtPKw46NESiCQ-Jz-wgorEQKAW8IMhY98rAGadWidZlI0X1QRVgUK2N0Fg/s1600/DSCN7076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-63VRJcrDAcI4wU3nk6WV-C7XYxpsRjLvzCvMaIjaH23dsgGKMT3kRyisXo0KWgq-4mlshI2aGnSCPVBAIUtPKw46NESiCQ-Jz-wgorEQKAW8IMhY98rAGadWidZlI0X1QRVgUK2N0Fg/s320/DSCN7076.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marci feeds our new chickens.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndu2Gtv6aCaHw51yrbn-WR1EPUwr_FcXUy4H_B7N5ddP7moRR1idI2BJrZ0WZkZYwrezRtCYVZuuLs7E8yKZ54LYIYlJCCRzZa9fdZEmIYTcDBEBng1qXmmqCYDWFGR89K_8kHJdtR9M/s1600/DSC00190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndu2Gtv6aCaHw51yrbn-WR1EPUwr_FcXUy4H_B7N5ddP7moRR1idI2BJrZ0WZkZYwrezRtCYVZuuLs7E8yKZ54LYIYlJCCRzZa9fdZEmIYTcDBEBng1qXmmqCYDWFGR89K_8kHJdtR9M/s320/DSC00190.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine fall morning at Dry Creek</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA7dIfFtm7ZjyYpLLS-XMs3PAZQ8wze0r0iFosBYTF9Ws7w5u9E9TMYfN5eC8ACiPLtWK6Z0xM7EdHqFBiATSunJccviXLzgTu3xcfsz31poC7GxKGdrLN9vLX1PyYxm2U5-oi7okWOU/s1600/DSC00218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA7dIfFtm7ZjyYpLLS-XMs3PAZQ8wze0r0iFosBYTF9Ws7w5u9E9TMYfN5eC8ACiPLtWK6Z0xM7EdHqFBiATSunJccviXLzgTu3xcfsz31poC7GxKGdrLN9vLX1PyYxm2U5-oi7okWOU/s320/DSC00218.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fall snow on Mount Katherine</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaupyM0bVETHnpyUl59Em2n8gJL8OHBNkKaBq1jTgX9S79BMOK-krg3_hNyzZwdhfpr8dr7SUILfQuCB8HPALSLI5__ovdL5HcJ0vp6rzolM0xgp0gFJRGqzL5xOYBnX2nyMgBhRODDVo/s1600/DSC00285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaupyM0bVETHnpyUl59Em2n8gJL8OHBNkKaBq1jTgX9S79BMOK-krg3_hNyzZwdhfpr8dr7SUILfQuCB8HPALSLI5__ovdL5HcJ0vp6rzolM0xgp0gFJRGqzL5xOYBnX2nyMgBhRODDVo/s320/DSC00285.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter at Dry Creek</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QFsqPtcMTAFPVjaYtwqVkSYiBA-rC5xI5X06hrsubi1kjFmOl-dYPu20NRMNkZdyFjrsu8k3S7PUA003w70oxh0896qUOXdxo-FABlevD8bMpL-h8c37Ur5KnroCNn30GxHxOyg2jco/s1600/Darth+4.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QFsqPtcMTAFPVjaYtwqVkSYiBA-rC5xI5X06hrsubi1kjFmOl-dYPu20NRMNkZdyFjrsu8k3S7PUA003w70oxh0896qUOXdxo-FABlevD8bMpL-h8c37Ur5KnroCNn30GxHxOyg2jco/s320/Darth+4.13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our dog Darth at Dry Creek. She loved this place.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52l0taovunO0yKGC1_JdCVa4RsfLeKv6-tShYLVHI1esDaZ_8PcSlwm0bPuv5FCN95kM5ECys-72UaY3eCbCsR2aa1_lKKc9A4veIdbNvI9zbs7NNol2ozCSvwHeFWgFI5fbX7vKkWn4/s1600/Deck+%2526+Pond+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52l0taovunO0yKGC1_JdCVa4RsfLeKv6-tShYLVHI1esDaZ_8PcSlwm0bPuv5FCN95kM5ECys-72UaY3eCbCsR2aa1_lKKc9A4veIdbNvI9zbs7NNol2ozCSvwHeFWgFI5fbX7vKkWn4/s320/Deck+%2526+Pond+004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Building the grill pad out back.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l7Bgy7p68-ukZ45_lNldfwSGgkfKhfe7GXCMSlLW4FqRtRVMby4nyQ0B_6Gi8GYKUgP5AiPhXzvWJ5twnLTbRT41VdDFO7issxEeHe7yLK6-8p2olvwcNxTzPqs6yZTnaQHannXdFNc/s1600/Deck+%2526+Pond+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l7Bgy7p68-ukZ45_lNldfwSGgkfKhfe7GXCMSlLW4FqRtRVMby4nyQ0B_6Gi8GYKUgP5AiPhXzvWJ5twnLTbRT41VdDFO7issxEeHe7yLK6-8p2olvwcNxTzPqs6yZTnaQHannXdFNc/s320/Deck+%2526+Pond+010.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grill pad with its new deck.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiNE5txtoS_wwe5UO6RPPe7EimBT3zH3g7yS8aBy6hTlDYZr6HV7_72fgwn9meN7ArkmF-psHHQ5n-uApYtuAnvOMwuWprpYEA-qWxUgJedIaYBmIrRjC2aXEhvdEODvKrqXxJKRD71Q/s1600/Deck+%2526+Pond+024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiNE5txtoS_wwe5UO6RPPe7EimBT3zH3g7yS8aBy6hTlDYZr6HV7_72fgwn9meN7ArkmF-psHHQ5n-uApYtuAnvOMwuWprpYEA-qWxUgJedIaYBmIrRjC2aXEhvdEODvKrqXxJKRD71Q/s320/Deck+%2526+Pond+024.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gravel for the eating area</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5j-a5LEJn35S6NtUf7SGjZfprvnjHGv5NuMNmDHC33I7FjTzqq-h4suTCyzZlv3DXwxsgjCO5ZuXkgBtvf2HU292yT99ma0kr-tIMJPAdc9pEWvdIjQFq5GjWsavb-S95olj4D1OagM/s1600/Outdoor+Kitchen+6.16.14+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5j-a5LEJn35S6NtUf7SGjZfprvnjHGv5NuMNmDHC33I7FjTzqq-h4suTCyzZlv3DXwxsgjCO5ZuXkgBtvf2HU292yT99ma0kr-tIMJPAdc9pEWvdIjQFq5GjWsavb-S95olj4D1OagM/s320/Outdoor+Kitchen+6.16.14+003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The deck stained, the planters hung.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5J8S2akA4h3rYSkoSbCJKLBA82tD5WuPszQc0ynveSac1HwxU8phlOM9xs-DfrR7c4XfmYvRjckM63zeFMw4K4E2g7oC-KGp1TKMgM1JuuRiCFrVZfA90feZ9U2WZsJVUWMiH5PnxHjY/s1600/DryCreekGarden+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5J8S2akA4h3rYSkoSbCJKLBA82tD5WuPszQc0ynveSac1HwxU8phlOM9xs-DfrR7c4XfmYvRjckM63zeFMw4K4E2g7oC-KGp1TKMgM1JuuRiCFrVZfA90feZ9U2WZsJVUWMiH5PnxHjY/s320/DryCreekGarden+016.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grill pad complete</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOs5bdMYqbj0lrIMMMx_UpqtWeO9w2oJzNKofjhZ5foxuNc91F75Z_tBPg8HRnQZZVxXjPR_Jvmexc6xdWaqqNev3197yGoPw1Mfksg9fvu1um7yNnHPAlWavyCZxN06efyIal7Cl7Hw/s1600/Dry+Creek+Main+Path.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOs5bdMYqbj0lrIMMMx_UpqtWeO9w2oJzNKofjhZ5foxuNc91F75Z_tBPg8HRnQZZVxXjPR_Jvmexc6xdWaqqNev3197yGoPw1Mfksg9fvu1um7yNnHPAlWavyCZxN06efyIal7Cl7Hw/s320/Dry+Creek+Main+Path.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main backyard path</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GNdBnLD_kA_JweN7dXQwXCeUd9n_qlmrxeXULdaZOSnC0-37zX0VLgnxrnPcgOLmRGYyb_FG7dwJwXAFUpnrR5XCvtBv6B0F_LFfk-uwCSHRlcZYXbY6YkcFm-WI4zWxrx_aAVM0F6o/s1600/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GNdBnLD_kA_JweN7dXQwXCeUd9n_qlmrxeXULdaZOSnC0-37zX0VLgnxrnPcgOLmRGYyb_FG7dwJwXAFUpnrR5XCvtBv6B0F_LFfk-uwCSHRlcZYXbY6YkcFm-WI4zWxrx_aAVM0F6o/s320/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+059.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marci's cut-flower garden in the fall<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMdZ-AkXZOv5eDgdR0BhTWMhz04DJQZ1qDThE-stLhFiKGpVkDjLOhLbywtdGF83xqdmLVcAIAFT83UHEIajqlu__SIHn9xo3kb_1wpI4rGhrDsDMngvcNw65V0E8re9dXjUcA8pPLIk/s1600/Grapes+ripening.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMdZ-AkXZOv5eDgdR0BhTWMhz04DJQZ1qDThE-stLhFiKGpVkDjLOhLbywtdGF83xqdmLVcAIAFT83UHEIajqlu__SIHn9xo3kb_1wpI4rGhrDsDMngvcNw65V0E8re9dXjUcA8pPLIk/s320/Grapes+ripening.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grapes ripening in the Hanging Bucket Garden</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1P38QYLHFHgkroK28URjpTCBnqev7KZOupkaQuWeLUUNqpAx0xaVr11yI2x1ADZZEhRn1J6_c1FULIwAfdV-zqVxs24MudbYwj5G7OoyhGQ9p4ye1-e9I78njGyvoksMQzIyw2qY6tk/s1600/Marci%2527s+shade+house+with+new+swing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1P38QYLHFHgkroK28URjpTCBnqev7KZOupkaQuWeLUUNqpAx0xaVr11yI2x1ADZZEhRn1J6_c1FULIwAfdV-zqVxs24MudbYwj5G7OoyhGQ9p4ye1-e9I78njGyvoksMQzIyw2qY6tk/s320/Marci%2527s+shade+house+with+new+swing.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new swing in Marci's Shade House</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjT_rXAXv4hkDME3v22eAE3HcsIr9ASQ_J48b7RIATWVmeIMePJoVNjjMpMT6wX_XUmR0FS96XlPA7vrKlqpNqxsHZkA589UAV9qHI1A09MJ6kmknKVu7W5CtuciK_XBjHHSncg9kLabM/s1600/Sunflower+Station+I.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjT_rXAXv4hkDME3v22eAE3HcsIr9ASQ_J48b7RIATWVmeIMePJoVNjjMpMT6wX_XUmR0FS96XlPA7vrKlqpNqxsHZkA589UAV9qHI1A09MJ6kmknKVu7W5CtuciK_XBjHHSncg9kLabM/s320/Sunflower+Station+I.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower Station, step 1</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgju7sbF2dAEwsSilei_kiXsfF0SXP8tA1K3HjAusK9XKwuPgi_yr69ZW8jTJnn2xLoxE58ap06tUiqrT8Xqp9YkTCavd_hQrniJI7x_B4EPZgA261w3wwZoYAQi3O9zDpd_1jDgMm55b4/s1600/Sunflower+Station+II.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgju7sbF2dAEwsSilei_kiXsfF0SXP8tA1K3HjAusK9XKwuPgi_yr69ZW8jTJnn2xLoxE58ap06tUiqrT8Xqp9YkTCavd_hQrniJI7x_B4EPZgA261w3wwZoYAQi3O9zDpd_1jDgMm55b4/s320/Sunflower+Station+II.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower Station, step 2</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPutIntMElvPTjam5qy8HtTOnY887Sia8aTxZii71WHR7Dye1zcf8Iry5YwBA1f4q8S77E56x495Y9M7txl3gkPtLbirNwxBZKmfXU9agrOHsbreXISM0SV8mW6Y7FJp7uu6PtHz_GQto/s1600/Sunflower+Station+III.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPutIntMElvPTjam5qy8HtTOnY887Sia8aTxZii71WHR7Dye1zcf8Iry5YwBA1f4q8S77E56x495Y9M7txl3gkPtLbirNwxBZKmfXU9agrOHsbreXISM0SV8mW6Y7FJp7uu6PtHz_GQto/s320/Sunflower+Station+III.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower Station, step 3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1xfBdr9G4UTba1hL5fJFcACZG4bfKsMLOObzfmulIVefGdW22IwgHPhJcXzaIJqynE_iApfjnENHjKXno-UXlCTmJMpLy_zBG_twIL73Yi5uI6yvZPuwtmlDsswzPZsnAC3AUp0AAs4/s1600/Sunflower+Station+IV.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii1xfBdr9G4UTba1hL5fJFcACZG4bfKsMLOObzfmulIVefGdW22IwgHPhJcXzaIJqynE_iApfjnENHjKXno-UXlCTmJMpLy_zBG_twIL73Yi5uI6yvZPuwtmlDsswzPZsnAC3AUp0AAs4/s320/Sunflower+Station+IV.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower Station, step 4</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav_iZEG2ocnrTe9eXrVKWZiqlMVzucos7vJ8yy_EqXbOcEDxyoNgO5F3evc2hGTQbnpZxtz5ReJghKklsVBFLpEHRf82c_0UqoiUtBQfbdl4Tdi8MvZInAr7NhU9h22ZmuyICN0Ne7us/s1600/IMG_2009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav_iZEG2ocnrTe9eXrVKWZiqlMVzucos7vJ8yy_EqXbOcEDxyoNgO5F3evc2hGTQbnpZxtz5ReJghKklsVBFLpEHRf82c_0UqoiUtBQfbdl4Tdi8MvZInAr7NhU9h22ZmuyICN0Ne7us/s320/IMG_2009.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunflower Station, step 5<br />
The work and escape continues</td></tr>
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-56942750086557912122017-01-24T18:46:00.001-08:002017-01-24T18:46:18.419-08:00A Winter Walk at Dry Creek: Reacquainting Myself with Myself and the LandHeaded home from work on a chilly winter's day, listening to NPR and feeling blue. A fragment in my life I didn't like. It was nothing big; I just realized that I'm just enough in touch with the world to be out of touch with myself. Yesterday, I'd spent way too much time on Facebook reading and commenting on political links. All the peaceful protests give me hope, but there is something about social media that is spiritually deadening. I have no intention of giving it up. I have a couple of good friends who I really never knew outside the cyber world. Facebook has also reconnected me with my two best friends from high school, who I'd semi-lost contact with before Facebook entered my life. So, it's not that I think it's evil; it just distracts from living in the moment.<br />
<br />
Even when I was a fairly unhappy person as a teenager and college student, I was always good at living in the moment. Cafes, restaurants and bars became almost sacred places. I spent hours silently reading while listening to casual conversations, the hum of heaters or overhead fans, and the occasional drop of ice in the ice machine. I might have been alone and without belief, but I was grounded deeply to the now, and that felt good, if only for the moment.<br />
<br />
I've lost some of that, and I want it back again. Right now I hear bacon sizzling in the pan and smell that rich, sweet meaty aroma as Marci cooks us breakfast for dinner.<br />
<br />
Anyway, on the way home, I glanced out my window down a long, straight, snow-covered farm lane edged by a barbed wire fence and elms. When I saw it, that old, familiar yearning came back, and I thought to myself <em>I've lost track of why I'm here</em>. Politics do matter. It's important to speak out against Trump, not because any single action is effective, but because numbers matter. Apathy and silence is democracy's greatest enemy. But that's not why I'm here. I'm at this place and time because of Dry Creek, because of my land, because of my heritage, because I've been a part of this place for so long that it is part of me.<br />
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As I neared our property and saw Harold, our resident eagle in his tree, I decided that I needed to take a walk.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwjIFYtn3cJaQ_302YoRISEADEGT614_6Wv9aHyET1rkOSbC9gLa5fq16SIWaGk1l99mIk23Wv9CFTnxUlKM6dCYJ6b3nIRQfgKawvAtg4Dz4-m_eI7qNJrrvV-bV_s_d-8ioJEGkjjA/s1600/HaroldbyEverest2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMwjIFYtn3cJaQ_302YoRISEADEGT614_6Wv9aHyET1rkOSbC9gLa5fq16SIWaGk1l99mIk23Wv9CFTnxUlKM6dCYJ6b3nIRQfgKawvAtg4Dz4-m_eI7qNJrrvV-bV_s_d-8ioJEGkjjA/s320/HaroldbyEverest2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harold, our resident eagle, photographed in 2016 by Rio Brown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Everest decided to come with me, and so we also took the dogs. We didn't go far--just up to my mom's house--but it was enough to reacquaint myself with the land, something I needed badly. At least <em>this </em>day I found connection to the moment again. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal4l6ZDdQ0-mV-aWpU-xVJG5ksZA1Mfz4C5phppDYFRjChOsNabQdMzBzvgEGGgWQ1bLNJZiZ_CevbBLb6q8T4l09WzAjIdFflTku5IP3k43CYi-mDyUSSlE_3D5rjuZLPUy0IUI9DYc/s1600/Old+Gate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgal4l6ZDdQ0-mV-aWpU-xVJG5ksZA1Mfz4C5phppDYFRjChOsNabQdMzBzvgEGGgWQ1bLNJZiZ_CevbBLb6q8T4l09WzAjIdFflTku5IP3k43CYi-mDyUSSlE_3D5rjuZLPUy0IUI9DYc/s400/Old+Gate.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down into the canyon from the old gate</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmy-matZGWA07TRX5pZGYVcfLv1np3FOP8FG5LCznDcx8oZgXQmelTScPBZXPtRkGPO7KVca7-ipSy2wqL1pw_fq-oRPjUugyXUkALARJRTo1Ub5TRFG56WMcB7dTQPsk5XzLc7ryDBRo/s1600/Mt.+Catherine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmy-matZGWA07TRX5pZGYVcfLv1np3FOP8FG5LCznDcx8oZgXQmelTScPBZXPtRkGPO7KVca7-ipSy2wqL1pw_fq-oRPjUugyXUkALARJRTo1Ub5TRFG56WMcB7dTQPsk5XzLc7ryDBRo/s400/Mt.+Catherine.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Catherine (left), over 10,000 feet above sea level</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysnNTl6WrcQAIMVy1WKcPO7ZS5mOc2POI_TWi0pgoxLz5V5mi7nsC_-RURYYY7bOJRwKdCc0FG6ea6EM7e-zz8ysggCXyTqwobDrAUxgqXuwQmaewQqtvo22vpWn-H2yxo-nC_SpHeQE/s1600/Everest%252C+Dogs%252C+Bridge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysnNTl6WrcQAIMVy1WKcPO7ZS5mOc2POI_TWi0pgoxLz5V5mi7nsC_-RURYYY7bOJRwKdCc0FG6ea6EM7e-zz8ysggCXyTqwobDrAUxgqXuwQmaewQqtvo22vpWn-H2yxo-nC_SpHeQE/s400/Everest%252C+Dogs%252C+Bridge.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddha (left), Oreo (behind), Everest, and Camilla (on Everest's lap)<br />
rest on the bridge to Lloyd and my mom's house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-70244843460075407322016-07-22T21:16:00.000-07:002016-07-22T21:16:07.725-07:00American Fecundity 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVDM_umfM7VVldTyhyphenhyphenpYWoPMZm_GFrX9AU0Q2F4Rbs2NBZ1yNjuViK1wboclf54qSIHrWq4gXtiLU4hwaGawLN3lYfMO-gx-U42vdBaIMneyt1YzWrgc2wgyRkCV5Xc6fhZXwLat3pFU/s1600/DSCN6839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwVDM_umfM7VVldTyhyphenhyphenpYWoPMZm_GFrX9AU0Q2F4Rbs2NBZ1yNjuViK1wboclf54qSIHrWq4gXtiLU4hwaGawLN3lYfMO-gx-U42vdBaIMneyt1YzWrgc2wgyRkCV5Xc6fhZXwLat3pFU/s320/DSCN6839.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">These are uncertain times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heat hangs heavy, unnatural,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">skies cyclone-oppressive.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hate thickens, alien-green.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The valley is still; not a blade</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">bends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a highway out—</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love actually</i>—</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">but all stand stoic, lulled </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">by the static dreadful </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">blossoming impossible.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© Steve Brown 2016</span></span></o:p></div>
Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-73275415318526557152016-07-18T19:58:00.000-07:002016-07-18T19:58:07.353-07:00True, Hard Fact: Repentance Requires Revision and Editing
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Recently
I’ve become acutely aware of what it means to be “born again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not the free-ticket to redemption one
might suppose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are promised by our
Heavenly Father that if we repent, He will "remember [our] sins no more" (<a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/58.42?lang=eng#41" target="_blank">D & C 58:42</a>). I have
no doubt that is true, for I have felt the joy that results from becoming worthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have had the spirit testify that I have
been forgiven, and I don’t carry around the baggage of my past decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If my Heavenly Father has forgiven me, there
is no reason why I shouldn’t forgive myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The redemption of Christ is about moving
forward and not backwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tells the
woman caught in adultery that she is forgiven and “to go and sin no more” (<a href="https://www.lds.org/scriptures/nt/john/8.11?lang=eng#10" target="_blank">John 8:11</a>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At first this sounds great, which
it is--oh so much better than actually having to atone for ones actions alone
without Christ to take on most of that burden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet, truly being “born again” is not as easy as it sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It requires extreme sacrifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It requires going through a veil, of giving
up the old self, and allowing faith to create something new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, if my Heavenly Father is to
remember my sins no more, I must do the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is hard stuff because that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
life wrapped up with my sins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how much pain and sorrow my old life
brought me, no matter how heavy the void that hung around my neck, it was still
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>life, and there were good times
mixed in with the misery.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I teach English at a residential
treatment center for boys, and I saw one of my students struggle with
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his former life he was a street
graffiti artist and small time dope dealer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While at our school, he converted to <a href="http://lds.org/" target="_blank">The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints</a> and had slowly rebuilt his life based on gospel
principles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was at a relatively safe
place when he wrote a descriptive essay for me about his former life as a graffiti
artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an amazing piece,
describing the city in the early dawn and the peace and solitude he felt tagging
right before the city awakened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As writing, i</span>t was
good stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had he been a shop owner
washing down the sidewalk before opening shop it would simply be a pleasant
memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this moment of connection
for him, because the life choices he had made, was attached instead to an
illegal act and a former lifestyle that brought more pain than peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, as the memory was pleasant, I could see it
pulling him back to a life he needed to let go.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When he turned in the essay, I had
two thoughts: 1) this is solid writing and 2) if I don’t help him, this boy is
in danger of returning to a life of misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because of my past, I knew I had to be honest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warnings about “Don’t go there” would only
make him resentful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, it was his
life, not mine. What right did I have to tell him that the peace he felt that
day was a lie?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have that right
at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I knew that peace myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, it was city lights reflected at the
bottom of the concrete channel of the Rio Grande from the Santa Fe Bridge between
Juarez, Mexico and El Paso, Texas after a heavy night of drinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life was miserable because of my choices
but that stopping point on a bridge between two countries was none-the-less
moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still see that glassy,
slightly rippled water, hard and slick as wet obsidian through the diagonal grid
of the chain-link fence.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, instead of lecturing him, I talked about giving up
good things for better things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had
lots of support from staff and has since married in the temple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He chose to move forward not backwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I know that choice wasn’t easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here is the warning I give my children and future grandchildren:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Live your life so that you never have to “go
and sin no more.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christ does provide us
with fresh starts, but every time we have to be “born again” to move forward in
happiness, we have to leave part of us behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Life is messy and good times get mixed in with our poor choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To truly start over, we have to leave the past
behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In leaving the past behind, we
leave a chunk of ourselves with it.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Live so that all your greatest
memories can apply to the life you want to end with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How grand it must be to be eighty years old,
look back at your life and remember that your first night of intimacy was with
your wife who is pushing your wheel chair when you are eighty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does that mean you can’t have a meaningful
marriage if you had premarital sex with another woman or went through a divorce?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course not, a loving Heavenly Father does
allow us to start over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not even the
grace of God can unify a narrative that happened chaotically, without a plan.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">True, one learns from
mistakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One learns wisdom and
empathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But learning is part of
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll gain wisdom regardless of
your path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet only one path leads to a
life where all memories can remain in the narrative that ends with a resolution
of joy not disjointed by sin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s good
to be able to say, “I was lost, now I’m found”; it is profound to be able to
look back on your life and not need to edit anything out to move forward.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love my life, sin and all, and if
I had to do it all over again, without any changes, I’d be fine with that
because I know I’d end up here, at a place of faith and the resulting joy that
comes from being worthy of receiving the Holy Ghost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, I have to live with the knowledge that I
could have lived another narrative, one where I never stopped speaking to my
Heavenly Father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter what I accomplish
in this life, no matter how much joy I feel, no matter how close I draw to my
Heavenly Father, I know that other narrative is better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a fact I have to live with. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could teach my children the ultimate
lesson, it would be this:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Live the life God intends for you
NOW so that you never have to edit out chunks of living to move forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every hard, right decision becomes a permanent
detail to move the narrative forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every wavering is an error that will eventually have to be erased
through the revision and editing process of the atonement before the narrative
is right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those scraps, those dribbles
of less-than-perfect text, at some point must be set aside to move
forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine what it must be like to
be Christ—for every word, every deed to be worthy of including in your life
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t accomplish that, but
get as close as you can, and you will be happy for the majority of the
narrative, even in moments of sorrow and pain because the Holy Ghost provides
a joy deeper, better rooted, and stronger than circumstance.</span></div>
Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-34718627447131491782016-05-18T18:15:00.000-07:002016-05-18T18:15:02.893-07:00To Be or Not to Be <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpm0BF1uqGxYEcz3aJfn5nYJlgT5srRefS2vuv1PJc1uRYgwxpAMpw69rPIfR1GG1SdzRI3AJvYJNtckq-ORTzzl1miaaRURmdmBrX_Ju6dXVdxYDW3ZHbKPtla4KMnRgXC4iOvp6LTb4/s1600/Shakespeare+Roasted.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpm0BF1uqGxYEcz3aJfn5nYJlgT5srRefS2vuv1PJc1uRYgwxpAMpw69rPIfR1GG1SdzRI3AJvYJNtckq-ORTzzl1miaaRURmdmBrX_Ju6dXVdxYDW3ZHbKPtla4KMnRgXC4iOvp6LTb4/s320/Shakespeare+Roasted.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today a student asked me, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s a bard?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said, “<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">a slice of bacon </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">placed on meat or
game before <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">roasting.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s true & if
<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">you’ve explained
you’re a poet<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">at a family
reunion <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">you know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly<o:p></o:p></i></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">what I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">©Steve Brown 2016<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-88850657986740773512016-04-28T19:22:00.002-07:002016-04-28T19:52:27.875-07:00Defining Spaces in Your Garden through Outdoor Rooms (Love Your Garden)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEbIByPELwmFCyPi38XsgTjsAhnXKNY1i2N_I3wONQHmSBQt0VJsmwHR0JytVrb0lCNza6tqOu2jpy8x4tOHErgqSPY8qpye04ADBJB84wMBXR-IEVn9dp44hwB6h5fz8q1BAqRHWOMQ/s1600/Outdoor+Kitchen+6.16.14+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYEbIByPELwmFCyPi38XsgTjsAhnXKNY1i2N_I3wONQHmSBQt0VJsmwHR0JytVrb0lCNza6tqOu2jpy8x4tOHErgqSPY8qpye04ADBJB84wMBXR-IEVn9dp44hwB6h5fz8q1BAqRHWOMQ/s400/Outdoor+Kitchen+6.16.14+015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging-bucket garden before the grape vine took off.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There is nothing I like better than a vast, open, undisturbed prairie. The back of our home at Dry Creek opens onto a large, open space that was once an alfalfa field, which I would like to turn into a prairie. However, although prairies can actually benefit from temporary, seasonal stampeding, constant foot traffic and wild grasslands do not mix. There was also the issue of shade.<br />
<br />
What slowly evolved in my mind is a series of outdoor rooms, that would be very structured and geometrical next to the house and then would loosen up away from the house, slowly blending into the field beyond. These rooms would not only provide shade, but they would also enclose areas enough to discourage deer, who we love, but who also provide challenges to gardening March through May and again in September through November.<br />
<br />
The first structure I built was my hanging-bucket garden (pictured above and below). I built it as a wall to block the hot, late afternoon sun from the eating area. It also provided a place I could plant flowers in the early spring when there are still too many deer to plant flowers on the ground. The patio table on the east discouraged deer from that side. To discourage deer from the west, I made a little room with a wrought iron fence (pictured above). Although deer can easily jump fences over six feet tall, they are leery of tight spaces, so although not full-proof, it is a deterrent.<br />
<br />
To blend in with the rustic surroundings, I used old juniper poles and some old window frames my brother-in-law gave me. To increase shade, I planted a grapevine, which now covers most of the log rail structure and planted tall flowers, such as giant sunflowers inside the small garden created by the white wrought iron fence.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghHC7gmdfIRM2TSbIQIakpfhyZPc0nczCYRRb2_4v67_NWco_tD-k5M0I92gmKT3hf7dEO9m1regapFkLxofO91AsK24I7UI8hDsMuOLiYHhxgtfG_SARkyiWGcNk88_T7PZq4Zkvm6cE/s1600/Deck+%2526+Pond+030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghHC7gmdfIRM2TSbIQIakpfhyZPc0nczCYRRb2_4v67_NWco_tD-k5M0I92gmKT3hf7dEO9m1regapFkLxofO91AsK24I7UI8hDsMuOLiYHhxgtfG_SARkyiWGcNk88_T7PZq4Zkvm6cE/s400/Deck+%2526+Pond+030.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close-up of repurposed windows in the hanging-bucket garden</td></tr>
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Next, I set about creating our vegetable garden. At first I was just going to create a fenced in garden of four beds created by railroad ties, but in the process, I decided leave out the fourth bed and instead include a Pergola (pictured below) as a birthday present for Marci. To visually tie the beds together, I created a circular path through the garden using gathered stones.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrrvuTku54GGkO6wA96G5LzLd14N91mHzML1CULYrmmtIlxAz3uilZG2vN2X-ZB4vTCZO1JplXP88uNA_CUR_G9iEj2fhCgGTgUC2mUlHeetQzNVsY8a6Sx_WnPHvJxm4OpVVEc6HbOA/s1600/DSCN6052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUrrvuTku54GGkO6wA96G5LzLd14N91mHzML1CULYrmmtIlxAz3uilZG2vN2X-ZB4vTCZO1JplXP88uNA_CUR_G9iEj2fhCgGTgUC2mUlHeetQzNVsY8a6Sx_WnPHvJxm4OpVVEc6HbOA/s400/DSCN6052.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vegetable garden and pergola under construction</td></tr>
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To provide shade for the pergola, I ran wire fencing across the top, wove in some bamboo stalks, and covered it willow. I also planted a grapevine that will eventually cover it. The shaded space creates a cool outdoor room that looks out on the vegetable garden (pictured below).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of the pergola and wrap-around vegetable garden</td></tr>
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Next, I built a structure for my grill (pictured below) to keep it out of the weather and provide shade while I'm grilling. It also created shade in the late afternoon for a second dining area. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooaBKKznp9WFIqdQm2bCbG6jnPT5-BD_zti_wclSW5LgxY7oaUxBAx7WJ24k5UY9yzQDsNu0fgKhlfiDrhxIj_wbs0ZofmdA5yeSKFrYRfTtExQNIzZLlHdsZ4cd1j-3zRPKGYjwQU2E/s1600/DryCreekJuly+030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooaBKKznp9WFIqdQm2bCbG6jnPT5-BD_zti_wclSW5LgxY7oaUxBAx7WJ24k5UY9yzQDsNu0fgKhlfiDrhxIj_wbs0ZofmdA5yeSKFrYRfTtExQNIzZLlHdsZ4cd1j-3zRPKGYjwQU2E/s400/DryCreekJuly+030.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newly completed grill pad</td></tr>
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Next came the job of tying the areas together, which I'm still in the process of doing. One such "hallway" is pictured below.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8L1G4e4StH5UHBYOshktXgBEBfk31HnY4_BlpUTLYPzctLEIhGIdJajEM2cF1ysmu9qQKipOP69exkeD6doIv_XvtRCGhdQSJ2_OCnUcj9CJvWBFV7UE9WyWcKLuQnMxiub6d3hW4LnY/s1600/Dry+Creek+May+18+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8L1G4e4StH5UHBYOshktXgBEBfk31HnY4_BlpUTLYPzctLEIhGIdJajEM2cF1ysmu9qQKipOP69exkeD6doIv_XvtRCGhdQSJ2_OCnUcj9CJvWBFV7UE9WyWcKLuQnMxiub6d3hW4LnY/s400/Dry+Creek+May+18+004.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hallway" to the west dining area</td></tr>
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The final trick is to have the spaces slowly loosen as you move away from the house. So, you start inside the house, move out to outdoor rooms, move out to semi-formal gardens (more organic shapes, but still very defined spaces), which then slowly dissolve into nature. I'm still in the process of this. I used thuja junipers in pots to provide structure along the main garden path. Native rabbit brush fit well with the Tuscan feel of the garden. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Potted thuja junipers soften garden structures</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Starting to get that Tuscan garden feel</td></tr>
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Although I haven't directly drawn ideas from the show, I absorb much of my inspiration from watching <em><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_Your_Garden" target="_blank">Love Your Garden</a>. </em>Alan Titchmarsh and his gang have a real sense of gardens as composed spaces. Below is a short clip of one such garden. Enjoy.</div>
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-55841089763711819482016-04-04T18:46:00.000-07:002016-04-05T20:11:39.689-07:00Stones: the Weight of Liberation (Neil Diamond's "I Am I Said," Bono's "Yahweh," and Bill Flanagan's Stupidity)Somehow not even Bono can make it artistically kosher to love Neil Diamond. I'm not sure how that happened. Diamond was once a respected songwriter whose music was covered by the Monkeys, Deep Purple, Elvis and UB40. True, he did write one incredibly stupid hit about that little alien who wants to phone home. But, come-on, he's not the only one whose sentimental heart lit up when that insipid green munchkin rode a bike across the silver screen. Besides, we've forgiven Elton John for "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" and Paul McCartney for "Ebony and Ivory." Why doesn't the artistic atonement apply to Neil Diamond? Why, despite all of his good works, is he cut off from grace because of one or two lousy mistakes?<br />
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<em>Stones </em>is an amazing album. Perhaps one of the best. Like the Beatles white album or Fleetwood Mac's <i>Tusk, </i>even the cover is art. My copy, handed down from my mother who purchased it in 1971, has a subdued canvas colored background with a course linen fiber printed on it. In the middle of it is a photograph of Neil Diamond sitting on a park bench in front of a massive stone Italian-styled garden wall. An old and twisted tree stands in the right hand corner; a stone bust sits in a niche in the wall just left of center, just to right of Diamond, who sits stoically arms folded, his stone face looking out at the audience with no expression. He is barefoot, which with his stoic look and the old-world setting, gives his form the feel of a statue, adding to the crumbling, classical feel of the mostly monotone photograph of gray and olive. The cover reminds me slightly of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" album with the crumbling wall and portrait of the old man. There is the same heaviness about it.<br />
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The entire album is worth listening to, but I'll focus on side two. I believe this one side of vinyl contains some of the greatest lyrics ever written, although Neil Diamond only wrote two of the songs. I don't think that is a coincidence. Like Elton John's <i>Blue Moves, </i>this album is, in part, a reflective evaluation of the cost of fame. Elton John dealt with that by returning to his classical, jazz and blues roots. Perhaps, Diamond's decision to use other people's material is a reaching out to the void, hoping for an answer more significant than his own name. "I Am, I Said," his own song, definitely demonstrates the desire to be grounded in significance.<br />
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First, we have the title track, "Stones," one of Diamond's own:<br />
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The song starts with a simple strum of the guitar, and then enters the line "Stones would play inside her head," a startling image of uncomfortable weight and solidity oddly placed within the mind. He follows this up with the image of her bed being made of stones--no peace of mind and no rest for the body due to a solid mass that must be dealt with.<br />
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But, it's not a mass without meaning. We are not shoved into the nihilism of Hemingway here. This is not a world of <i>nada y pues nada</i>. The stones may be uncomfortable; they may be there to be dealt with; but they also provide shelter and shade for new beginnings:<br />
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<i>You and me, a time for planting</i><br />
<i>You and me, a harvest granting</i><br />
<i>The every prayer ever prayed</i><br />
<i>For just two wild flowers that grow</i><br />
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<i>on stones.</i><br />
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There is beauty here, but it isn't an easy beauty. It's more like the beauty the atonement brings, a grace that comes after the old has been broken down and something new takes root in the rubble.<br />
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This contrast of dark and light, of the jeweled flower among the rock, continues in the second song, "If You Go Away" written by Jacques Brel and Rod McKuen.<br />
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And then there's "Suzanne." Ah "Suzanne," what to say?... Leonard Cohen's lyrical masterpiece, but Diamond brings a weight to song that Cohen just wasn't able to do.<br />
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The song starts in the sensual world of materialism:<br />
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<i>Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river</i><br />
<i>You can hear the boats go by, you can spend the night forever</i><br />
<i>And you know that she's half-crazy but that's why you want to be there</i><br />
<i>And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China</i><br />
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Cohen concludes the first third of the song with "For you've touched her perfect body with your mind." Then, the song pivots from sensual world of light and aroma to the weighty divine:<br />
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<i>And Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water</i><br />
<i>And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower</i><br />
<i>And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him</i><br />
<i>He said all men will be sailors then until the sea shall free them</i><br />
<i>But he himself was broken, long before the sky would open</i><br />
<i>Forsaken, almost human, he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone.</i><br />
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Next, comes Randy Newman's composition, "I Think It's Going to Rain Today," which also swings on a fulcrum. The first half of the song describes interior bleakness:<br />
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<em>Broken windows and empty hallways</em><br />
<em>A pale dead moon in the sky streaked with gray</em><br />
<em>Human kindness is overflowing</em><br />
<em>And I think it's going to rain today.</em><br />
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Here, "Human kindness is overflowing" is sarcasm, as indicated by both the music accompaniment and the lines that follow:<br />
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<em>Lonely, lonely<br />Tin can at my feet<br />Think I'll kick it down the street<br />That's the way to treat a friend</em><br />
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Human kindness is not overflowing.<br />
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Then comes the pivot. The music changes, becomes upbeat, and similar words take on new meaning:<br />
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<em>Bright before me the signs implore me<br />To help the needy and show them the way<br />Human kindness is overflowing<br />And I think it's going to rain today.</em><br />
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Here, it's not the weather that will rain, but the human kindness that is overflowing, love filling the cup up to the brim and raining down on humanity.<br />
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Notice the repletion of imagery and themes here. "Stones" starts with the hard imagery of rocks, but ends by noting that the stones provide shelter for "two wildflowers that grow." "Suzanne" echoes the flower imagery: "And she shows you where to look /Among the garbage and the flowers," here garbage providing shelter for the flowers. "Suzanne" also repeats the imagery of stone in, "he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone"<em>. </em>Here, that weight is ambiguous, depending on how you read the lyrics. The line could mean, his wisdom sank unnoticed by those that executed Him. Or, as the "you" in the song seems to refer to the speaker, as we don't all know a "Suzanne," it can also mean his that His presence sank deep into the speaker's soul with great redeeming weight, which is how I read it.<br />
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Although Diamond is Jewish, I would argue that in purposefully selecting the songs he has chosen, Diamond is setting up Christ as a symbol for human redemption, which is carried to its climax in "I Am, I Said."<br />
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Diamond begins by comparing his new home of L.A. with his roots in New York, saying that he feels "lost between two shores." Although this is clearly biographical and must be taken literally, I will argue that he extends the literal image out into a metaphor for the human predicament. We are all lost between two shores. We are here in this temporal world, "among the garbage and flowers" as noted in "Suzanne," but we also have a divine, spiritual origin that deep down we can't forget, which leaves us feeling lost, ghostlike, unreal, like Christ, "almost human" and yet "almost divine," "lost between two shores."<br />
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And so we cry out--not to other men--but to the void, the divine, the spark that brought us into being because the "emptiness deep inside" calls us back to our true home, that distant memory before we were here.<br />
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In <em>U2 at the End of the World, </em>Bill Flanagan makes light of Bono's claim that Neil Diamond is a serious song writer. <br />
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<em>Bono looked down his nose at my sarcasm and asked, "Do you know what 'I Am, I Said' is all about?</em><br />
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Flanagan spews out the surface meaning with the depth of understanding of a Pharisee, giving the literal background which inspired Diamond to write the song with little awareness that poetry gains weight as it is written that moves it beyond the initial impulse in scope.<br />
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Bono, not flinching, asserts, "God is described as the great <em>I am</em>. So, in that song Diamond is calling out to Jehovah. 'I am, I said," means, 'God, I said.' To who? To no one there! And no one heard at all, not even chair! Do you see? It is a song of despair and lost faith by a man calling out to a God who isn't interested!"<br />
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I agree. Well, mostly. If you take only "I Am, I Said" by itself that is true. It is Christ calling out, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" before being transformed. But, taking in all of <em>Stones </em>it is the calling out to God in pain the moment before rebirth.<br />
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It matters not that Diamond is Jewish. Poets borrow metaphors all the time. Christian poets tapped into Greek mythology for centuries. Besides Jews do believe in Christ--they just don't believe he has already been born and died; but the idea of rebirth out of hardship is nothing new to them. <br />
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In "Yahweh," Bono puts it this way:<br />
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<em>Take this shirt<br />Polyester white trash made in nowhere<br />Take this shirt<br />And make it clean, clean<br />Take this soul<br />Stranded in some skin and bones<br />Take this soul<br />And make it sing, sing</em><br />
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<em>Yahweh, Yahweh<br />Always pain before a child is born<br />Yahweh, Yahweh<br />Still, I'm waiting for the dawn</em><br />
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It is almost as if Bono said to himself, alright the critics won't take "I Am, I Said," seriously because they won't take Neil Diamond seriously, I'll show them. I'll write my own "I Am, I Said," and they will take <em>that </em>seriously because "I Am Bono."</div>
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Of course I don't really think Bill Flanagan is an idiot<em>. </em>I think his<em> U2 at the End of the World </em>is a fine book. But, Flannigan is just one among many who for some bizarre reason are out to stone one of our finest song writers, Neil Diamond. Perhaps some day he will see the errors of ways and tap into the beauty of <em>Stones.</em> There is certainly sustenance there for those willing to listen.<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-47759900324302729492016-03-17T17:54:00.000-07:002016-03-17T18:37:53.022-07:00Winter into Spring: A Photo Journal<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOkC4dpjtZMoBxb27FxYwdRy5j1hYGMkgAGwhk85Vda9MMHoPjda8I_yHArYlx6pK3h1DqeDbfg4l-RW1BnDBR7xZresCWSynvpPjlS2-W8jA0vcDcnODTm1N6pmSLQU47C9DizEQSMM/s1600/Winter+Into+Spring+004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtOkC4dpjtZMoBxb27FxYwdRy5j1hYGMkgAGwhk85Vda9MMHoPjda8I_yHArYlx6pK3h1DqeDbfg4l-RW1BnDBR7xZresCWSynvpPjlS2-W8jA0vcDcnODTm1N6pmSLQU47C9DizEQSMM/s400/Winter+Into+Spring+004.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Living at Dry Creek so far has not turned out like I planned. My health is unpredictable. Generally, I seem to be getting better, but the pain is still up and down, and doctors don't what causes it. One obnoxiously arrogant ass even told me I was crazy. Anyway, for about a year and half, I've been confined mostly to my yard. Although the creek is just across the road that goes up to Mom's, I seldom see it as it hurts too much to go down the steep slope and back up again; the pain doesn't necessarily come that day, but a day or two after.<br />
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So, my plans for a great expanse of gardens has been put on hold. I hope only temporarily, but after a year and half, I may have to start being a little more realistic.<br />
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Yet, even from my recliner, I have an amazing view. Seeing deer and wild turkey is a daily thing, and even though I can't get down to see the creek that often, I know it's there. In April, during high water, it's easy to hear it from my front porch. The stars at night are brilliant; there is often the smell of cottonwood and creek bottom. I can, I guess, live with an empty field, if the gardens never get planted in full.<br />
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Snow is a profound thing--especially deep, heavy snow. Luckily, my brother Lloyd has stepped in to keep the roads clear and I have been able to simply enjoy its beauty.<br />
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Central Utah is changing. During winter inversions, pollution leaks down from the Wasatch Front and smogs up our once pristine skies. As I commute to work each day, I'm not helping the problem. It brings a deep sadness. Environment matters. Our spiritual selves are not separate from our surroundings. I'm not sure why people don't get that. It's not just about <em>Will we obliterate ourselves or kill off the polar bears?</em>--it's also about, "Can you see clearly? Does walking outside make you feel alive inside? Do you feel a profound connection with what's going on around you?" Pollution veils our connection with creation. It is anti-spiritual. </div>
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Yet, I count myself lucky. On a whim we can roast marshmallows over an open fire on cold, windy March night (or just about anytime). And oh those night skies! </div>
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I'd rather not commute, but if one has to commute, an empty highway is the way to do it. I don't love big, agribusiness, like modern dairy farms, but rural America is where it's at. Out here, where space is big, and noise subtle, there is room for the mind to sit down on an old tree stump next to you and have a conversation. Neighbors may be lacking, but in the absence of heaping humanity, there is the self talking to the self, and in the process a coming to know what really matters.<br />
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And occasionally I do get down to that creek that became my friend long ago when Dad purchased this property. It still churns magically clear over stone and will still do so long after I'm gone.</div>
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There is the passing of the days, the constant change in light, the handing of day over to night.</div>
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There is the change of the seasons--winter melting into spring. The rise of the snow line and the return of green.</div>
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There is warm sunlight on an exposed wall--how it feels to stand there, sheltered from the last of the winter wind. </div>
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There is the return of water, of light and sky pooled on the ground, or spun like angel's hair in narrow, rocky ravines.</div>
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And there is the pasture, open space, dreams. </div>
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-75598683214762516782016-03-13T21:59:00.000-07:002016-03-13T22:17:12.145-07:00I Am at Heart Pontius Pilate: Knowing This May Save MeI am at heart Pontius Pilate. I not only know through pure intellectual reasoning that the message of Jesus, if accurately followed by the masses, would lead to world peace--which should be enough in and of itself to transform me into a disciple, whether he is the literal, only begotten son of the living God or not.<br />
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But, I have also received personal revelation that He is indeed what He claimed--the literal, only begotten son of the living God.<br />
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Of course, I am also aware some of the loudest Christians, many of which are right-wing politicians and their followers, are not very Christian at all. Their claims do not match their actions; their words do not match His words as recorded in the four gospels.<br />
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But that is but a distraction and has absolutely nothing to do with my Pontius-Pilate heart. It's wanting to avoid the ridicule of the crowd that makes me a coward. It is my desire to maintain the type of peace desired by the world, which is not true peace, but rather apathy--a call to silence and inaction--that makes me like Pontius Pilate. It's my desire to be content with the status quo, to take the path of least resistance, to not be a martyr for any cause. True discipleship requires personal change, which is hard work. It requires taking unpopular stands. It requires losing oneself, ones ego, and in a sense becoming transparent, so God can work good through you. Sometimes, unfortunately, it requires sacrificing your own life. Mahatma Gandhi may have been Hindu, but he was more Christian than most of us because he was willing to push the justice of Christ to that point that requires a choice.<br />
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Christ requires a choice. A friend of mine recently lent me a wonderful book, <em>Things of Redeeming Worth </em>by H. Curtis Wright. In it Wright describes Christ's description of the Pontius Pilates of this world: <br />
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<em>We should realize that those who espouse this philosophy are apparently naïve enough to think it will actually work. They don't seem to realize that Christ condemned it severely as a way of thinking. He told the neutral church at Laodicea, for example, "I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth" (Rev. 3:15-16). Jesus is saying that people like this make him sick. They nauseate him. That word "spue," you know, does not mean "spit"; it means "vomit," "regurgitate," "throw up!" And those same people forget another saying which is recorded five different times in the scriptures where the Lord has said in substance, "He that is not for me is against me (see Matt 12:30; Mark 9:40; Luke 9:50, 11:23; 2 Ne. 10:16)." </em>(Wright, 39-40)<br />
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This is because the message of Christ is <em>justice </em>and neutrality is the enemy of justice. In a neutral world the message of Christ cannot be carried out. Stability in a wicked world is, well, wickedness. Gandhi had to upset the status quo to bring the justice of Christ to the untouchables. He knew that the real enemy of India was not England, but the people of India themselves. He understood that social change could not occur without spiritual change, that you can't win a revolution playing the enemy's game because the real enemy is not outside, but inside, in the heart where Pontius Pilate is willing to turn Christ over to the mobs in order to avoid ridicule or a loss of status.<br />
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And that is where I am. And that is where I do not want to be, for I know Christ comes as a knife. Evil is real. Sooner or later we must choose ultimately who we will serve.<br />
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This is what I know: God is real. I have felt his presence. Today, in church, a sixteen or seventeen year old boy gave a short talk as a "youth speaker." In my church, <a href="https://www.lds.org/?lang=eng" target="_blank">The Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints</a>, members of the congregation, not the clergy, usually give the spiritual messages in church, and each Sunday two of those speakers are youth. Anyway, as this young man delivered a very spiritual message, I literally saw a glow around him, which I know was the Holy Ghost. I don't know why I could see it, but I do know I did, and it is not the first time I've seen that glow.<br />
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I saw that same glow as a child once when a woman was giving a talk on baptism. Later, in college, when I was no longer active in church, and learned color theory, I attributed that glow to the fact that speakers often are wearing a dark color, blue or black, and are standing in front of a white wall. Sure enough, there is a natural glow around dark objects set against white.<br />
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But that is not the glow I witnessed today--there is no comparison in the intensity. The two speakers that followed this young man also wore dark suits and there was no glow. What I saw, without doubt, was the Holy Ghost guiding this boy's words.<br />
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I have felt that myself when I was speaking--when I could hardly speak what I needed to say because the spirit was so strong within me, and yet I knew what I had to say was not coming directly from my own mind, but that it was being guided for the benefit of someone in the audience. I've also felt that a couple of times while writing. However, I've never felt that at school, teaching, as much as I enjoy my job.<br />
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I've also had a gut feeling that Martin Luther King's, "I Have a Dream" speech came from such a place. As articulate as he was, I do not believe that speech is the rhetoric of a gifted man. It is scripture.<br />
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Ultimately, I believe in scripture. I believe God speaks to man. I have seen Him speak to others by actually witnessing the Holy Ghost guide their words, and I have felt Him guide my own words. I believe in the four gospels; I know, regardless of how much later they were written, or who they were written by, that they are the words of Christ, and that if each of us, in our own life, will do better tomorrow than we did today at following those words, the world will not only be a better place, but will eventually will be a perfect place. The words of Christ, if followed completely, can only lead to perfection.<br />
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I know that will not directly happen. Satan knows too well that most all of us are much more like Pontius Pilate than we care to be. Pontius Pilate was way more like Pontius Pilate than he cared to be, which is why Christ demonstrated empathy and understanding when he said, "he that delivered me unto thee hath the greater sin," to console Pilate's tortured soul.<br />
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If we choose to be like Pontius Pilate, it will not be Christ who ultimately condemns us but our own conscience. As I know too well where my heart is as a natural man, I record this testimony here, publically, to make it harder for me to retract into the shadows when someone is literally or metaphorically executed for standing for truth. Because honestly, I'm not sure that without some practice, that I'm strong enough to hide my Jewish neighbor when the Nazi's are at my door. I'm not sure I'm even strong enough to lovingly challenge my other neighbor, especially if he's basically a good guy, when he embraces Nazi rhetoric. And as this election is showing, that world where I may have to make a stand for the justice Christ demands may not be too far off.<br />
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Knowing I am Pontius Pilate at heart may be my only salvation. It is difficult to avoid what we do not know about ourselves.<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-38934020461009445572016-02-25T18:34:00.000-08:002016-02-25T19:13:08.926-08:00Worm Hole<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;">I try to convince myself </span></div>
<span style="color: black;">this is the good time--</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">the music has stopped;</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">there is the rattle </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of ice, the dangle of </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> conversation.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">There is you--</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">in that soft pink sweater</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">and dimpled smile,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">eyes all a glitter,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">but it's only sparks of light</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">dancing the surface,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">everything below</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">is stone blue ice</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">that looms towards</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">my Titanic heart.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I'm jealous--of everything:</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of your density,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">that everyone here</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">knows you as well as I.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">You, my wife,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the stunning white weight</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of my life.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I'm jealous</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of these painters,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">these poets,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">these writers</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">who flock around</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">your jeweled presence</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">to take refuge from the blue</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">abyss that is</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">our lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">I hate how my words never</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">come together</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">with enough force </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">to implode</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the lies.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yet, I know</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">there is an unseen wonder--</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">a small but significant canyon</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">just beyond the endless suburban</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">sprawl and nylon skies</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">where a hawk</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">still does fly.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And there is a narrow wash--a slot</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">canyon carved through time.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">A great myth is buried there</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">under the coral sands--the song</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of a great flood, of a great</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">sacrifice, of a great love.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">If the right poet </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">were to find it--the right</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">rhythms, the right breaths--</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">capture the terrible currents,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the great horror,</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the tremendous sacrifice, especially</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">the Christ-like love displayed</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">in the aftermath--</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">well maybe, somehow</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">these empty evenings</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of articulate conversation</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">would mean something.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Therefore, I</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">like the others</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">hang on & grasp</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">for the right line</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">to end the endless arctic</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">of our lives.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">
</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "calibri";">© Steve Brown 2016</span></div>
<br />
<em><span style="color: #990000;">Recently, for whatever reason, I've begun to dream alternative lives. This poem came from a dream I had last night. It evolved as I wrote it, so it isn't the dream, but it's not too far off. The dreams are always centered around an imperfect world with lots of pain and heartache, but I always wake up feeling that everything is alright, it's just life. </span></em>Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-17265346890030465992016-02-20T11:28:00.003-08:002016-02-20T13:05:20.701-08:00The Myth of the Dot ("Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas).<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh531k41qW4jKizOjBmeq-6-VhUU16zEopJsD4TeSNyEBFORYS-OfkRIdT1NvIVMcm-K76svE8Xv9E6rYKz62s_LrppsIlIKsfLzUUXNdpqsl5H9iTgTntbxuTXTHlMOQAdGttWP-ev5zU/s1600/ForestFloor2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh531k41qW4jKizOjBmeq-6-VhUU16zEopJsD4TeSNyEBFORYS-OfkRIdT1NvIVMcm-K76svE8Xv9E6rYKz62s_LrppsIlIKsfLzUUXNdpqsl5H9iTgTntbxuTXTHlMOQAdGttWP-ev5zU/s320/ForestFloor2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Rio Brown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Spring fever and heavy cold is not a great combination. To make things worse, my brother asked me to go on a long drive deep into nowhere, but I have deadlines and commitments. Not quite ready to face them, I went looking for a poem about unquenchable desire, what I used to call the forever search, captured magnificently in Bob Seger's "Fire Inside."<br />
<br />
I found some old poems that focused on that theme to be sure. My life was once driven by the need for escape, a constant hunger for something else.<br />
<br />
But somehow I've stepped through that door and into another reality. Sure, I still sometimes want to hit the open road. I still long for quiet, dark corners of an empty bar, even though I don't venture into such places anymore. Coffee always has a hand on my shoulder while it whispers in my ear, <em>Go ahead have just one sip, </em>which I don't do because I honor my religion.<br />
<br />
But the void no longer calls me to fill it. There simply isn't that much left to fill. God has taken residence and I am satisfied. So instead, I was drawn to a poem I'd completely forgotten about:<br />
<br />
<strong>The Myth of the Dot</strong><br />
<br />
It's a dark and rainy day.<br />
A line of twenty or more ATVs<br />
roars up Canyon Road,<br />
headlights dancing<br />
off the splashing rain.<br />
<br />
Everyone wears matching<br />
green and yellow<br />
fluorescent plastic.<br />
<br />
Everest and I go outside<br />
to watch the tourists<br />
ruin our way of life.<br />
<br />
When they are gone,<br />
he shows me his bug bite.<br />
<br />
"You got bit by a mosquito."<br />
<br />
"No, it's just a dot."<br />
<br />
"How did you get it?"<br />
<br />
"It just floated down from the sky<br />
and got stuck.<br />
<br />
Then someone glued it."<br />
<br />
The poem was probably written the summer of 2004, and so Everest would have been four. O how I loved our long job-free summers at Dry Creek. Some of the magic was removed when we moved here, as it is now our standing place in life rather than a carefree retreat. Still, the magic of small wonders remains.<br />
<br />
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-17108820065836278602016-02-03T19:10:00.000-08:002016-02-03T19:12:29.334-08:00Such Is the Life on the Edge of a Ghost Lake in the Middle of Nowhere: A Great Basin Journal Entry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NflnVXXM1nDJkPmCwqNanjRPNxHdtp7GAXk6jV91h4HSjxCiEwF6AKyhTQqdGm5yH9OZXbAljWAqK2KVzvY_pLsoWzfgWZJKrD_eHVjZ6Zkfga_GvkfsrwzyxdcKBCSDRbYSiUe6M0U/s1600/DryCreekFarmSign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NflnVXXM1nDJkPmCwqNanjRPNxHdtp7GAXk6jV91h4HSjxCiEwF6AKyhTQqdGm5yH9OZXbAljWAqK2KVzvY_pLsoWzfgWZJKrD_eHVjZ6Zkfga_GvkfsrwzyxdcKBCSDRbYSiUe6M0U/s400/DryCreekFarmSign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Everest and I measured cold on our way back from his doctors appointment: -4 out in the valley, and that was at 5:30 in the afternoon. When it reached -1, I joked how it was warm enough to go to the beach. And then, to his dismay, I realized we were on the beach--the 15,500-year-old beach of Ancient Lake Bonneville, which just happened to lap at the edges of where our little town now sits. The boys get sick of it, but isn't it great, that while sitting on the edge of a cold, vast desert valley, our town is really a beach town? If the town had any imagination, we'd have a light house and oyster shops along a board walk. But I seem to be the only one still living along the shores of a ghost lake, watching woolly mammoths graze. Everyone else is interested in growing alfalfa while weighing the pros and cons of occupying the BLM office or the national forest station. <br />
<br />
By the time we got to town, it was zero. As we approached Dry Creek, we stopped to say hello to Harold, Everest's "pet" eagle and his mate. It was too dark to take pictures, but there they sat, regally looking out on the last of the sunset.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDx-5k5SayJqIzDU_856i2KDhvFGEMGCmN4MdEmRs9IGrA-inGz6D-as_owFHzBtjmHb_rvFTejPaXXCVCZeGJTb2pLmSD-AMpRmCKMWje3G1wSDxwohe-yuImh37TMkozSLYpeQrdSU/s1600/HaroldbyEverest2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDx-5k5SayJqIzDU_856i2KDhvFGEMGCmN4MdEmRs9IGrA-inGz6D-as_owFHzBtjmHb_rvFTejPaXXCVCZeGJTb2pLmSD-AMpRmCKMWje3G1wSDxwohe-yuImh37TMkozSLYpeQrdSU/s400/HaroldbyEverest2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harold - Photograph by Rio Brown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
By the time we got to Dry Creek, it was 3 above. I parked the van and went inside to get some warm water to thaw out the chickens' water dish. Unfortunately, I found out their heat lamp was out. I hoped the bulb had been knocked loose or that they'd somehow unhooked the lamp from the extension chord. No luck.<br />
<br />
I had to plow my way through 18 inches of snow to the trailer, where it's plugged in. I found where the two extension chords meet, buried beneath the snow. I unplugged it so that I could plug it into some Christmas light to check where the power failure was. Again, no luck. So I plowed through more snow to the outside of the trailer, where the plug had been knocked out. "Easy enough," I thought, and plugged it back in. Wrong. No lights came on. So, I decided to go inside the trailer and check the breaker. <br />
<br />
Let's just say that it isn't easy to open a storm door out into 18 inches of snow. The shovel, unfortunately was back at the house.<br />
<br />
I returned with the shovel and did my best not to curse while shoveling the stairs and porch, and I did pretty dang good until I realized the trailer door was locked and that the keys were back at the house.<br />
<br />
This time, I returned with the keys. Luckily, the electricity was still on in the trailer, so nothing froze inside. I checked the breakers, flicked a couple on and off, and checked outside. Nothing. Then I remembered that the test switch on the plug in the bathroom also controls the outside plug. It had been tripped, and when I reset it, the Christmas light outside came back on.<br />
<br />
I unplugged the Christmas lights and realized the connecting chord was buried in the snow. More digging. The entire process took more than an hour. All that work to get heat to chickens who no longer lay eggs because Rio's dog--let's just call him Satan--won't stop barking at them, and so they're in a frantic mess all of the time.<br />
<br />
Such is the life on the edge of a ghost lake in the middle of nowhere.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-101436619172289872016-01-07T20:28:00.000-08:002016-01-09T09:57:24.993-08:00Dreaming of Spring Daffodils and Fall Colors: Gardening During Seasons that Don't Require Supplemental Water The greatest thing about winter other than the snow is the four idle months to think about spring. Even with work and a college class I'm taking, I still have more time on hand to dream than during summer days swallowed by watering. <br />
<br />
Some health issues are causing me to rethink some of my garden plans for Dry Creek. I just may not have it in me to drag hoses all over to water during the summer.<br />
<br />
I always planned on water-wise gardening, and was going for Tuscan-style gardens, as they they require less water than say an English cottage garden, especially since some of our native species, such as rabbit brush, would look very natural in a Tuscan-style garden.<br />
<br />
But as we receive almost all of our moisture during the fall, winter and spring, when it is too cold for most flowers, I'm beginning to rethink things a bit.<br />
<br />
During the spring, we have more water than we know what to do with. The snow comes and goes, as the temperature fluctuates, and March through early May, the fields look like Ireland, watered by the continual coming and going of the snow. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwcAwBVdz3MEVM-L2IHXZTwR3Fw4AED2SmE6VWbekEmLzfm1KOMP7NvY4h3Fsfs8L9Cmjp2I05P3jYd7e01FRE9Hf4LeOi2D7_ywtVAOi82MwHe8GSqvAuaTCB_sYpBl-AxdVhRi1FLw/s1600/DSCN5706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwcAwBVdz3MEVM-L2IHXZTwR3Fw4AED2SmE6VWbekEmLzfm1KOMP7NvY4h3Fsfs8L9Cmjp2I05P3jYd7e01FRE9Hf4LeOi2D7_ywtVAOi82MwHe8GSqvAuaTCB_sYpBl-AxdVhRi1FLw/s400/DSCN5706.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During the spring, the ground is moist, perfect for deer-resistant daffodils.<br />
A patch in the old apricot orchard would be beautiful.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Also during that time, Dry Creek is anything but dry. For a couple of months it froths and foams and a separated but underground-connected seasonal spring feeds our irrigation system though early July.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARDBA0PQiLtkatiHaHpZ5ByoXXf1tfUDrjh6s5IJnjUxFs5PnApQEDsk-92ut67fNzPoWaeiwWt_KQTGwOUotZEnAA02vBz83kJkHYWRv4-hWbdO28zWepbaDNcNHHROS6N67HuMQrro/s1600/Dry+Creek+May+18+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARDBA0PQiLtkatiHaHpZ5ByoXXf1tfUDrjh6s5IJnjUxFs5PnApQEDsk-92ut67fNzPoWaeiwWt_KQTGwOUotZEnAA02vBz83kJkHYWRv4-hWbdO28zWepbaDNcNHHROS6N67HuMQrro/s400/Dry+Creek+May+18+022.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marci by Dry Creek. This is a drought year, so it's a bit lower than normal.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, why not plan the major splash of splendor for the seasons when no supplemental water is needed? I can't plant tulips because they are a favorite of the deer, but luckily deer have neither a taste for irises nor daffodils.<br />
<br />
The other spectacular season here is fall. We already have a canyon of oak and maple. The soil is right, even up on top, and so strategically planted oaks and maple could create quite the fall show. Oak here don't need supplemental water once established, and I'm pretty sure the irrigation from march to early July would be enough for the maples to get through the long, hot summer as that is what they must do down in the canyon.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-TYo4uaIQhUCW1NiJ-3WHAD8edolDJ6bvvFT-MG6Ci9_10FLPm5WLEiNSRfcWtwTYv87rAG_ZT5g3Tn-pY9N8AWmAD6ygQUlnsXSsT7m4mf4vYmt2vjq8RDZW9t8p2Tuhf6jRAbevEU/s1600/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK-TYo4uaIQhUCW1NiJ-3WHAD8edolDJ6bvvFT-MG6Ci9_10FLPm5WLEiNSRfcWtwTYv87rAG_ZT5g3Tn-pY9N8AWmAD6ygQUlnsXSsT7m4mf4vYmt2vjq8RDZW9t8p2Tuhf6jRAbevEU/s400/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+060.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our natural fall colors. The red is a maple, the orange an oak.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Summer then would be the time for a few small specialty gardens as well as the vegetable garden, which would be planted close by the house, so I wouldn't have as much walking to do.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjss-_3MLlPKPH7us4prZikWb62DgIvNboeS1sHQHi_K6-B1sAbYt1RCq2-rUpcrs18F6JGNpLeyWKmhr8zgprnwMEXkVpCrAKV_bJwIn-IgkfNdHzaW7qWH0XKovdYCaPgDOA3Z17zViY/s1600/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjss-_3MLlPKPH7us4prZikWb62DgIvNboeS1sHQHi_K6-B1sAbYt1RCq2-rUpcrs18F6JGNpLeyWKmhr8zgprnwMEXkVpCrAKV_bJwIn-IgkfNdHzaW7qWH0XKovdYCaPgDOA3Z17zViY/s400/Yellowstone+%2526+Garden+029.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers in a portion of the vegetable garden--<br />
this smaller area would continued be watered all year. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
These seasonal, water-wise gardens also wouldn't require much care. Daffodils and irises are perennials and their broad leaves and showy flowers easily stand out even if grasses and natives weeds surround them. Planted randomly in bunches, they have a wild, natural look, and so weeds really wouldn't be distracting.<br />
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-9931008005181541552016-01-03T15:02:00.000-08:002016-01-03T15:23:28.234-08:00Letting Go: This Is It, This Is All I Need<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had a simple, profound realization today:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am </i>Mormon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know technically, I’ve been that since I
was baptized at age nine, and as I was born into the covenant, in a more
general sense, all my life.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I did not stay on the path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve attended church steadily for at least
the past fifteen years, and have had a strong testimony for the last five.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, until this weekend, I don’t think I fully comprehended
at a gut level that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I believe</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Action and belief can only be separated for
so long.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I guess, on some level, I knew I would always come to this
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I definitely like the music of Yusuf
Islam better when he was just Cat Stevens, I always understood him choosing
his path to God over art, even though I don't share those same beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I haven’t had a poem published in over ten years, so I’m not
comparing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>myself to Cat Stevens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clearly don’t have as much to give up, but
I felt comfortable with not continuing with my MFA Creative Writing Program
even though I was nearly finished because I knew it was drawing me further from
where I wanted to be spiritually instead of closer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, until this weekend, I was still holding out for my
dream—to be a well known writer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the weekend, because of work reasons, we took two
different cars to Saint George in order to celebrate<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New Year’s and my son’s birthday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went to a family game center New Year's Eve to bowl and
play games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t do much because I
was in pain, so I just found a soft bench to sit on, and as I sat there I had
this deep realization, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this is it, this
is all I need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Not Fiesta
Fun Center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d much rather be in the
woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, location doesn’t
matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was with family and I knew my
son was having a good time, much better than he’s had in a while, due to his
own health problems.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I realized is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this
is it, this is all I need </i>had nothing to do with my situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had everything to do with my testimony in the
gospel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything else is just extras.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s when I truly realized <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I believe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I drove home New
Year's Day on cloud nine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling
hasn’t left me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, as I said earlier,
action and belief can only remain separate for so long.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I’m pulling a Cat Stevens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others might negotiate the worlds between
their religious belief and art just fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t necessarily think one excludes the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m certainly glad Bono is both a Christian and a rock star because I love U2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need art informed by religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, personally, I do better spiritually when
I don’t have to negotiate the gray areas between being an artist and a Mormon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, as of today, I’m choosing to focus on what I knew I was here for long before
I came to this earth: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em> to work earnestly on being better.</em></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve always been good at adhering to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">judge not least ye be judged </i>part of the
gospel, even when I was a drunk wandering the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">calles </i>of Juarez, Mexico, looking for God in all the wrong places.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I haven’t always been so keen to adhere to the
restrictions—diet, moral, media, etc. placed on members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, but that too is part of the gospel, to
live in the world, but not be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">of </i>the
world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Society tries to write off anyone who strives to live by a higher
standard as being judgmental, but that is not true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gandhi was not judgmental in refraining from violence;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Martin Luther King was not judgmental in
refraining from hate; a vegetarian is not judgmental in refraining from meat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not writing off
the world of literature, but from this day forward, I am defining myself first by
what I have always known—that I am a child of God, born to fulfill my part in
the following scripture:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="match"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Be ye therefore perfect</span></i></span><span class="match"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">, even as your
Father which is in heaven is <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">perfect</span></span></i></span><span class="match"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> (Mathew 5:48)</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know I will not obtain that in this lifetime, for I am
very far from it, but setting myself upon the right path is not an act of ego,
as the world would have me believe; rather it is an act of humility (about the first in my life)—because it is
subverting my personal desires for something higher.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I believe in a higher ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favorite hymn is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If You Could Hei to Kolab, </i>which ends as follows:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to virtue;</span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to might;</span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to wisdom;</span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to union;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to youth;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to priesthood;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to truth.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no end to glory;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 30.7pt 0pt 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no end to love;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no end to being;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no death above.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no end to glory;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no end to love;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no end to being;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no death above.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know my path towards that elusive, future goal is living the
gospel more fully today, which includes saying no to some things, including some works
of literature, some trains of thought, and some ways of expressing myself. That may include, skipping over a poem by a favorite poet, or choosing to not read a post of a friend. If that is snobbish, so be it.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One simply cannot live morally in an immoral world with arms wide open. Selectivity is a vital part of spiritual growth.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I've always had an overly large ego, and I guess I still do, I'll continue in that vein by associating myself with John Lennon, even though in this case, I'm giving up a dream of a fame I never obtained:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-18079160934633232852016-01-02T17:26:00.001-08:002016-01-02T18:21:39.859-08:00Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Early
dawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An old travel trailer sits on a
vast, red mud plain under a heavy rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The home is no longer mobile for it has two plywood attachments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A covered porch has been attached in front of
the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is small, and when one
faces the door, to the right, towards the pulling-end of the trailer, there is an
alcove to protect firewood from the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rest of the porch is open at the front and side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The porch roof slants to the left and a
steady stream of water flows off, some of which is caught in three metal buckets.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next to
the porch, the metal trailer side is visible where light comes out of a large
window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, on the table, sits a
Coleman lantern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The figure of an elderly
woman moves past on the other side of the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her head is cut off from view by the top of
the window, but light can be seen on a dark green velvet blouse and warn, pale-blue
skirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Light from the window reflects
off the rain-pocked puddles out front.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next to
the window, towards the tail-light end of the trailer, is the second plywood
extension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also has a window, but
there is no light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water flows steadily
off the roof in front of the steel colored glass beaded with blue droplets.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
only other modification to the old travel trailer is the stove pipe coming out
of the roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black tar has been coated
where the metal stack sticks through. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here
a gray smoke rises against the blue-gray sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Around the trailer, tall, slender, sporadic pine trees rise out of the
soaked red plain and either a long plateau or a low bank of clouds sits on the
horizon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
door opens, and the figure of the old woman comes into view again as she gets
three pieces of split wood from the stack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As she goes back inside, we see the small room with muddy, yellow linoleum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where the butane stove would have been, sits a
small wood stove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corrugated metal
roofing has been nailed to the wall behind it for fire protection, as well as
against the ends of the cabinets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rest of the walls are a dark wood paneling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When the woman bends down to open the stove door, her butt brushes
against the table and the light from the lantern briefly rocks, setting
the scene in visual motion.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Towards
the back end of the trailer, an old man is propped up in bed in sitting
position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is thin, with a narrow,
stubbly face and a big nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes are
small, black and intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We see his
wife feeding the fire in a scene reflected in his pupils.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we
see the room through his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After she
closes the stove door, she stands up, and puts her finger in a big pot of steaming
water on the stove and quickly removes it.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You
alright,” he asks.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s ready though.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She
then reaches up to grab two mugs and a jar of Folgers instant coffee from the
cupboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She quickly dips the mugs into
the water one at a time and places them on the cupboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her wrist is pink from the steam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She puts in the Folgers and grabs the small
pint mason jar of sugar that is on the counter next to a pair of work
gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She unscrews the lid, adds sugar
and stirs.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She takes
one cup to her husband.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
should warm you up.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He smiles in agreement.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She
walks back to the stove, grabs the gloves, puts them on, and carefully lifts
the heavy pot of boiling water from the stove.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
walks back towards the man, but instead turns into the small plywood
add-on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is lighter outside now and
rain can be seen streaming off the roof on the outside of the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In front of the window sits a claw-foot tub
on the floor, which is also plywood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is not attached to any plumbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
rests the pot on the edge of the tub, holding it with her left gloved hand,
while she bends down and with the other gloved and hand places a rubber stopper
in the drain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then stands up and
pours the hot water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It steams, barely
filling the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walks back into
the trailer and smiles at her husband.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“One
down, four to go.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He
smiles back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I tell you, it would be
easier to shoot me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You
don’t expect me to argue that, now do you.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Well,
that would be the polite thing, now wouldn’t it?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You
knew I didn’t have any graces when you married me.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He
laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What do you mean, I thought you
were the queen of England.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Ha!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was out feeding Pa’s pigs first time you
saw me.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She walks
past and drops her gloves on the counter as she passes the stove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She then opens the door, steps out on the
porch and rests the pot on the plywood floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She then reaches up to the first metal bucket, and slowly dumps the
contents into her pot, stepping a step back as the water splashes up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kicks the partially full pot with her old
black shoe a couple times until it’s under the second bucket, and then she
repeats the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pot is too full
to kick towards the third bucket, so she bends down and jostles it over and
finishes her task.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then
she carries the pot inside and places it on the stove, takes her mug off the
counter and slides into the table bench, facing her husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She holds up her mug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m looking forward to this.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nothing
like a hot drink on a cold, rainy day,” he agrees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She
look turns and looks out the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Runs of rain blur the soggy landscape outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You think it’ll ever quit?”</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The old
man sits in the tub in six inches of water. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His one leg is missing, a rounded stub just
above the knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The woman kneels next to
the tub, her skirted knees resting on an old pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She scoops an empty Cool Whip bowl into the
tub, brings the warm water up and pours it over his head.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hand
me the shampoo and I’ll lather up what’s left of your hair.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outside the window, rain falls
steadily.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<div align="right">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">© Steve Brown 2016</span></div>
<div align="right">
</div>
Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-82826476757446165862015-12-27T12:35:00.001-08:002015-12-27T12:35:15.001-08:00Dry Creek and a Sunday Song: "Nearer My God to Thee" (Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Anna Weatherup and BYU Men's Chorus)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lFdpMhWQ7Ur6fXDqs_oJ0WsI1frR7dN26f5CgUSE3bhNobk6QrpL9ztpJ4fOpsHK6MINNkj4NvKtDTSK06yz2Al6kzIUS1hlG8EMU6crl_mkUyQ8f4igYK4Cv4NSaYCSPAbocElF4VE/s1600/022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lFdpMhWQ7Ur6fXDqs_oJ0WsI1frR7dN26f5CgUSE3bhNobk6QrpL9ztpJ4fOpsHK6MINNkj4NvKtDTSK06yz2Al6kzIUS1hlG8EMU6crl_mkUyQ8f4igYK4Cv4NSaYCSPAbocElF4VE/s400/022.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">9 inches of fresh snow for Christmas, Dry Creek 2015.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I haven't posted one of these in a while. My illness made it difficult to get around Dry Creek to take pictures. I haven't been down by the cabin since last spring, and I haven't been down in the main canyon for more than a year. Our 90 acres, from my perspective, shrank considerably, to mainly the field. However, even the view from the living room window is pretty spectacular, and I pull up to wild turkey and deer after work on a daily basis, so I shouldn't complain.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it's two days after Christmas, the sun is shining bright on a healthy blanket of snow, clumps of snow nestled in the gnarled arms of the oaks out front. Christmas was amazing. It snowed pretty much the entire day. Yesterday, I went out to get some firewood and extended my knee, collapsing to the ground in the old pig shed beside the ATV. It hurt something awful--and still does--but you can't get too down when the air is that soft alpine blue--deep and vibrant when you look up, but frosted towards the horizons with tints of lavender, the smudgy sky almost the color of snow where it meets the land. Amazing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyPbAlZKioZiHn_UFaVf0dGgCvdUsBNBRv1ZbLJTVR5Z_8PrTpVSNyGDLmkU847TPGR3kOnVuDvleWNaCvgTL-ECjzGWUidOiGqJu5gAtOKJHY17fe_-qOzJX6lPBsOB8F3bEm1Ai85s/s1600/DSCN2210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyPbAlZKioZiHn_UFaVf0dGgCvdUsBNBRv1ZbLJTVR5Z_8PrTpVSNyGDLmkU847TPGR3kOnVuDvleWNaCvgTL-ECjzGWUidOiGqJu5gAtOKJHY17fe_-qOzJX6lPBsOB8F3bEm1Ai85s/s400/DSCN2210.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old pig shed from across the field, 2006, before our house was built. <br />It's amazing how much the pines have grown in that time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love the bitter-sharp air, the intense light, the soft silence around. It brings me "Nearer My God to Thee."<br />
<br />
It's not like I'm always aware of that. I certainly wasn't yesterday, collapsed on the ground beside the ATV. I thought "Oh crap," and lets be honest, some other choice phrases as I hobbled back to the house in pain, but I was also aware of how freaking glorious it was outside.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwm2mn_9u7ZItb6T1SJDqMy02iiWySEheGq55YvPKdsvSuooJ5dAD_cnutdtBNk8UOAfxkkQRCFOFUNU8ZosGyStYbxJp2pbVf3deNJRpmC-lv5rWTk55xQ_JXhfVPzWA9HKyCAN4H3co/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwm2mn_9u7ZItb6T1SJDqMy02iiWySEheGq55YvPKdsvSuooJ5dAD_cnutdtBNk8UOAfxkkQRCFOFUNU8ZosGyStYbxJp2pbVf3deNJRpmC-lv5rWTk55xQ_JXhfVPzWA9HKyCAN4H3co/s400/021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are the same small pines you see in the 2006 photo above.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAwIDuZuJzzVzNpC3NZwSgTmoSVE9qd2I9-29fAL9vsHpyDlaKwlw4H74NwD5Ojw_-kA5DfrLBCwAMBF9lJJYHe4CGxtnazjiJ_KZfYtycvi-ho5WaMxQY6CcKHMGGo8DKpP6DkctM84/s1600/012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDAwIDuZuJzzVzNpC3NZwSgTmoSVE9qd2I9-29fAL9vsHpyDlaKwlw4H74NwD5Ojw_-kA5DfrLBCwAMBF9lJJYHe4CGxtnazjiJ_KZfYtycvi-ho5WaMxQY6CcKHMGGo8DKpP6DkctM84/s320/012.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one wasn't even visible in 2006; it was small enough to be buried.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This morning, I woke up with the tune in my head and thought I'd do a "Dry Creek and a Sunday Song" post once again.<br />
<br />
According to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nearer,_My_God,_to_Thee" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>, the lyrics were written by the English poet Sara Adams in 1841 at her home in Sunnybank, Loughton, England.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loughton" target="_blank">Loughton</a> seems like the perfect parish for such a song to arrive: pastoral, with deep roots. The earliest structure is from 500 B.C. The town of Loughton itself remained small until the early 17th Century when a new road made it an important stop on the way to London, and with the new wealth came the great houses of the rich, such as Loughton Hall, which was once owned by Mary Tudor before she became Queen Mary of England. The house also received important guest like Ben Johnson.<br />
<br />
Even today, located next to the famed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epping_Forest" target="_blank">Epping forest</a>, which has long attracted and inspired artists and writers with its beauty, the area--at least from the internet--seems like the perfect place for such a song to be composed.<br />
<br />
The verse was first put to music by Adams' sister, composer, Eliza Flower, but the version we know best in the United States (as well as most of the world) is sang to the tune "Bethany" by Lowell Mason, which was composed in 1856.<br />
<br />
I've included three renditions, the first by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, the second by Anna Weatherup, and the third by BYU Men's Chorus.<br />
<br />
Enjoy.<br />
<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-42437945248754113032015-12-03T05:43:00.000-08:002015-12-06T15:59:15.255-08:00Tulips<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNktRFEfz_HlgHP1I7-hdXZtWhtq4WhtK2jg4OacHXBvwKXpMp44yfcgvd31xJUCv4RybhjuFTDczFJEJ9MzvACbxIGy-XPnHu8pxogLLgUvfvtMmWQhtcCj89xUXMJ9d5bPKKx49bvU/s1600/DSCN5380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHNktRFEfz_HlgHP1I7-hdXZtWhtq4WhtK2jg4OacHXBvwKXpMp44yfcgvd31xJUCv4RybhjuFTDczFJEJ9MzvACbxIGy-XPnHu8pxogLLgUvfvtMmWQhtcCj89xUXMJ9d5bPKKx49bvU/s320/DSCN5380.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I don't know what Charles Schwab was doing in my dream,<br />
but boy was he mad at Obama.<br />
I tried to make a few counter-points,<br />
but he just talked right over me.<br />
So I just thought about the beauty of tulips in spring.Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-41280170187930033832015-11-28T17:23:00.001-08:002015-11-29T07:27:19.293-08:00Layers of Thanksgiving: Robert Earl Keen's "Gringo Honeymoon" & Memories of Boquillas del Carmen, Mexico<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Black Friday. Snow falls gently down through the last soft gray light of day; a band of wild turkey make their way across the front field, the oak and maple along the canyon slope a smudged gray in front of the softer gray cedar ridge across the canyon. It's a nice, quiet end to a vibrant Thanksgiving. <br />
<br />
Wednesday, I received a call at work from Marci saying Thanksgiving was being moved from Dry Creek to St. George. I wasn't happy. Neither was she. We'd put a lot of work into getting ready to host it here. On top of that, I simply didn't want to go anywhere, especially somewhere with more than 10,000 people. I seldom do. I've achieved my desire in life--to sit in a recliner, look out the window, and watch bands of turkey move slowly across the field, pecking at the slender blades of bent wild rye poking through.<br />
<br />
I thought of our past Thanksgivings here. I like moving around the circumference of the action, going out to old pig shed to get fire wood, or over to the trailer to get food from the extra fridge. I like placing sparking cider bottles in the snow bank on the north side of the house, as well as the regular chores of feeding the chickens and taking the trash out.<br />
<br />
Because of health reasons, it's been a while since I could enjoy such things, but I'm feeling quite a bit better now. I could do some of that again, and no matter how much or how little I could do, the cedar ridge, field and wild turkey would be here. Everything I'm thankful for is here. I love this land on the edge of an insignificant town on the edge of a great western valley.<br />
<br />
I remembered a couple of our Black Fridays. Once we went to a bird refuge just west of here (which I'll leave anonymous to protect it's anonymity); another time we went out to some lava cliffs (which again I won't name) and the boys did some repelling off a long, black wall of basalt. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqXBvbvclM0hr4vU3-k1Xhowps9WvtAU3drZOQUQnY_tHLLZ5iXkXxMap03RVQGYbBYrFeEbCLN6STpDrks35t0dw1i0uuJQOnnMuQvhLDK5Bk1hfZbDOUJ-noGtwGxQjxwqwc4okwdE/s1600/DSC00332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqXBvbvclM0hr4vU3-k1Xhowps9WvtAU3drZOQUQnY_tHLLZ5iXkXxMap03RVQGYbBYrFeEbCLN6STpDrks35t0dw1i0uuJQOnnMuQvhLDK5Bk1hfZbDOUJ-noGtwGxQjxwqwc4okwdE/s320/DSC00332.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Black Friday in our valley</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDLYdfzOzHJM2vAJ-qUAFADEelsNZZZAx2AafywQfy1QiygfHyfg8TsUGjMdzc4d7XYGiIRYPTUWGh2xBsby97JUtN-ws38fDj8FdRV-nJex-PGTvNKosJTZR7ZR3lWYXoy-6XK3BX0k/s1600/DSC00342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDLYdfzOzHJM2vAJ-qUAFADEelsNZZZAx2AafywQfy1QiygfHyfg8TsUGjMdzc4d7XYGiIRYPTUWGh2xBsby97JUtN-ws38fDj8FdRV-nJex-PGTvNKosJTZR7ZR3lWYXoy-6XK3BX0k/s320/DSC00342.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother, Lloyd, on one Black Friday outing</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FPhZ-mUd_bxdVSTxxjmNXhrpEUxBl8zSeNMWYmCFf_ebjWpnWIZGoPV9jG9JrwsuiVt7HWJ3xLepS3HcSEmyX18kNr4l7q8krR6GI2VXKxTdKW7pHPSS7159OaQ7BDUAHIylbhhg-zs/s1600/DSC00416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6FPhZ-mUd_bxdVSTxxjmNXhrpEUxBl8zSeNMWYmCFf_ebjWpnWIZGoPV9jG9JrwsuiVt7HWJ3xLepS3HcSEmyX18kNr4l7q8krR6GI2VXKxTdKW7pHPSS7159OaQ7BDUAHIylbhhg-zs/s320/DSC00416.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Various family members on the same outing, including Tyler, standing on 1 hand</td></tr>
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I love the alkali flats, the small dunes, the lava escarpment, the ancient volcano, the distant horizon, the great expanse of deep blue sky.<br />
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Who wants shopping malls, deals, and a hazy brown horizon? <br />
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So, I found myself filling up the car on a cold, windy Wednesday to head to someplace I deplore--the city--for Thanksgiving.<br />
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The only good thing was that I'd be headed down a vacant, desert highway for two hours before I'd run into anything that resembles modern civilization.<br />
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I put George Harrison's <i>All Things Must Past </i>in the CD player, hoping I'd find the brighter side of whatever bad Karma I was justly or unjustly receiving.<br />
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Headed down the highway, a straight and narrow rail line on the left, some small rubble mountains on the right, I thought of a southwest Texas Thanksgiving trip long ago.<br />
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It was midway down my decent into the death valley of my life, but like with most memories, time has a way of shining its golden light, and so it wasn't at all an unpleasant journey.<br />
<br />
I remembered the high golden valley of Marfa in the late afternoon, shadows from the tree yucca long and dramatic. I remembered pulling into Terlingua after sundown, a slight glow of turquoise over the rubble hills behind it. I found a cold motel room with no TV that costed way more than I thought it should.<br />
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That lonely Thanksgiving I was searching for escape, for better times. There was a different Terlingua, one where I sat across the table from a beautiful college girl from Germany. We spent hours in a clean, white-walled cafe, drinking Blue Sky soda as we stared out the window at the rubble ghost town and rubble hills. Patsy Cline played on some CD player or tape deck somewhere back in the kitchen. I was in heaven.<br />
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I had come back in search of traces of that same magic. Instead I found a cold room with nothing to do.<br />
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Thanksgiving Day was damp and overcast. I headed into Big Bend National Park with the goal of getting to Boquillas, Mexico, in a vein attempt to resurrect another mirage.<br />
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The first Boquillas was pure magic. Karin and I had arrived one hot spring day--which in southwest Texas, can be extremely hot. It was Spring Break, and the only camping was in the overflow area of Rio Grande Village. We'd set up camp and gone off into the desert--I don't remember where. While we were gone, a thunderstorm had moved in and dumped on our tent. As it was hot and dry when we left, I hadn't put on the rain fly. When we came back, we found soaked sleeping bags.<br />
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I remember sitting that evening on a high, chalky stone ridge watching silver ripples on the Rio Grande as we waited for the sleeping bags to dry in the laundry mat back at the campground. Sprinkles of rain continued, golden darts of piercing cold in the last light of day. I was in heaven, rubbing wet splashes into the smooth skin of Karen's bare legs.<br />
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The next day we took a canoe across the river to Boquillas, Mexico, and spent the day eating tacos, drinking Coke from nicked-up bottles, kissing each other randomly, frequently, and playing with the village children. Apparently, I'm not the only one to experience such a thing, for Robert Earl Keen captured a day in Boquillas much like mine perfectly. I was young, in love, and away from the city, in God's country. What could be better?<br />
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I found the second Boquillas under a dark, brooding sky on a winter's day. The wind howled across the small, stony mesa above the Rio Grande. The river was choppy and gray below. Only I and the goats walked the gavel streets. The kids were inside the small adobe huts with smoke coming out of the small, metal-piped stacks. I saw one boy in a blue-framed doorway leering out with dark brooding eyes. And then his mother called him, the door was shut, and I was left outside, pelted by small bits of sleet. I found my way to the bar and joined a few drunks inside. A wrinkled old gringo couple who looked like they hadn't bathed in months played guitar and sang "Mind Your Own Business." By now, I'd moved on from Coca-Cola and spent the day drinking shots of tequila while hating the lonely, miserable person I'd become.<br />
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The musicians were good. Good and drunk. So was I. And they were scuzzy, victims of a gringo honeymoon gone wrong. Two sad old people that couldn't get out of the rut of youth, couldn't leave those glory days behind, stuck here, living that special day over and over again, until everything yellowed, decayed and stank. To grow up here, now that would be grand. But, to get shipwrecked here--what a sad, sad song. I drank myself sober and headed home, realizing no matter how low I sank I could never sink low enough to try living a honeymoon forever. Whatever reality I had to live, I'd live it. The past was gone.<br />
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But, you know memory is a funny thing. With time, both versions of Boquillas del Carmen became equally beautiful. As I drove down a similar, gray highway towards another Thanksgiving, the bleeding of past and present mingled to create some sort of strange joy.<br />
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By the time I pulled up to the house in St. George, I was feeling fairly good. I had a strange yearning to go to a bookstore. Perhaps it was because of all the hours Marci and I had logged at Bookman's in Flagstaff, many during the holiday season. Perhaps it's because I realized I <i>do </i>have a happily-ever-after story, and unlike that couple in Boquillas, I don't have to remain drunk to keep it alive.<br />
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As for Marci and I, our honeymoon ended the day we returned from our trip to Monterrey and Big Sur and had to get back to raising two boys and completing school. But the beautiful reality continues on, whether here at Dry Creek or in some stinking city.<br />
<br />
We went to Barnes & Nobel where I bought a leather-bound collection of five novels by Charles Dickens to replace my copy of <i>Tale of Two Cities, </i>which my son Rio gave away to a girl he'd helped recover from a suicide attempt. Someday his memories of that gift will mingle with his present and add meaning to whatever drive he is on.<br />
<br />
After Barnes and Nobel, Marci and I went to the DI (Deseret Industries) where she picked up 10 books for 10 dollars. It wasn't quite the same as going to Bookman's in Flagstaff, but close enough to jump-start a great Thanksgiving with the family. <br />
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And the road goes on.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJjee4zcP06eFk9NLBX1qhoQzjrIH2749usidXr-maRtLu8LHA2eUFCZLqEB_iHafAD4ygm2sYDEyqcqSWQTLeMDZyl0nYREfkuoSGSnFhoCwWTaAq7Bm_1pVmAjYEV8YXXOb5PIf72I/s1600/IMG_0412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJjee4zcP06eFk9NLBX1qhoQzjrIH2749usidXr-maRtLu8LHA2eUFCZLqEB_iHafAD4ygm2sYDEyqcqSWQTLeMDZyl0nYREfkuoSGSnFhoCwWTaAq7Bm_1pVmAjYEV8YXXOb5PIf72I/s320/IMG_0412.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marci walks with fresh cut flowers at Dry Creek in the early fall</td></tr>
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-86280967063603926842015-11-19T20:08:00.000-08:002015-11-20T15:15:31.249-08:00Incredibly Uncertain at Best: Peace Not Connected to Any Specific OutcomeOver the years my dreams have changed, not just my aspirations, but also my night dreams. When I was younger, in my teens and twenties, they often expressed humor, fear or anger. In my thirties and early forties, they most often had to do with my desire to have some impact on the world. Recently, they are most often about observation. I am still the main character in my dreams, but I'm not the protagonist in a traditional sense because the focus of the dream is not on me, but instead those around me. Usually, there is something terrible going on, but because of the outstanding quality of those around me, I have this overwhelming sense of peace not connected to any specific outcome. In the dream, I'm aware that beauty has nothing to do with what is happening. Instead, it has everything to do with how people handle what is happening.<br />
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I woke up early this morning from such a dream. It started in a classroom, not a traditional classroom, but a rented space in an almost vacant shopping center in a decaying part of town. The school was in one big classroom, but had two levels. My side of the room was at street level, where you entered from two glass doors. There were a couple of those long metal fold-out tables with particle board and wood-print-paper veneer tops. There were half a dozen with fold-out chairs around them. The floor on my half of the room was worn, yellow linoleum. Four carpeted steps led up to the other classroom that was raised and had a black iron rail separating it from the main floor. It was furnished much the same as mine. It had worn, blue-gray industrial carpet and looked like it once was probably the office area of a food or discount store that must have occupied the rest of the space.<br />
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Anyway, I had four or five students I was working with in this big, almost empty space, and another teacher, a Navajo woman, had four or five students she was working with in the raised classroom.<br />
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I knew one of my students, an oriental girl about fourteen or fifteen years old, was not doing her best work. She kept giving me excuses, and I was telling her that those excuses were nothing but crap. This made her angry and I was aware her raised voice had drawn the attention of the teacher with the other class. I considered the other teacher my mentor and didn't mind that she was watching somewhat critically. But, I also knew I was handling the student appropriately, that she needed to be pushed so that she could experience the taste of real success--not success from the outside, not empty praise, but success from the inside, that inner voice that says, "That needed to be said, and damn, I said it well." But she was putting up a wall.<br />
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Finally, I asked the other teacher if she'd watch my students, and I told the girl I wanted her to take me to see her parents. At first she argued and told me I was crazy, but I said, "if you're so sure what I'm doing is wrong, why not get your parents involved?" I know that would never work in real life--kids may run to parents to intervene in school, but not without controlling the narrative first--but in the dream, it worked. It had to in order to move the narrative to the next scene.<br />
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I followed the girl along a ravaged boulevard, the sidewalk littered with broken liquor and beer bottle glass to an old motel that had been converted into apartments. She took me up some outside stairs to the "apartment." Below, I could see the swimming pool had been filled with dirt where a rusted swing set and half-broken teeter-totter now served as the playground.<br />
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Inside, the kitchenette room was steamy. There was a couch and a double bed in the main room. An old 1970s TV was mounted on the wall. Off to the side there was a small kitchen where her mother was cooking. An eleven or twelve year old boy sat at the bar between the two rooms, swiveling on a beat up bar stool. On the bar was a gold Buddha. There was also a bedroom that I assume had been another room altogether, for a door had been blasted through, a frame put up, the wall filled in, but they'd failed to paint the remodeled part.<br />
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I don't think there was a full conversation in my dream, and if there was, I don't remember it. I do remember her brother, the scrawny twelve-year-old, was excited that his sister was in trouble and kept coming to my defense, which I didn't particularly like. But what I remember most is the love I felt from the mother for her daughter and the appreciation she had towards me for pushing her daughter to excel.<br />
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I remember thinking, <i>she is one of the lucky ones </i>about the girl. <i>She has nothing and yet everything. This is what she needs to write. She probably hates it--this small cramped space in a smoldering city-- and that's alright. As she writes it out, she will deal honestly with the bad, but in the process, she will see the good also.</i><br />
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I didn't say that. It would have been an insult to her family. But I now knew how to reach her.<br />
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I left the family. Because it was a dream, I never returned to the school. Instead, I went to my house, which was a couple doors down. There was a blast behind me and the sound of air-raid sirens. An old Jewish man, who I knew, was holding a sobbing Cambodian boy. <br />
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"His mother works in that direction," he said, pointing towards the smoke, as I came up and stood beside him. Then to the boy he said, "There's lots of buildings down there, you can't just assume it was your mother's office, but I'll tell you what, after the sirens stop, I'll walk down and make sure everything is alright."<br />
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The scene cut to the Jewish man's apartment at a later time. It was a small, dark-paneled room with a single bed, a worn-out recliner and this beautiful big old roll-top oak desk, which you could tell was polished on a daily basis, the papers on it immaculately organized.<br />
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He sat at the desk, his old 1940s swivel chair turned to face me, the desk behind him. I sat on the edge of the bed.<br />
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"If you don't believe in God," I asked, why do you do it?" I was referring to all he did to help relieve the suffering of others in the neighborhood. You see, although Jewish by heritage, he was atheist by belief.<br />
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He smiled, looked over his round, clear glasses that had slid down to the end of his nose, and said "Love."<br />
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At first I wanted to push him for more, but then I decided not to. I wanted to go back to my own place and write down my thoughts:<br />
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<i>I believe in Christianity--Buddhist Christianity, Jewish Christianity, Islam Christianity and Atheist Christianity.</i><br />
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So, I told him so. "I hate to go, but you've inspired me and I've got to get it down on paper."<br />
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He smiled--"Glad to be of service"--and swiveled around back to his big, oak desk and returned to writing a letter.<br />
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As I walked out the door, the shadow of a bomber moved swiftly down the street and up the side of the motel where my student lived, and then a few blocks beyond there was a flash, the distant wailing of mothers, followed by sirens.<br />
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And yet somehow I knew with people like my student's mother and my atheist Jewish neighbor all was well regardless of the outcome, which was incredibly uncertain at best.<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-44492975487748718612015-11-16T21:06:00.000-08:002015-11-16T21:13:36.979-08:00November Snow Brings Fresh Connection to Dry Creek <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSjmfCmQcDPdxycnUIbfbQTFaQSMNyBkurmAPamGmFsDcf33HZERW8yxEgEaI_J3C_DSOM12mYsg2mMXqPRUKV8Ld_wp6fhUuCYCJEgroyJPHlj0xW3AjbcKMFD4IkPUsm_yxELae8js/s1600/snow+lights+run+blur.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSjmfCmQcDPdxycnUIbfbQTFaQSMNyBkurmAPamGmFsDcf33HZERW8yxEgEaI_J3C_DSOM12mYsg2mMXqPRUKV8Ld_wp6fhUuCYCJEgroyJPHlj0xW3AjbcKMFD4IkPUsm_yxELae8js/s400/snow+lights+run+blur.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patio lights through water droplets on the sliding glass door</td></tr>
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It's been a long time since I've connected with this place. Summer was long, hot & plagued with insects. Between the heat, voracious grasshoppers and my poor health, my gardens suffered greatly. Fall was dry and drab compared to the norm--trees choosing to go into a dry coma instead of fighting the heat that continued into late September. October brought little relief.<br />
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For the first time, it was hard to write about this land. I buried anger and disgust by blogging about different times and places, not wanting to face a dream deferred. <br />
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Tonight, walking back from the wood shed carrying logs though nine inches of fresh snow, the air damp and cold, the smell of smoke drifting down from the chimney, silence big and booming under dark expanse, I felt this place deep in my tissue again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the house while walking back with firewood.</td></tr>
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To be fair, I had a taste of winter a couple weekends ago. It started off mighty but fizzled out before an inch had collected. Still, it was a wonder standing at the window watching the patio lights bleed through water droplets on the glass.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outdoor grill pad as seen through the back window</td></tr>
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The house was cold and damp, a good reason for a hot drink, a good book and fire.</div>
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Everest slumbered while I watched <em>Mountain Men</em>, Camilla, his pug, taking advantage of him lounging around all day.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everest and Camilla enjoying a snow day.</td></tr>
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But tonight!--this is it, the real thing: WINTER. With it, Dry Creek is vibrant, living, and in the spring will be green again--the churning, chalky white waters bringing life to both the forest, and via our irrigation system, the fields.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nine inches of fresh snow<br />
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Let it snow, let it snow!Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-81000001649691355742015-11-09T21:18:00.001-08:002015-11-10T04:49:19.405-08:00Of the Barking Strings: One Account of Growing Up in the 80s, Part I: Start with Nancy Sinatra Reclining on Stage in her Pink, Pseudo-Native American Dress and Pink Boots The other day a friend asked me how I would start film about the old gang. It was a reciprocal question; I'd asked all of them the same thing. They gave me <i>history--</i>how it all started at Bill's Ice Cream in a large and sprawling city on a great, humid plain. Now, what am I suppose to do with that?<br />
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I do feel the stickiness of dried ice cream up to my elbow from reaching way down into the square carton, making sure I "square dipped" appropriately so that we wouldn't have shrinkage.</div>
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I remember working the line on those hot August nights when it snaked around the metal bars and people stood with the glass front doors open waiting outside to get out of the heat and have some cool ice cream. I remember picturing them as flies and wishing I had a great can of bug spray to knock them down, so we could sweep their buzzing, bumbling bodies out the door with a push broom and and shut down. But the fools just continued to come in.</div>
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But what am I to do with that?</div>
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I remember Jim belching out the Boss while stocking the milk room--how it was low and muffled until Andrea opened the glass door to Windex it, and it then blasted through the store--</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 16.12px;">I ain't nothing but tired</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 16.12px;">Man I'm just tired and bored with myself</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 16.12px;">Hey there baby, I could use just a little help</span></i></span><br />
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Or I remember some chubby, blond punk-ass kid, saying "squeeze-me" for "excuse me" each time he passed a girl behind ice cream counter on his way to get a broom or rag from the back.</div>
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But what am I to do with that?</div>
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I remember one time Phil asked Andrea if she could invite anyone over for Thanksgiving, who would it be? and she replied, "Sid Vicious."</div>
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Okay, maybe I could use that.</div>
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But I think I'd start instead with Nancy Sinatra reclining on stage in her pink, pseudo-Native American dress and pink boots singing, "Bang, Bang--My Baby Shot Me Dead." It's stark--that black background against that shocking pink; it's glamorous--oh that thick, deep 60s long, blond hair; and it has nothing what-so-ever to do with the story-line, which would have been my take on things at the time.</div>
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Then, perhaps, there'd be a shot of the gang at the zoo feeding flamingos. Marsh, here after known as Swamp, would be looking into the camera with strait, dark brown shoulder length hair, Lennon-specs and a cheesy smile. He'd be wearing a white U2 Joshua Tree t-shirt. Andrea would be bending over the metal bar, wearing a bright blue t-shirt and blue and black checkered Capris talking to a flamingo directly below her. Here, her hair would be auburn and straight, but it could be any color from neon orange to purple. Each scene it will be different. The movie will end with Andrea as Nancy Sinatra, only she will be dressed like Sinead O'Connor and will have a shaved head. She won't like that. She won't like any of it. Jim, I'm not sure what Jim does. He wears a concert shirt of the Police. It has the arms ripped off. He's showing off his muscle. Oh, I got it, he stands next to Andrea, but faces towards the camera while she faces away. He looks down at the concrete wearing dark sun-glasses, the type Buddy Holly would wear if Buddy Holly wore sunglasses. He's counting ants on the ground. He's up to twenty-four. I'm not sure why.</div>
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The Barking Strings are never sure why.</div>
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Phil is pelting the flamingos with bread. Or, rather Phil, here after known as Glasses, is trying to pelt the flamingos with bread. Bread doesn't make very good stones. He looks like Neil Young. He will hate that.</div>
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He doesn't hate Neil Young. That will soon become very apparent. But, he will hate that he looks like Neil Young.</div>
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Lucy, she now prefers to be called <i>Lucia, </i>will be telling Phil, I mean Glasses, to stop it, that he's mean. She is the 1960s counter-culture type--two braided pony tails, leather headband, tie-died t-shirt, flowing skirt and all.</div>
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Me. Well, I'm skinny with a white dress shirt that is big and sloppy. I wear blue-gray dress slacks and canvas vans. I have a bit of mullet, and if I looked cool, I'd look a bit like Cy Curnin of the Fixx (see video below), but I'm not cool. I'm a geek with a great unused mind instead.</div>
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I hold up a copy of Evelyn Waugh's <i>Brideshead Revisited, </i>open the cover, and show the author's note to the audience. The camera zooms in on the following:</div>
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I am not I; thou art not he or she;</div>
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they are not they.</div>
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--E.W.</div>
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Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5550410245427703416.post-86194190770636034322015-11-06T17:11:00.001-08:002015-11-06T17:24:51.474-08:00The Soundtrack of One Life out of 108 Billion, Entry 8: "All By Myself" by Eric Carmen and "Over & Over" by Fleetwood MacSomething happened in eighth grade. I'm not sure what or why. It wasn't all good. It wasn't all bad. But I was somehow sucked from a primarily external world into a primarily internal world--from doing to observing. I noticed deeply the world around--the lights, the shadows, the stark winter light on blue boned trees. Everything gained a richness, a complexity, a texture I'd never noticed, never knew. It was quite startling. I didn't know how to react. I didn't know if anyone else experienced this new world. I felt awkward, a bit like an alien.<br />
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Although in many ways I was less mature than other kids my age, definitely more socially awkward, in some ways I all of the sudden was an old soul. I understood the adult world more than my own. In music, I was drawn to songs with adult themes, like Eric Carmen's "All By Myself".<br />
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Outwardly, I still tried to be the kid I knew how to be, but it didn't work. I felt fake, and I think I seemed fake to others. All of the sudden, everything was hard. And yet, there was a clarity, a complexity I saw in life that thrilled me.<br />
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I was interested in layers. In the natural world, I loved the layers of leaves along the canyon bottom at Dry Creek--how on the top layer they'd be crisp and crunchy; and in the layer below, the leaves would be soft and partially eaten with little squares nibbled out between the fibers; and finally, the later below them would be leaf-skeletons among potato bugs. Below that would be rich, black dirt.<br />
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In music, I liked layers also. Fleetwood Mac's <i>Tusk </i>album had that. "Over and Over" had the complexity in sound and lyrics I was looking for.<br />
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A richness, a Rembrandt brown in tones, an uncertain hope in the lyrics--hoping something might be, but knowing it just as likely might not be. Hoping, yearning, over and over.<br />
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I don't know what caused it. I loved a girl, but I'd loved her since fifth grade.<br />
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No dramatic event happened in my life.<br />
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My family was good, stable.<br />
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It's almost as if I was invaded by a knowledge unwarranted.<br />
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That person who moved in during 8th Grade has been who I've remained the rest of my life. I haven't necessarily done much with him other than that I've become a little more comfortable letting the world know it's alright to see shadows in the rain. <br />
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But I live in a complex world, a world hope and broken dreams, of love and heartache. Not because that is my reality necessarily. But because I see the shadow lives around me--those pretending because not pretending is too damn scary. Because of this, I don't have a lot of tolerance for those who have no empathy.<br />
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But, I'm not sure they can help it. I too once lived in a world without shadows. I'm glad that for whatever reason, complexity was thrust upon me. It's not necessarily an ingredient for success, but it is an ingredient for humanity.<br />
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<br />Steve Brownhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12385329516260924157noreply@blogger.com0