As if Christmas season weren’t enough to bring on the nostalgia, I’ve been nudged back into “small kid time” by two recent requests. My sister is compiling a collection of memories of our parents from each of the six siblings. And the daughter-in-law of my cousin requested a short essay along similar lines.
I can’t say for certain whether time has added a patina to history, whether I’m looking back through rose-colored glasses, or if we really did have an idyllic childhood. I only know that being a kid in the fifties suited me perfectly. We lived in the middle stretch of a dead-end street anchored by our elementary school at the bottom and my grandparents’ house at the entrance. Two sets of aunts and uncles lived in the neighborhood. Over the years, what had been an apple orchard eventually turned into a totally populated street, and we were there to see the construction. Oh, the glorious mounds of dirt! The heavy equipment! We marched as armies up the hills and into the foundations cum foxholes. We played hide-and-seek through the framed shells of future neighbors’ abodes. In small packs we migrated from house to house, going home for meals and bedtime.
As we got older, the borders of our neighborhood expanded. We rode our bikes to friends' houses and walked to junior high and high school, both a decent haul. (This is where my kids will roll their eyes and say, “Yeah, Mom. The character-building thing.) So I have to add a disclaimer here and say that this was Utah and it snowed, so of course parents would give us a lift occasionally.
The thought that sticks with me is the freedom we felt because of the relative safety of both the neighborhood and the era. As long as the parents knew where we were and with whom, we were free to come and go. Adults didn’t intrude into the world of childhood. We weren’t scheduled with an abundance of activities, yet we never lacked for things to do. If moms and dads worried about their kids getting snatched by strangers, they didn’t convey that to us. The usual hazards of scrapes and bruises and occasional broken bones happened. Stuff does. Nowadays when I buckle on a helmet to bike or ski, I wonder how any of us made it to adulthood intact.
Our situation wasn’t unique. When talking to peers, the stories are similar all over the country. One grew up in urban Chicago, another in plantation Hawaii. Cars and front doors were left unlocked. Kids had room to roam, responsibilities, and aspirations of becoming anything they set their hearts and minds to achieving.
If there’s a wish for the New Year, it would be to give that sense of security to the current generation of children everywhere. Mid-eastern children shouldn’t have to worry about being bombed in the marketplace or their own homes. African kids should be called in for dinner and know there will be food on the table. And Americans growing up in the land of plenty should be able to run and play and live without fear in those precious early years.
We've been put on a diet and didn't even sign up for it. While the fast food industry has been accused of super sizing everything, food packagers who stock our grocery shelves have quietly been reducing the sizes of items. They might not think so, but we notice.
We notice that all the measurements we had to learn in school seem to be irrelevant. Individual containers of yogurt used to be eight ounces: one cup. Now containers are six ounces or even less. Buy a half gallon of ice cream? Not anymore. Someone, apparently looking out for our waistlines, repackaged dessert into cylindrical or cutesy oval containers that range from 1.5 to 1.75. The very high priced were always small, but have gotten smaller still. And breakfast cereal manufacturers haven't reduced the size of the boxes, just the contents within. A pound of processed grain with a few nuts and raisins thrown in comes in great big boxes. For kids, that means big pictures on the outside. For adult cereal, it has large numbers touting dietary fiber. That's right, the portion that's indigestible has become a selling point. When you open the box and slit the inside liner to discover the thing half full, then you read the small print: contents may have settled. Yeah, right.
Grocers used to be more helpful with the shelf stickers. In some instances, alongside the item name, price, etc. they have done a cost per unit breakdown. That way we know what we're paying per ounce. But they don't always keep the tags updated, and I've noticed that on some items they don't always compare "apples to oranges." (forgive the grocery analogy) Across the row will be costs per ounce on five items, and then you spot the gourmet label. Sure enough. It's figured in cost per gram.
Toilet paper at 1000 squares per roll, but heft the package and know it's not gonna do the job. Aluminum foil, one box measured in square inches, another in linear feet. Juice and juice lookalikes--if you compare 100 percent juice with 27 percent, how is the cost per ounce even relevant? In that case, size of container might be the same, but they've reduced the quality of the contents, which is even more insidious. Same with meat products that have been injected with salt water and spices. We know we're paying more and getting less.
It seems the only thing that hasn't been reduced is the price. We're forced to become smarter shoppers.
Used to be, as soon as we stepped off the plane in Honolulu the scent of plumeria wafting on a breeze greeted us. No matter what time of day or night, thick warm air enveloped me and made my airplane-dehydrated skin feel better immediately. The lei greeters weren’t there on our behalf, but their very presence welcomed us. We knew we were home.
Nowadays when returning to Hawaii, it’s not the time difference that affects us most, it’s the changes, and the unchanged, that remind us we’re back. Making it through the airport with a few illusions of Paradise intact is the first obstacle. The orange cones, yellow caution tape, and if it’s raining, large buckets are permanent fixtures on the open terminal. First impression of Oahu, for us and millions of others. The walkways, so badly in need of repair that they’re a safety hazard, are beyond filthy. The wiki-wiki bus looks every one of its 38 years. And in baggage claim, cold as a meat locker, people watch carousels amidst the drabbest of brown and cement architecture anyone could possibly devise for a tropical destination.
The cab makes its way through heavy traffic, something that hasn’t improved in our absence.
The newspaper in our driveway also tells us that not much has changed in local politics in our absence. Our incumbent mayor is accusing his rival of campaign shenanigans: volunteers who are really staff are working on city council time. This should be laughable since the squeeze is on all government employees to campaign. In the accumulated mail is a postcard urging us to vote for the incumbent and signed by a friend of ours. She was told when she accepted the C and C job that she would be donating some of her vacation time to work on campaigns. Coerced volunteerism isn’t an oxymoron in Hawaii government.
Day two after our arrival, we need to buy groceries. Sticker shock gets us every time. Reminds me of the tale about a frog in a pot that will sit while the heat is turned up gradually until it boils to death. While here, we don’t see the gradual increases. But when mainland prices are fresh on our minds, we know we pay almost two dollars more per box of cereal, up to four dollars a gallon more for milk, and about a dollar fifty more for a dozen eggs. We shut our eyes to prices, not just of groceries, but everything. From gasoline to haircuts, insurance, taxes, there isn’t a thing we can name that’s a real bargain in Hawaii. So we don’t talk about the cost of living here. In fact, we hold ourselves in check so that we don’t always “talk stink.” Too much negativity only depresses us.
Day three, and we’ve done some reconnecting and got our sleep patterns on a better schedule. The house has lost its stuffiness, and we happily note that the ants didn’t carry it away. We make appointments, set up tennis and golf games and dinners with friends. Gradually we fit back into our own routines and take up the reins of our destiny. We drive over washboard roads—“skinned” in DOT terms that means half-assed maintenance with faulty materials—without complaining. We stop thinking our garage is cramped and count blessings that we have a two-car garage with a door that closes. We wear sandals, mine a hot pink that match nothing, and know we’re in style.
And then we go to the beach. Thanks to a friend with a military husband, we join in a potluck picnic at Bellows on a glorious afternoon. With our bellies stuffed, we drop our beach chairs and ease into the soft sand that powders our feet and soothes to the core of all problems. Friendships and perfect weather: two intangibles without price tags that can’t be messed up or regulated. We watch boogey boarders, body surfers, kids in sunhats and rash guards and volleyball wannabes, castle builders, posers and more. When the lure of the turquoise water and crashing waves becomes too strong, we peel off shirts and sunglasses and wade through the shore break into warm water that makes our islands—our islands—what they are.
And finally we’re glad to be back.
We joined friends for a Saturday evening outdoor concert at Deer Valley. The predicted storm seemed to be holding off, so with decent weather we decided we’d sit through just about anything to get our last dose of the summer season. Dwight Yoakum might not have been our high on our preferred performers, but he certainly was at the top of the list for a lot of other concert goers.
And he delivered. No warm up act, no intermission, no kidding. He and his group of five musicians performed for two solid hours without even a break for a drink of water. In fact, he hardly spoke between numbers except to introduce the few songs written by others. The group twanged through a repertoire with barely a bridge between numbers. Dwight’s shredded jeans and white boots, rhinestone studded denim jacket and rolled down cowboy hat fit snugly into the crafted country image. Judging from the number of men and women—mostly women—wearing lightweight cowboy hats of similar slouch, he’d made an impression.
Not all the show was onstage. We’d no sooner dished up our picnic dinner of salads, fruit and cheese, and poured a glass of wine than we noticed this was not the usual crowd imbibing in fine vintages and pâté. The group in front of us was drinking Jack Daniels and Stolichnaya straight from the bottles, accompanied by copious amounts of beer. After a while, a security guard who couldn’t have been long out of the marines came up and spoke to them. They nodded politely, and as soon as his broad back was turned, one brave “cowboy” flipped him the bird. Same cowboy didn’t make it to the end of the performance, which prompted us to think he was out somewhere learning to puke responsibly.
Another young couple started out side by side and ended up sidebyside, following the joke, “drink till I look good.” She wore teen jeans, the hip rider variety that don’t hug hips nearly tight enough. Our friend dubbed her the plumber.
On the side of the stage, a grassy area had been roped off for dancing. A few tried to get some real country line dancing going, but the slope of the hill made it difficult. Not a cohesive audience either. But we watchers appreciated the effort. By the last few numbers people were no longer bothering to find their way downslope in the dark to the dance corral; they just stood on their picnic blankets and boogied in place. It might have blocked the view for a few, but the music wailed loud and clear all over the valley.
So, thanks Dwight Yoakum, for supplying part of the entertainment at the season ender. And thanks to all the amateur entertainers who have no idea how much we enjoyed their performance.
Daughter and son-in-law visited in August, and one of our goals was to show s-i-l more of our part of the state since he knows it only in its winter dress. With picnic in cooler, we drove into the Uinta Mountains, higher cousins than our own Wasatch Mountains. Weather was slightly threatening--the only sign of rain the entire summer--so we aimed for Provo Falls and, after taking in sights and poking around a bit, spread out the tablecloth and passed around sandwiches and chips and fruit.
Delightful, uneventful, until we were driving back along Mirror Lake Highway. A deer bounded in from the left side of the road and attacked us, using head and shoulder to smash the windshield, then rolling along the side of the car to damage its body and hers. She staggered off, prognosis bleak. After gathering the side mirror and various parts, we made our way slowly to Kamas where we called the highway patrol. Luckily, the only one injured was the doe.
Daunted but not crippled, we still managed to make a late afternoon tee time. The next day hubby and s-i-l went fly fishing dressed in waders and sporting newfound knowledge of wet vs dry flies. Had enough success to create a few fish stories,and since it was "catch and release" we'll never know.
We hiked to a view of Stewart Falls above Sundance, then took in an outdoor theatre production of "Midsummer Night's Dream." The visit was short but oh-so-sweet, with the only drawback the auto/deer incident. In retrospect, we were extremely lucky. The highway patrolman was nice, the insurance adjustor likewise, the safety glass repairman fine (in spite of cutting an artery and needing first aid) and the body shop people very efficient. We're back in our repaired vehicle. It's a random, scary act that happens all too often on highways all across the country.
The other side of the state could be the other side of the world; the landscape is so vastly different. Last week we loaded the car and traveled from our cool mountains covered with green trees, sage and scrub oak south to Bryce and Zion Canyons, two of Utah’s national parks. It’s been eons since we’ve experienced the red rock country, and after spending three beautiful days there, we’re wondering what took us so long.
First night we stayed in Richfield, but went to dinner twenty miles away at Big Rock Candy Mountain. It’s a geological feast unto itself, with striations of red and white laid down like frosting on the hills. The next day we passed that way again on our way to Bryce. The requisite first stop was the visitor center, where we got maps and the quick overview of what was in store. Both parks have drastically cut down on the number of cars in the park by offering free shuttle service to the major trailheads and sites on free, clean-running shuttles. So smart, easy to use, staffed with ultra-friendly people. Reminds me of us years ago when we, too, worked in a national park.
We chose to hike the loop from Sunrise Lookout to Sunset Lookout. At road level, they are fairly close together, and the walk isn’t difficult. Lots of people in spite of the mid-day heat, and we couldn’t help but analyze and comment on those who were equipped with sunhats, dark glasses, and plenty of water versus those in spaghetti strap tops and rubber slippers. The trail down and back up again put us up close and personal with the sandstone sculptures known as hoodoos. The Paiutes used to call them “The People.” To them, they were bad people turned to pillars. By the time we left, we were also seeing faces and imagining stories about these formations.
We expected Zion to be similar, but the differences were startling. Where Bryce is sculpted into towers and free standing figures, Zion is solid walls and canyons. The scenic drive from north to south took us through the less traveled portion that included a four-mile tunnel. Fortunately, I was driving so the photographer in the passenger seat could capture some of the sunset scenery as we hurried to Springdale and our hotel.
Next morning a similar efficient shuttle dropped us at the trail head for the emerald pools. (algae, not crystal clear depths) It was a great morning walk, partially protected from the heat by the stark walls of the canyon. Scenery at every turn was breath taking. It’s humbling to look at the world in geologic time and realize how much the planet has endured. The area was part of a great desert that covered much of western North America, followed by an ocean that cemented dunes into hard sandstone. Then the Virgin River, not so mighty, carved some might channels. And humans? A speck in time.
We checked out of the heat and into the big screen movie. Again, well done, but I get motion sick just watching from a helicopter viewpoint swooping over the cliffs.
By evening when the sun had notched down an angle and the temp a few degrees, we went back to hike to the mouth of the Virgin Narrows. Beautiful. Made us want to come better prepared next time to do some walking through water. Also made us glad we weren’t in one of the many slot canyons during a flash flood.
One interesting note about the people we encountered: a huge proportion of the visitors to both national parks were foreigners. We heard German, French, Japanese, Spanish, and several more languages we couldn’t identify. The weak dollar has made traveling in America attractive, and some smart travel company has put together national park packages. Most the RVs were rentals, with their ads and 800 numbers emblazoned on the side. Even the price of gas looks good if you’re used to paying for petrol in euros.
Here’s my one gripe: At dinner the first night our cheery waitress said to the German couple seated next to us, “Would you like me to add the customary 20 per cent gratuity to your bill?” I hate it when people take advantage of others with a language difficulty, and if I were her boss, I would have canned her on the spot.
Our last morning we left Springdale and caught I-15 to the North West entrance of Zion. A road less traveled. The visitor center didn’t have five cars in the parking lot. Not without reason. There aren’t any facilities on that side, but we drove through, gawked, then got out and hiked for a few hours past a settler’s cabin and many times across a stream bed. We encountered three groups total on that trail. It felt delightful to have such a vast tract of countryside to ourselves.
The short trip reminded us what a treat it is to get in the car and drive to places so beautiful and unusual so close to home.
July 24th is Pioneer Day in Utah, and we celebrated the arrival of Brigham Young and his hardy pioneers by biking a portion of the Mormon Trail. Twenty riders started early in Henefer, with four of us never intending to make the entire trek down and up Highway 65 to finish at Heritage Park and “This is the Place” Monument. Our goal was East Canyon Resort and back again, roughly 25 miles.
The pack left us early as we made our leisurely way up a steady climb through farmland. Weather couldn’t have been more perfect: cool, slight breeze, endless blue Utah skies. Sparse traffic also made us happy as we pedaled up to the first historic marker at Spring Creek Station. In the early days of settlement, President Johnson sent troops to quell what was billed as the “Mormon Rebellion.” Brother Brigham, in turn, stationed militia men as far east at Fort Bridger in anticipation of “Johnson’s Army.” Luckily, the 1856-57 disagreement between the United States and Deseret never amounted to much. But Spring Creek sent supplies to many of the outposts.
We crested Hogs Back Summit and enjoyed the panorama that dismayed the first travelers. What they assumed was the top instead revealed the back of the Wasatch Range, and some of the worst terrain of the journey. The trail blazers weren’t Mormons, but the Donner-Reed party of 1846 on their way to California. The delays they encountered hacking their way into the Great Utah Basin cost them dearly later on when they got trapped in snow crossing the Sierras. A year later the first Mormons followed their route. As we descended, we were happy to be making the trip over asphalt road and on bicycles rather than pulling handcarts as our ancestors did. Spandex instead of long skirts, helmets rather than sunbonnets. And definitely well fed.
Holiday boaters and picnickers flocked around East Canyon reservoir. This is where the super bikers left us behind since we’d seen Big Mountain by car and knew we didn’t want to tackle it. We joined a few of the cabin and RV crowd at East Canyon Resort for a rest and snack before retracing our treads. The quick descent from Hogs Back now loomed before me, but I only had to walk a small stretch of the uphill. Each labored breath as I pushed my bike uphill gave me time to get up close and personal with the fragments of deer and porcupine littering the roadside. Also water bottles—the most precious resource in the most dispensable containers.
More distressing than the road kill and seemingly inevitable trash, however, were the bullet casings. The historic markers that add such enrichment to the route bear slanted gunshot gouges, indicating that today’s “sportsmen” shot from the vehicle and couldn’t be bothered even to let their shells drop on the floor. I’m not sure of the origins of the name for Hogs Back Summit, but I know who the real pigs are.
We coasted back down to Henefer past the same farmer and his dog out baling hay. We were happy for the ride, for the tidy farm communities and thriving cities of Utah that are the legacy of the early pioneers. Brigham Young would be pleased. But I can’t imagine him on a bicycle.
We hiked up Empire Canyon this morning to take in the profusion of wildflowers in the early morning light. Well, not too early. The construction crews were already underway, busy turning the highlands into high rises and taking down the mountaintops. (The development on Bonanza Flats must remove 12-24” of soil contaminated in the mining days before they can build.) So we walked to the sound of our legs whipped by long grass and birds chirping, accompanied by dump trucks grinding through their gears on the mountain roads and the backup beep beep of cement trucks pouring concrete edifices.
The best of times; the worst of times.
Trails that are so familiar to us when covered in snow look entirely different under a thick green blanket studded with color. Pink wild geraniums, white columbine, red paintbrush, purple lupine and dozens more I can’t name greeted us on all sides. We turned left under the mine dump and took the trail below the Daly Chutes that are far less formidable in summer than winter. We followed cloven hoof prints of deer up the mountainside, but didn’t see any animals. A squirrel or two scolded us for interrupting, but he seemed to be the only mammal in sight. If I were a deer or moose, I’d be up in the cool high meadows eating to my heart’s content.
I’m always amazed at how far you can see when standing on a mountain top. From our vantage, we could look far beyond Deer Valley and pick out the Weber Canyon ridges, which would mean almost all the way to Snow Basin and Ogden. I’m not sure of distances as the crow flies—or straight line of sight—but we were probably seeing fifty miles away. It makes me wish I’d been an early explorer like John Fremont and seen the West before people started putting the trees underground to shore up mine tunnels and erecting buildings all over the place.
The best we can do is seek the beauty in large vistas and small bouquets. Of those, there’s a feast at every turn.
I love fiction, so it's uncommon that I recommend two non-fiction books that I've read recently. But both have that quality people seek in a book, and that's the lingering ability to make the reader think about how it affects her personally.
The first was a Mother's Day gift from First Son and Family. The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan asks a lot more than just what's for dinner. In fact, after reading it we now look at everything we eat and wonder about its provenance and whether it's a good thing or a bad thing. The author tells the story of four meals and takes us along through the industrial production of inexpensive food, which is the basis of our American diet, to a meal he prepares for friends through his efforts of hunting and gathering. I learned more about corn and CAFOs (consolidated agricultural feedlot operations) than I ever wanted to know. It's summer, and the idea of eating fresh food from as close to the source of its origin has never been more appealing. Now this omnivore has an even greater dilemma in choosing what to eat each day.
The second was a gift from a houseguest. Cool It! by Bjorn Lomborg has a double meaning in its title: cool the earth or learn to live with it, and cool the alarmist rhetoric used to describe climate change. It's heavy on the scientific and charts, but for a reason. This is the counterpoint to headlines and soundbites of worst case scenarios that seem to fill newspapers and even respected magazines. If anyone would take the time to read Al Gore's book full of inconvenient half-truths, then read Lomborg's point by point refutations. It's a call for reasonable dialogue, a plea to use our talents and resources to achieve best possible outcomes in making the world a better place, and an opportunity to take a step back to get a larger picture of where we fit into geologic time. We seldom see headlines over articles taking the viewpoint that a warmer earth might be a good thing.
Both books leave me thinking about a long-term future of good health, personally and for the planet.
People who know us (even through these blog links) know we're waiting to be grandparents of an adopted child. The last piece of paperwork has been completed, the studies and background checks done, and the deposits are paid. Now daughter and s-in-l are waiting. And waiting. Waiting.
What they, and subsequently all of us have learned, is that adoption is a business regardless of how it is dressed up in non-profit guise or heart-rending text. Adoptive parents who choose to go through a licensed agency to fulfill their dreams of an infant are at the mercy of a) the agency and b) the birth mother who is choosing the couple who will raise her child. It's hard to keep cynicism out of the formula. In fact, through this process we've discovered that cynicism in small doses helps save your sanity. While it is illegal to offer money to pay for a baby, it is not illegal to offer to pay a mother's living expenses, including travel and post-partum get-on-your-feet aid, and medical expenses. And agency fees.
So, on one end of the business chain is the demand link: parents desperately (yes, desperate) wanting to adopt. On the supply side are women and men who are willing to sign away their infants. Demand outstrips supply.
But, consider this: There are thousands of kids in foster care across the United States at any given time. Nearly every state has a program focused on placing older kids in permanent homes. But older kids come with the emotional baggage of a battered life and family attachments, however flawed, making them hard to place. If the parents had realized from the outset that they weren't going to make it through parenting a child into adulthood and had given them up as infants, how much easier for everyone!
Then there are those who should never be allowed around children.
- In Utah last month, a 22-year-old father shook his 2-month-old daughter to death. This is so common that Shaken Baby Syndrome has its own label.
- In Illinois, the young mother's boyfriend strangled her infant with a sock to make the baby stop crying.
- In Texas, a 3-month-old thrown onto the side of a road still strapped in its carseat was determined to have died from blunt head trauma before being discarded.
Safe haven rules are only a first step. Somehow there has to be a better system of allowing birth parents to relinquish a child without penalty or social discrimination before they do damage. Let them--let us all--get those babies into the lives and homes of those who will love them and care for them.
